Sins of the Fathers (5 page)

Katharine picked it up, noticing that Miranda’s palm wasn’t as clean as the restroom. “It’s wonderful,” she agreed.

She handed it to Dr. Flo, who exclaimed, “What an imp behind his mask! And I like the way the tail is slightly curved, as if he’s tensing himself to run. Very lively.” She handed it back.

More pleased with Dr. Flo’s critique than with Katharine’s, Miranda addressed herself exclusively to the professor. “Everything Chase makes seems like it’s alive, which is strange, because he carves them from dead animals. Everybody in his family is real big into hunting, even his mama, so Chase has grown up shooting, but he don’t like to kill things. He hunts some, but he’s not a good shot like his daddy.”

“His granddaddy is better,” called the voice from the back. “Even drunk he can hit a half-dollar on a fence and git a squirrel through the eye.”

Katharine was so busy trying to picture somebody doing those two things simultaneously, she missed Miranda’s next words. She tuned back in at “…brings the animals back to his workshop and carves them. See how real he got the fur?” She stroked the little raccoon.

The moony look on her face strengthened Katharine’s suspicion that it wasn’t the raccoon she was thinking about.

“One day Chase is gonna tell his daddy he’d rather carve wood than run a family business,” she said with the conviction of youth that anything is possible.

That drew a sarcastic laugh from the back. “Don’t hold your breath. When his daddy says, ‘Jump!’ the only thing Chase asks is ‘How soon? How high?’”

Miranda tilted her chin and called in rebuttal, “He’s gonna show his folks he can make a living carving wood. He’s gonna take some to a craft fair up in Savannah and sell them. Then they’ll see. You’ll all see. He’s gonna make so much money, they won’t have to ruin the island.”

“Somebody will see, all right. Burch is gonna build those houses and Chase is gonna grow up to be just like him. Only hope of saving that island is if Dalt gets his way.” She paused and added as if to herself, “God help me, I never thought I’d hear myself saying that.” The woman slammed the cooler case and headed to the back of the store, shutting the door to the storeroom behind her.

“All Mr. Dalt cares about anymore is finding his next drink,” Miranda muttered to the grandmother who wasn’t there. She turned back to her customers. “You seen that old man who was in here just now?” She scarcely waited for their nods. “That’s Cooter Biggins. He lives with the Bayards and works for Dalt. He comes in here sometimes while Granny’s down at the dock, wanting me to sell him beer. He knows I cain’t do that.”

“Of course not. You’re too young.” Katharine hoped that was the reason, and not, as she had feared earlier, an aversion to selling to local blacks.

Miranda’s eyes narrowed and took on a wary look. “You from the police?”

“Heavens, no.”

“Well, I sell a little beer sometimes if Granny’s not here, but the only reason Cooter wants it is for Dalt. That man would drink twenty-four-seven if Burch and Mona would let him. But they’ve told Granny if we sell him any, they’ll take her seafood-business license. They would, too. The whole family is spiteful that way—excepting Chase.” She picked up the raccoon and stroked it gently.

Dr. Flo finished her drink. “Well, we’ve got an errand to run. It’s been nice talking to you.”

“Nice talking to you, too. Y’all come back now. And watch out for Miss Agnes, y’hear? You don’t want to get on the wrong side her. She’d as soon shoot you as spit.”

After they left Stampers, the roads got progressively smaller and whiter with age, until they were down to a shimmering lane barely wide enough for two cars. It had no line down the center and was bordered by knee-high grass to the edge of the forest on both sides.

Dr. Flo peered down the side of the car. “Don’t drive off the edge. I’d guess there are snakes in that grass, and I don’t care to make their acquaintance.” She peered at the encroaching forest. “It’s funny to think Daddy’s folks may have once lived here. I’d guess this used to be a rice plantation, wouldn’t you?”

“Looks like a barren wilderness to me. It would be brave people who made anything out of this.”

