The Bourbon Thief

  passed a sign that said Welcome to Beaufort.

  “According to the directions, we’re real close,” she said, peering down at the map on her lap. Levi glanced at it, too—well, not at the map so much as her legs. She had on her new short shorts she’d bought that morning and a loose cotton blouse.

  “How far?”

  “Twenty more miles about to the island. Twenty miles and four bridges.”

  “So what is this place?”

  “Bride Island,” she said, putting the atlas aside.

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s not on the map under that name. They say that’s what the locals call it.”

  “Are you sure it exists?”

  “I’m sure. I got directions from someone down here.”

  “Who?” he asked as he took the exit that pointed to the Sea Islands. He saw a hand-painted sign that read Jesus is Lord of the Lowcountry and one right after that that said Fresh Tomatoes.

  “Someone Daddy knew.”

  “How do you know he knew him?” Levi asked as they drove past the first pink house he’d ever seen in his life. Solid pink but for the white trim, and then another house farther on that was yellow as the sun. After that a pale green house and another that was sky blue. Then a white house with an orange clay roof. And the trees were something else. Ivy coated the tree trunks and Spanish moss hung down from the branches, brown and hoary as an old man’s beard. And palm trees. Skinny tall ones that looked like green cotton balls on top. Short squat ones with trunks like fat pineapples.

  “Momma had all of Daddy’s things boxed up and put in the attic at Arden. When she’s out of the house, I dig through it. One day I found some work papers with the name Bowen Berry on them. He’s some kind of foreman. He’s the one who told me about this place, about where to go, about the house we can stay in while we hide out.”

  “Foreman? There’s a factory on the island?” He’d been picturing a tiny dot of sand in the middle of a bay, not something big enough for a factory.

  “Close to the island. A cooperage. That’s where they make barrels.”

  “I know what a cooperage is. Is that why Nash came down here for work? It’s where Red Thread gets its barrels?”

  Tamara nodded as she unscrewed the lid of the mason jar that held what had been ice-cold water but now was warm as bathwater. A sheen of sweat covered them both even though they had both windows of his truck rolled down.

  “Why’s it called Bride Island?” Levi asked.

  “I don’t know,” Tamara said. “But it sounded like a good place for a bride, right?”

  “Is there an island around here called What the Hell Did I Just Do Island? That’s a good place for me.”

  “That’s probably Bride Island’s original name.”

  “Oh, I better go with you, then.”

  They had to stop for directions a few times to find the right road to the right bridge. Tamara bought a basket of blueberries from a fisherman’s wife who pointed them to their turn. They crossed two bridges after that over one island and another. The bridges here didn’t cross open water; they crossed over swamps. They took the turn the fisherman’s wife had told them to take and the road narrowed. At last they reached an old bridge, pale green and rusting.

  “Well, that’s not very nice, is it?” Levi said.

  Before the bridge was a gate. An iron gate in the middle of high brick walls and hanging off the middle bars was a big damn chain with a big damn lock on it and a sign warning Keep Out. Private Property. Violators Will Be Prosecuted.

  Tamara barely glanced at the gate and the lock and the sign. She dug around in her purse and pulled something out.

  “I got it,” she said, handing him a key. Levi looked at the key, looked at her and shook his head. He put the truck into Park, walked to the gate and unlocked the lock. He had to step off the concrete and into the dirt to get to the lock. The ground was soft and he sank half an inch into it.

  “Where the hell am I?” Levi muttered to himself as he pushed open the gates. Back in the truck, Levi drove through the gates and stopped. He got back out and locked the chain behind them, not knowing who or what they were keeping out.

  The bridge crossed over a muddy marsh, and when they reached the other side, the road was nothing but hard-packed dirt. On either side of the narrow road were trees, trees and more trees. He craned his neck, following the reach of the trees to the canopy above forming a tunnel. He couldn’t see a speck of sky through the green veil. Levi felt like they were being swallowed by a great beast and driving right into its gullet.

  And in the air he smelled salt water.

  “Are you sure we’re supposed to be here?” Levi asked. It was too much, that gate that looked like it belonged on a plantation, the trees, the moss, the sign that said Violators Will Be Prosecuted.

  “We’re supposed to be here. We’re the only ones who are supposed to be here.”

  “What on earth does that mean?”

  “You don’t get it, do you?” Tamara said, a smile playing on her lips.

  “Get what?”

  “Levi, this is our island. We own it.”

  Levi took a deep breath.

  “Once the will’s executed?”

  “No, now,” she said. “Granddaddy and Daddy made a deal. Daddy agreed to marry Momma in exchange for Granddaddy giving him ownership of the island. Momma doesn’t know about this place. Daddy didn’t love her, but he didn’t hate her. He didn’t want her to know the only reason he married her was so he could own this island. When I was born, he made sure the island was mine, too. His and mine. Not that I ever knew my name was on the deed. Bowen Berry told me when I wrote him.”

  “So it’s yours.”

  “Ours,” she corrected. “We’re married now.”

  “I own an island,” he said.

  “Don’t get too excited,” she said, looking around at the trees that surrounded them, pressing in close. “It’s not a very big island.”

  “Not a very big island? You don’t get out much, do you, Rotten?”

  Tamara laughed and Levi squeezed her knee, then he squeezed his own knee. Was this real? How could it be? Only in his imagination could he have conjured trees like this, so tall and proud and graceful. They seemed older than earth, older than time. This was a primeval place, and Levi sensed its sacredness. He didn’t tell that to Tamara. What with her Bible reading she’d probably think him a heathen. The ancient Greeks had their sacred groves dedicated to the gods. He didn’t believe in their gods, but he could see now why they would dedicate a forest to their sacred deities. What god would choose a man-made temple when they could build their own temple out of trees?

