The Light Pirate(66)
Phyllis tried to absorb this. There were so many things Lucas might have said about what was happening north of Florida that wouldn’t have surprised her. But this—this hit her like a sucker punch. “What will you tell Wanda?” she asked finally.
“I’ll tell her the truth.”
In the end, he was with them for a month altogether. Phyllis tried to convince him to stay; she tried so hard that maybe in the end she begged a little, but he had his mind made up. Wanda wailed like a child, but even that didn’t change anything. It turned out he’d arranged it before he’d even arrived—the fishing boat that brought him would return to scoop him up by the old causeway on its way back north. It was done. Understanding that this had been his intention all along didn’t make it easier, but Phyllis was finally able to stop imagining that she could have changed his mind.
The day before he’d arranged for the pickup, he used Phyllis’s CB to coordinate with the fishermen. Then Wanda and Phyllis rowed him out to the causeway, the little canoe crowded with all three of them in it, the tide high. They waited for a long time, buffeted by choppy water, the sun beating down on them. Phyllis allowed herself to hope that something had happened and the fishermen wouldn’t come. That he’d be stuck here, forced to reconsider. But they came eventually, appearing in the south as a tiny speck on the horizon. They were briefly confused by the presence of Phyllis and Wanda and then again by the understanding that they were staying behind, but these were men who knew how to mind their own business. They took their passenger and continued on upriver.
Lucas waved as they motored away. Wanda only stared, hands at her sides and tears running down her face, bereft at being left yet again. He’d told her he’d be back as soon as he could, but Wanda was too old for a lie like that. Phyllis busied her hands by bundling her young charge against her chest, even though Wanda wasn’t so young anymore. She could feel her shuddering there, tears blooming on her shirt and a ragged, hot breath warming her old skin through the fabric. Still, Lucas went on waving. To Phyllis, maybe, whose arms were full, or to Wanda, who couldn’t see him, or to Rudder, which didn’t care whether he stayed or went. The old canoe heaved up and down in the wake of the fishing boat, until finally the trawler disappeared, Lucas with it. It was just the two of them now. And hadn’t she wanted some version of this? It was shameful to realize it. She’d never imagined it would feel so hollow.
Chapter 54
The rain comes down hard, beating the foliage into submission, washing away anything not secured in Wanda’s little treetop nest. The weight of the water pounds against the cookware in her kitchen, the chipped china she has collected, the glass water bottles she filled last night. It’s cacophonous, this torrent, crashing into everything. She lets it. There is nothing to do but let it. The rain is warm and sharp, and it feels good on her skin. It cools her. Clouds block out the sun and just like that, the fry of the afternoon has ended. She isn’t sure how late it is. The harbingers of dusk are hidden behind the storm front. She sheds her clothes and showers where the water comes down heaviest, in thick, thudding sheets, working her fingers through her hair. It’s difficult; there are some tangles that cannot be undone. Still, she tries. The dream stays with her as she washes herself. The whispers. That feeling of searching. For what? Her mind reaches back into her subconscious, but there’s nothing to grasp on to there, just shimmering depths and the rush of water.
During weather like this, there isn’t much she can do. The fish are driven down to the depths and the land creatures stow themselves away. She must follow suit. She thinks of Bird Dog, waiting at the flagpole, soaked through, but no—she’ll be tucked away as well. Along with everything else. Wanda carefully puts her soap back in its box, slippery and graying and down to the nub. It’s a precious resource, this sliver.
She clambers down to the platform shielded by the tin roof, still naked, and steps beneath its protection. It’s hard to dry off and what’s the point; everything is wet now. She skims the excess water from her skin and flicks it away. Nothing can escape the rich humidity of this weather. She sits on the bare wood as she is, her rear leaving wet heart shapes behind whenever she moves, and works at making traps to set among the mangrove roots. There are still some creatures to catch with them—squirrels, possums, sometimes an otter—but making them is more soothing than practical. She doesn’t lay her traps anymore, not since she accidentally caught one of the feral cats she throws fish guts to. It was still alive when she found it, its leg snared in her wire so tightly bone was showing. It wouldn’t have survived. She used her knife and made it quick, but it wasn’t the same as silencing squealing possums or slicing open fish bellies. It was crossing a line she’d forgotten was there. She goes on making the traps because she needs something to do with her hands and because someday, she’ll have to start setting them again. The fish are growing more temperamental lately. It’s hard to tell which changes belong to the seasons and which are the way it will be from now on.
Phyllis would tell her to go back to the data, but the thing is, Wanda doesn’t collect data anymore. It hurt too much after Phyllis passed. She’s fallen out of the habit. Now she lives night to night. It’s simpler this way. She can find things to love about this place in a night-size window, but the idea of looking ahead, marking the decline, year by year, is too much to bear. There is less and less to love the longer the timeline grows, so she doesn’t project. She resides in the length of a thunderstorm, the overhead sweep of a constellation, the time between one sleep and the next.