“Or slaves. They’d have had a ghastly existence in this heat with all these bugs. But Daddy always insisted his people were never slaves. I can’t imagine why they’d have been here. Of course, he also claimed we once had a pirate in the family. Anytime I had a tantrum as a child, he’d roll his eyes and say, ‘There’s that pirate temper again. Came down in her genes.’”

Katharine had a hard time picturing Dr. Flo as a little girl, much less one with a temper. “Maybe you had a relative in Blackbeard’s crew. They sailed up and down this coast.”

“I doubt we’ll ever know.” Dr. Flo rolled down her window to let out a fly that had bummed a ride back at Stampers. “The only problem with getting bit by the genealogy bug is that you wind up with irritating loose ends and have to face the fact that some of them will never get tied up neatly. How are you coming with research on your family?”

Katharine rubbed her eyes, which again were as gritty as the side of the road. “Not at all, so far. My house got trashed last month, remember? And my computer was stolen. I finally got a new computer last week, but I haven’t gotten it hooked up yet. I hope by fall things will have calmed down enough for me to get on to genealogy.”

“When you do, you are going to wish you had asked your folks a lot more questions before they died. Look! That must be the church the lawyer mentioned, just before the bridge.”

Katharine read the sign in disbelief. “The Church of God Reappearing?”

“That’s the one. Where do they get these names?”

Katharine was too busy avoiding a snake slithering across the road to hazard a guess.

Dr. Flo shuddered. “I knew there’d be snakes. This place isn’t civilized. But we’re close. After the bridge, we go half a mile, then turn right at the twenty-miles-an-hour sign.”

They crossed a bridge so short it scarcely deserved the name. A faded sign announced
BAYARD ISLAND
. “We found it,” Dr. Flo said with satisfaction.

Immediately over the bridge was a sign much larger than the first:
PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO TRESPASSING.
Smaller versions of that sign were posted on a number of trees on both sides of the road as they continued to drive.

“This is a public road, right?” Dr. Flo wore a worried frown.

“I sure hope so.” When they saw a dented black mailbox next to a sandy track leading into the woods, Katharine slowed. “Could this be the road?”

“No. Mr. Curtis specifically said to turn at the twenty-miles-an-hour sign. I haven’t seen one of those. Wait—there it is. The road is just beyond it.”

“Road?” Katharine looked in vain for anything more deserving of the name than two ruts of sand centered by a strip of scruffy grass. She also was not thrilled to see another large
NO TRESPASSING
sign at the entrance to the track.

Dr. Flo peered into the sky. “Hey, Katharine’s daddy, it’s real good she has an SUV.”

Katharine swung the wheel and felt the back fishtail in sand. The forest grew so close on each side, scrub trees seemed eager to climb in with them. Branches scraped her doors and fenders. “Tom will not be happy if I scratch this car.”

“Honey, a man who buys a car designed for rough terrain cannot complain about a few scratches to his paint. You tell him I said so.”

“I’ll do that.”

Katharine’s eyes were having trouble adjusting to the constant switch from filtered light under trees to bright patches between them. “Did the lawyer say how far it was?”

“No, but I’d have thought we’d be there by now.” Worry puckered Dr. Flo’s brow. “You reckon we took the wrong road?”

“There wasn’t another one.”

As they rounded the next curve, Katharine slammed on the brakes. A man and a boy stood smack in the middle of the track. Each had a gun on his shoulder. Two squirrels dangled by their tails from the boy’s free hand.

Every mother thinks her child is beautiful, but this child’s mother had reason to know so. Dappled by sunlight, his skin was unblemished and lightly tanned. Thick blond hair was tucked behind his ears and fell to his shoulders. He had wide cheekbones and a rounded chin, and beneath a high forehead, his eyes were a startling blue that looked like chips of sapphire. As young as he was—fourteen or fifteen at the most—he was sensual, dressed for the woods in a long-sleeved khaki shirt, jeans, and thick boots with a sheen of sweat on his face and at the base of his neck. He had to be the Bayard boy. No wonder Miranda was goofy over him.

