All That Jazz (Butler Cove #1)(8)

That summer changed me forever.





I SECURED MY paddle by sliding it down inside the fiberglass hull of my kayak and reached for the green slime-covered trailing rope on the back of the moored Catalina sailboat.

Coasting in, I pulled myself alongside and tied my vessel to the larger boat. Balancing my weight, I performed the tricky maneuver of climbing out without falling into the dark briny estuary water of Broad Creek. In my hand, held tight, was our mail. The mail had been delivered to the bar at Captain Woody’s, instead of our apartment, for as long as I could remember.

The morning breeze whipped my ponytail across my face, the strands sticking to the Cotton Candy Clouds lip gloss I wore. It was a better smell than the marshland pluff mud exposed by low tide. The mildewed sails also had their own familiar scent. That of must and abandonment. They were bundled into long logs of dirty canvas that used to be white and were now blackened, perhaps Charleston Green, and holding leftover stagnant rainwater in various divoted pockets. Salty air had left a thick residue over the boat, dulling the once shiny metal and frosting the cabin windows.

My dad’s boat, his girl, even though her real name was All That Jazz, was considered one of the abandoned boats in Broad Creek. There were a few of them, anchored just far enough from the marina to not be under the jurisdiction of the harbor master and just close enough to give the impression they were allowed to be there. Some were probably lived on, some were not. Who knew the real reason some of the boats were anchored one day and abandoned the next? My daddy would spin me tales of wanted men hiding out, love affairs, drug smugglers, and people dropping anchor to swim with the baby dolphins in the creek and loving it so much they simply never returned to their boats.

I knew how All That Jazz had gotten here. My dad dropped anchor, then left Butler Cove and me and my mom, for good.

I grasped the cold metal handle on the hatch door, twisting hard against the ravages of time and the elements. I climbed down into the cockpit. The smell of mildew, wood varnish, and salted metal was like coming home. Only my father being here too would complete that feeling. Sliding the fabric back from the windows along its string to let some dull morning light in, I sat on the orange vinyl cushion and reached beneath me. My finger looped into the brass ring pull, and I slid open the wood veneer panel exposing the storage compartment that extended toward the fiberglass hull. I pulled out my old shoe box. Pink Cowgirl Glitter Boots. Size one. I remembered the day I got them. Of course, the box didn’t contain them still. I’d worn them every day until they fell off my feet. I cried the day Momma threw them away. No, this box held my hopes and memories. This box held, as tangibly as I could, my relationship with my father.

It was stupid really. A roll of tokens we always said we’d use again at the county fair the next time they came. They did. And we didn’t. An Indian head penny on a leather lariat to go with my cowgirl boots that Daddy got me when he was photographing some tribes out in Utah, but Momma never let me have anything around my neck. An assortment of dumb receipts that were as faded as the memories they were supposed to remind me of, and postcards. Lots and lots of postcards. Of those I had too many to fit in the box. Cairo, Phuket, Kuala Lumpur, Sydney, Bombay, Baghdad, London … the stack was immense. And I kept every last one.

This was my ritual. I knew if I delayed looking at the mail delivery as long as possible, the more time I had before the disappointment of not hearing from him hit. But I was a junkie. Most people would shut it down, stop looking, stop waiting, stop hoping. Not me. The hope was fresh each time, and each time there was no news the hurt cut deep. If my mom knew I still did this she’d have nipped it a long time ago. Stopped anyone at Woody’s giving me the mail. Done something.

I carefully laid aside each envelope. An offer for a new phone line. A coupon card for the Laundromat. A credit card bill for a big box store over in Bluffton that my mom could never get paid down. More junk. Nothing for me. I swallowed my disappointment, set the stack of mail aside, and pulled out a blank postcard I’d picked up from the marina store. It was of an alligator in mid thrash, it’s mouth open and head bent around to face the camera. “See ya later!” the caption read in cartoon yellow. I turned it over and clicked my pen.



David Fraser

C/o The Colony Apartments

42 1/2 West Congress Avenue

New York, NY 10021



Pops/Dad/Daddy/Papa/David

What do you expect your almost 18-year-old daughter to call you these days? I haven’t heard from you since last year (yes, I’m counting), and you’re starting to freak me out. Let’s not even talk about how long it’s been since you’ve seen me. I think maybe I’m old enough to call you David, what do you say? Can you even be a dad when you never show up? Wait, I didn’t mean that really. But I’m not crossing it out because maybe you should think about it a bit. I’ve decided on college without you. Remember we talked about doing that together? Well, time slows for no man, right? I’ll tell you where I chose when you write me. So I may as well tell you then that I’m also planning on losing my virginity this …



I ran out of room on the postcard. Fumbling in the box for the writing paper set that Keri Ann’s Nana had given me, I rewrote my father’s address on an envelope, then opened up a pre folded piece of paper.



...ctd from postcard: As I was saying, I may as well tell you that I’m planning on losing my virginity this summer. Shocked that I’d tell you that? Good. So if you have something to say about that too, then I suggest you write to me soon. I still hold hope that you’ll show up on my birthday like you promised you would. I haven’t told Momma I’m hoping, she’ll shit all over that parade. She hates when I expect too much from you. Quick updates: Keri Ann is still my best friend. Dirty Harry is still propping up the bar at Woody’s. Woody is still Woody. I still sneak out the sliding door of my bedroom rather than the front door. Momma is still working two jobs. She’s starting a new one at the hospital soon. I finish high school forever (forever, forever!) in a few weeks. I’m writing to you from your boat and it is still here, although I’ve heard people at Woody’s saying the county is talking about having the boats towed away. If that happens, I’ll stage a sit-in. Don’t worry. I won’t let them take it. Yours isn’t the only one anyway. What’s up with that?