them move.
A small crab scuttled across her toes and into a nearby tide pool. Its claws made a quick clicking noise when they moved across her. It wasn’t the right and soft sound of crustacean meeting skin.
She struggled for memories, but retrieved only blurry glimpses of the night before. There were bright eyes underwater, and wet darkness. There was blood. Someone had a knife.
Help me, come back. Get the sheriff, please. I have to tell him something. Please come back, I think I’m still bleeding. Go get my aunt Marjorie. Does she know yet? I have to tell her I’m sorry
.
The men returned, and with them walked an extra set of gritting footsteps.
“You found it here, like this?” Marjorie asked, peering down into Nia’s line of sight.
“Is it yours?”
“Mine?” She shook her head. “No, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
One of the men screwed up his face and applied a battered straw hat to his balding head. “It don’t belong to nobody, but it’s on your land, ma’am. What do you want we should do with it? We can’t leave it out on the beach.”
“Why not? What harm does it do?”
No one answered her, but Nia could almost hear the stares.
Marjorie sighed. “If you really want to move it, you can put it in the courtyard up behind the house.”
The man in the straw hat reached his arms around Nia’s waist and gave a mighty heave. His friend did likewise, grabbing hold of her thigh and calf in an ungraceful fashion. They hoisted her up and lurched unevenly across the sand, dropping her on the ground, then yanking her back into the air.
Nia hated them both—their groping hands and sweaty bodies. The grass on the dune tickled at her back as they pulled her across it and down into the yard, where they gave up on carrying her and concentrated on dragging her.
They made a final rally and jacked her into a seated position.
A pair of painted Mexican tiles cracked where they sat her down.
“Where do we put it?”
“That spot where the wall dips out. We can sit it on the shelf.”
She smelled blood. Even though she wasn’t breathing and could not gasp, she knew its odor, and it triggered more moments from the night she’d been there last; the fractured memories flashed through her head and burned themselves out like embers.
There was Bernice, sitting on the edge of the fountain. Her dress was sprayed with gore. There was a red tablecloth; she wore it like a gown. Silver glinted in the starlight, and there was shattered china.
It was an awkward process, but with many rough curses the men propped her into the cubbyhole. They stood back and surveyed their work. They shook hands. They smiled and joked about a job well done.
And they left.
From her new vantage point, Nia could peruse the whole scene, not that there was much of a scene left to peruse. Someone had scoured the place good; a passerby would never know that anything unusual had happened there, unless he looked very closely—as Nia had time to do.
Someone with nothing better to do would see the dark stains on the grass, stains that could easily be mistaken for shadows. Someone might notice the stray silver fork lying in a corner by the mosaic bench.
Later, someone might check his shoes and find a slim shard of glass wedged in the sole.
This happened,
Nia swore to herself.
The fountain had been shut off, so no water spurted artfully over the small ceramic fish. The table where all the anniversary party goodies once were stashed had been taken away. Plywood boards were nailed across every opening in the house, even the second-story windows.
What was that name again?
She very strongly suspected that she was losing her mind.
The first few months, she talked to herself incessantly and nonsensically. About anything. About nothing. She repeated history lessons learned years before and recited snippets of poetry and songs she’d picked up here, there, anywhere. There was one phrase in particular that stuck, and repeated, and wore a
A small crab scuttled across her toes and into a nearby tide pool. Its claws made a quick clicking noise when they moved across her. It wasn’t the right and soft sound of crustacean meeting skin.
She struggled for memories, but retrieved only blurry glimpses of the night before. There were bright eyes underwater, and wet darkness. There was blood. Someone had a knife.
Help me, come back. Get the sheriff, please. I have to tell him something. Please come back, I think I’m still bleeding. Go get my aunt Marjorie. Does she know yet? I have to tell her I’m sorry
.
The men returned, and with them walked an extra set of gritting footsteps.
“You found it here, like this?” Marjorie asked, peering down into Nia’s line of sight.
“Is it yours?”
“Mine?” She shook her head. “No, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
One of the men screwed up his face and applied a battered straw hat to his balding head. “It don’t belong to nobody, but it’s on your land, ma’am. What do you want we should do with it? We can’t leave it out on the beach.”
“Why not? What harm does it do?”
No one answered her, but Nia could almost hear the stares.
Marjorie sighed. “If you really want to move it, you can put it in the courtyard up behind the house.”
The man in the straw hat reached his arms around Nia’s waist and gave a mighty heave. His friend did likewise, grabbing hold of her thigh and calf in an ungraceful fashion. They hoisted her up and lurched unevenly across the sand, dropping her on the ground, then yanking her back into the air.
Nia hated them both—their groping hands and sweaty bodies. The grass on the dune tickled at her back as they pulled her across it and down into the yard, where they gave up on carrying her and concentrated on dragging her.
They made a final rally and jacked her into a seated position.
A pair of painted Mexican tiles cracked where they sat her down.
“Where do we put it?”
“That spot where the wall dips out. We can sit it on the shelf.”
She smelled blood. Even though she wasn’t breathing and could not gasp, she knew its odor, and it triggered more moments from the night she’d been there last; the fractured memories flashed through her head and burned themselves out like embers.
There was Bernice, sitting on the edge of the fountain. Her dress was sprayed with gore. There was a red tablecloth; she wore it like a gown. Silver glinted in the starlight, and there was shattered china.
It was an awkward process, but with many rough curses the men propped her into the cubbyhole. They stood back and surveyed their work. They shook hands. They smiled and joked about a job well done.
And they left.
From her new vantage point, Nia could peruse the whole scene, not that there was much of a scene left to peruse. Someone had scoured the place good; a passerby would never know that anything unusual had happened there, unless he looked very closely—as Nia had time to do.
Someone with nothing better to do would see the dark stains on the grass, stains that could easily be mistaken for shadows. Someone might notice the stray silver fork lying in a corner by the mosaic bench.
Later, someone might check his shoes and find a slim shard of glass wedged in the sole.
This happened,
Nia swore to herself.
The fountain had been shut off, so no water spurted artfully over the small ceramic fish. The table where all the anniversary party goodies once were stashed had been taken away. Plywood boards were nailed across every opening in the house, even the second-story windows.
What was that name again?
She very strongly suspected that she was losing her mind.
The first few months, she talked to herself incessantly and nonsensically. About anything. About nothing. She repeated history lessons learned years before and recited snippets of poetry and songs she’d picked up here, there, anywhere. There was one phrase in particular that stuck, and repeated, and wore a
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