The other must be Dalton Bayard, Katharine concluded. He and the boy could pose for bookend shots entitled “Before and After Sixty-five Years of Dissipation.” Dalton’s hair was still thick, but it had faded from yellow to white and hung in greasy strings over his face. He had eyes of the same surprising blue, but his were bloodshot. A road map of red veins marked his nose and upper cheeks. Evidence of past meals dotted the front of his blue chambray shirt. His boots and gray work pants were muddy and stained. Several days’ stubble frosted his jaw. But his stance was arrogant as he stood challenging them to explain their presence in his hunting grounds.

When Katharine rolled down the window, the scent of his unwashed body roiled into the car. She tried not to inhale as she asked, “Do you know if there’s a cemetery down this road? We’re looking for a small family cemetery.”

Dalton peered in and narrowed his eyes. When he opened his mouth to speak, what few teeth he had left were the soft gold of rotten apple flesh, stained by coffee, tobacco, and neglect. “Why do you want to know?” His tone was malevolent.

Katharine drew back and found she didn’t want to tell him. “Just to look at it.”

He looked from one to the other, his head bobbing slightly—a snake choosing between potential victims. “Did you all come from Atlanta in answer to the ad?”

“Well, yes,” Katharine admitted.

He looked past her and locked his eyes on Dr. Flo. “You think you got relatives buried down here on this island?”

Dr. Flo spoke across Katharine. “I might have.”

He looked at her for what seemed like several minutes without saying a word. Katharine had the feeling he was putting something through his sluggish mental computer and waiting for results. Finally he waved one hand and spoke in the tone of one repelling a cur. “Go on back where you came from. You got no bidness down here. Go on home, now. You hear me? Go on!”

The boy looked from the old man to the women in the car. Curiosity and surprise flitted across his face in equal parts. He muttered, “Daddy needs those graves moved.”

“Your daddy needs his head examined is what he needs. He sure doesn’t need to stir up all this mess. You ladies go on home. You can turn around down past the bend, then you come right back out, you hear me? Don’t you go messing around where you aren’t wanted. Go on, git!” He slapped the car’s fender like it was the flank of a horse.

Past the bend they entered a clearing guarded by ancient live oaks with wide, low branches, broad trunks, and a thick crop of hoary Spanish moss. Katharine pulled to a stop near one oak to take her bearings. Even crabgrass grew sparsely there, with sand showing through like a balding man’s scalp. In the center, where the sun was brightest, ruins indicated the foundations of a small building. From what was left, Katharine deduced it had been built of tabby—a Low Country construction material made of lime, sand, and oyster shells. On the far side of the clearing a rusting wrought-iron fence marked a square in the wilderness, ringed by cedars so old that their limbs were scrawny and the Spanish moss in their branches flapped like long gray beards. A broad slough flowed at the edge of the dry land, then marshes stretched for miles, brown from the summer sun. Hammocks on the horizon looked like ranges of hills.

Katharine caught her breath in wonder. “No wonder developers want to get their hands on this land. People would pay a fortune to have this view.”

Dr. Flo was busy replacing her dainty sandals with beige walking shoes. “You’d better not be one of them. You’d wake up every morning hearing your daddy saying, ‘What you needing that expensive house for, shug?’ But if we are finished admiring the scenery and second-guessing dead men, are you ready to roll?” She tied her second shoe and opened her door.

“You’re okay to get out even after what he said?”

“Of course. The lawyer told us to come.”

“Let me drive closer, then.”

Dr. Flo slid to the ground. “You can’t drive over that ruin, and at least the grass is short enough to see a snake. I’d guess that’s the cemetery, wouldn’t you?” She pointed to the fence. “I can use exercise after all that riding.” She took her notebook and pen, but left her briefcase and purse in the car. “They ought to be safe here, don’t you think?” She headed across the clearing.

Katharine cut the motor and opened her door. As heat rolled over her like a wave, she reached in the backseat for a wide-brimmed straw hat she used for gardening. Settling it on her head, she climbed out into a patch of soft sand. “Yuck!” Grit slid and shifted beneath her soles and a sandspur got lodged under her little toe.

