The Water Keeper(7)
“Thaaaank you.”
Curious, she studied the small chapel. My voice broke the silence. “How old are you?”
She laughed but wouldn’t look at me. “Twenty-one.”
I paused long enough to force her to look at me. “Are you okay?”
More discomfort. Less eye contact. “Why do you ask?”
I waved my hand across the water where she’d spent the afternoon. “Sometimes getting off a boat can be more difficult than getting on.”
“You know about boats?”
“Some.”
She studied the intricate woodwork. Hand carved. The tops of the pews had been darkened over the years by hand oil and sweat. Her eyes landed on the ornate altar and steps. “It’s beautiful.”
“Slaves built it. About two hundred years ago.”
The moon filtered through the glass and cast her shadow on the worn stones below her. She ran her hands along a pew. Letting her fingertips read the stories it told.
She glanced out the window, which did little to mute the sound of the Atlantic crashing on the beach some several hundred yards distant. “It’s amazing the hurricanes haven’t erased it.”
“They’ve tried a couple times. We pieced her back together.”
She continued, “Slaves, huh?”
I pointed at the wall. At all the names carved into the stone by hand. “Each one a mom . . . a dad . . . a child.”
She walked to the wall and ran her fingers through the grooves of the names, then the grooves of the dates. Some deeper than others. A wrinkle formed between her eyebrows. She asked, “Slaves?”
“Free slaves.”
Hundreds of names had been etched into the stone wall. She tiptoed to the right. A half smile spread across her face. She craned. Quizzical.
I continued, “Most date prior to the Civil War, when this place was one of many stops on the Underground Railroad.”
She studied them and asked, “But some of these dates are from the last decade? Last year?”
Another nod.
“But slavery’s over.”
I shrugged. “People still own people.”
She read the names. “All these people found freedom here?”
“I wouldn’t say they found it here as much as they stopped by on their way to it.”
Her fingertips read the wall again. Her voice was loud and didn’t match the quiet of our conversation. “A record of freedom.”
“Something like that.”
“Why do these just have one date?”
“Once free, always free.”
She walked to the wall, coming to another list. “Why do these have two dates?”
“They died before they tasted it.”
Outside, a foghorn sounded. One long blast followed by a shorter second and third. It pulled her eyes off the wall. She walked to the door only to turn and stare at the wall of names. She turned to me. “Am I the only one here?”
“Just us.”
“You mean you-and-me us, or . . .” She shot a glance upward. “You-me-and-Him us?”
“Just us.”
She considered this and smiled, twirling again. More dancing, but her partner was only visible to her. “I like you, Father.” She pointed at the ground beneath her. “You live on this island?”
“I’m not the priest. And yes, I live here.”
“What do you do?”
“Groundskeeper. Make sure people who sneak up at night aren’t here to spray-paint graffiti.”
She grabbed my right hand and turned it over. Running her fingertips along the calluses and the dirt in the cracks. She smiled. “Where’s the priest?”
Short question, long answer. And I wondered if this was the real reason she’d come to my door. “We’re in between priests at the moment.”
She looked bothered by this. “What kind of da— I mean . . . What kind of church is this?”
“The inactive kind.”
She shook her head. “That’s silly. Whoever heard of a church being inactive? I mean, doesn’t that sorta go against the whole reason for a church?”
“I just work here.”
“Alone?”
I nodded again.
“Don’t you get lonely?”
“Not really.”
She shook her head. “I’d lose my ever-loving mind. Go bat-shi—” She covered her mouth again with her hand. “Sorry . . . I mean, I’d go crazy.”
I chuckled. “You’re assuming I’m not.”
She stepped closer, her face inches from mine. Her eyelids were heavy. Her breath reeked of alcohol. “I’ve seen crazy and you don’t look the part.” Her eyes walked up and down me. “I don’t know. You loooook pretty goooood to me.” She reached out with her finger and touched the scar above my eye. “That hurt?”
“Not anymore.”
“How’d you get it?”
“Bar fight.”
“What happened to the other guy?”
“Guys. Plural.”
She put a hand on my shoulder and patted me, proving that whatever boundaries of personal space she’d once possessed had been erased by the cocktail in her blood. “I knew I liked you, Padre.” She considered me again. Ran her fingers down my arm, tracing the vein on my bicep. Then she squeezed my muscle like someone would test the air in a bike tube. “You work out?”