“The mosquitoes are terrible,” Dr. Flo called, picking her way through the grass and slapping her bare arms and the back of her neck. “We should have brought bug spray.”

Katharine pulled out the sandspur and winced. “I should never have worn sandals. They are already full of sand. I’d go barefoot if there weren’t so many sandspurs.”

“You can wash later. Come on.” Dr. Flo was nearly at the fence.

Katharine trudged across the grass. The crabgrass was laced with other grass—both the kind that grows sandspurs and the variety with small saws on each blade. They clutched and scratched her bare calves and ankles. She yearned for long pants and socks.

“This place gives me the willies.” Dr. Flo put both hands on her hips and peered out at the trees that ringed the clearing, hung with trailing vines and moss.

Now that Katharine looked closer, the forest there was mostly sycamores and cedars, with a few cabbage palms and clumps of towering long-leaf pines hung with fat cones. The nine live oaks—she turned in a circle and counted them—must have been planted to mark the edges of the clearing. She slapped one cheek and waved away a swarm of mosquitoes around her head. “We’ll be lucky to get out of here alive.”

The silence of the place and its utter isolation were making her uneasy, too. She had a sense that something brooded in the shadows around the clearing, waiting to pounce. The live oaks guarded the secrets of whatever once stood on those desolate foundations, and no birds sang on their limbs. When Katharine listened, she didn’t hear a single sound except the shrill warnings of cicadas, the slip of her shoes in the sand, and the high whine of mosquitoes. The back of her neck prickled, as if they were being watched, but although she looked, she saw nothing but sand, grass, and trees to her left and marshes stretching for miles to her right.

She trudged another couple of steps, then whirled. From the corner of her eye she thought she saw a scrap of blue duck back into the green dimness. Were the old man and boy keeping an eye on them? “Probably making sure we aren’t stealing tombstones,” she said aloud to reassure herself.

She was answered only by the scream of a gull, high in the sky.

She joined Dr. Flo near the wrought-iron fence, which was rusty and ornamented by lichens: chartreuse, forest green, and a flat green that reminded her of elementary school bathrooms. She found the small collection of graves both pathetic and disturbing. Most lay within the railing but four Morrisons had been buried outside, to the right of the gate. They were parents, a son, and a daughter-in-law. All had been buried in the twentieth century. The daughter-in-law had only been dead fifteen years.

“Let’s get this over with,” Dr. Flo said briskly. “This air is humid enough to choke us, and it’s a tossup whether we’ll die first from malaria or heat prostration.”

Katharine scanned the sky, which was almost white with the heat. “Feels like we’re building up to a storm, but the only clouds are those little ones away out over the ocean.”

Dr. Flo wiped her forehead with one forearm. “Grandmother Lucy would have said, ‘It’s missing a real good chance to rain.’”

She pushed open the rusty gate with a creak worthy of a horror movie. Katharine tried not to shudder as she followed slowly into the little fenced plot, but as she entered the gate, the hair prickled again at the back of her neck. She turned and peered back at the forest, certain somebody was watching them. Again she thought she saw a flash of blue.

She stared harder, but nothing moved until a jay swooped down from a pine tree and perched on the lowest branch of the sentinel cedar that guarded the gate.

She gave a nervous chuckle. “Silly,” she chided herself. “Scared of a blue jay.”

Putting her fears into words made her feel better. So did Dr. Flo, who looked very professorial as she exchanged her sunglasses for reading glasses with gold rims. She perched them on the end of her nose, opened her little notebook, and clicked her pen to lower the point.

“Let’s start at the front and work back. You take that side, I’ll take this one, and we’ll meet at the big slab at the far back in the middle. We are looking for Claude Gilbert.”

Katharine began to roam, reading inscriptions. Some graves were marked by small stones and some by obelisks three or four feet high. Three had slabs of concrete that covered the entire grave. Two of those rested on tabby foundations, but one was elevated on brick pilings fifteen inches above the ground. She could understand the tabby foundations if the water table was so high it was impossible to dig deep without hitting water. The slab on pilings baffled her, for she could look all the way under it, like under a magician’s table.