  “Goddamn, forget gardens. They should have called it the Forest of Eden instead,” Levi said.

  Tamara said nothing, only pointed to a break in the road. He turned right, onto another road, darker, narrower and even more tree-shrouded than the first. Spanish moss tickled the top of the truck as they drove through it. Levi couldn’t drive more than ten miles an hour on the road it had been so neglected. Tree branches blocked their path again and again, and he had to stop and move them out of the way or drive over them so slowly he could hear the wood crack and pop under the tires. The sun was still up—supposedly—but they couldn’t see which direction the light came from. He had no idea where the ocean was, no idea where the mainland was. He felt dizzy, but not disoriented, a warm pleasant feeling like being almost drunk with nowhere to go in the morning.

  “There it is,” Tamara said right as they turned another slow corner.

  Ahead was a little house, not impressive at first, not in the way Arden impressed with all its Old South grandeur. But Levi wasn’t comparing it to Arden. Arden seemed a million miles away and would always be George Maddox’s house even if it became Levi’s property someday. But this could be his house and he loved it from the first sight of it. The bungalow was painted white with robin’s-egg-blue trim. Levi noted the ceiling and floor of the front porch h
ad been painted that same heavenly blue. The roof was steeply pitched and two dormer windows looked out from the top floor. Wildflowers grew all around the base of the house, nearly choking the porch. He refused to think of them as weeds even if they were. They were too beautiful to be called ugly names.

  Tamara opened the truck door before he could walk around and open it for her. She walked up to the porch, carrying nothing with her. Levi grabbed the bags and his duffel. He set them down on the porch floor, which needed sweeping. Up closer Levi could see a layer of grime, dirt and saltwater residue covering the entire exterior of the house. It didn’t bother him to see it. It gave him a sense of purpose. This was his house or would be in time. He would take pleasure in putting it to rights.

  He opened the screen door and tried the knob. “Do you have a key?” he asked. Tamara stood next to him, so close their bodies touched. She stretched her arm high to feel along the top of the door frame, enough to reveal a few inches of bare stomach under her shirt. She pulled down a key and handed it to him.

  “You don’t want to do the honors?” he asked. “I opened the gate. You can open up the house.”

  She shook her head hard.

  “You do it.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  She looked paler than usual.

  “You go in first,” she said. “Please?”

  “Why?” he teased. “You afraid there’s a wolf in there and you want him to eat me, not you?”

  “This house...” she said.

  “What about it?”

  Tamara met his eyes.

  “It’s where Daddy died. When he...you know.”

  When he shot himself in the head.

  Levi gave her a good long look, searching her out and finding only a girl’s honest face and a natural fear of what might be left behind from that day.

  “This is why you didn’t want to tell me where we were coming,” Levi said. “You knew I’d say no?”

  “I want to be here. I do,” she said. “I need to be here. I... Can you please go in first? Just in case?”

  Just in case.

  Just in case there was something left of Nash in the house.

  “All right,” Levi said. “Wait on the porch. I’ll see if there’s any ghosts or wolves or worse—mothers-in-law—in there. If I don’t come back in fifteen minutes, don’t call the cops. Call anybody but the cops.”

  The key didn’t want to budge at first. The brass lock had started to turn green and Levi added Fix or replace the front doorknob to his list of things to do. They might be here in this place for a while. Might as well make himself useful.

  Levi entered the house and shut the door behind him. Automatically he reached for a light switch, but when he flicked it, nothing came on. No electricity. Well, that was all right for tonight. It was dim but not dark in the front room. On the fireplace mantel he found a lantern and a box of matches beside it. He lit it and saw both the lantern and the matches looked new, as if someone had left them for him to find. Maybe someone had. Lifting the lantern, Levi found the front room in good order, with white sheets covering the furniture. He pulled one off, revealing a sofa the same color blue as the porch, with wood arms and legs carved with butterflies and dragonflies. A chair that matched. An oak table. Lamps plugged into the wall. None of them worked, either, but at some point this cottage had electricity. Maybe he had to call the power company? Maybe he had to find the fuse box? The fireplace was empty but looked clean. No ashes. No old wood. The walls were wood paneling but had been whitewashed not that long ago.

  The kitchen was small but tidy, old-fashioned. It didn’t look like a rich man’s kitchen, that’s for sure. No microwave oven. No food processor. The gray Formica table and white refrigerator looked like they came straight from the abandoned set of Ozzie and Harriet. The big white porcelain sink had become home to a spiderweb that stretched from the window to the faucet. Levi wasn’t superstitious, but killing something his first night in his new home seemed like asking for trouble. He caught the spider in a glass and let it outside. When he turned on the tap, pale pink water came out at first, but after a minute the water ran clear. He filled his cupped palms with the water, splashed his face with it and drank a handful. Better he find out right away if the water was potable or not. Better him to get sick than Tamara. But it tasted fresh and fine now that it had worked the rust out of the pipes.

  The cupboards weren’t bare, but close to it. Two plates. Two glasses. One for Nash Maddox and a spare in case he broke one?

  Or one for Nash Maddox and one for someone else?

  The bathroom downstairs looked all right, too. The porcelain bathtub must have been quite a showpiece in its heyday, which was probably somewhere around World War I. The finish had worn away on the bottom, but it was still nice, attractive and clean. Small sink. White wood-framed mirror. A toilet, thank God. Electricity he could live without for a month or two if he had to. Indoor plumbing, however, was a necessity, especially now that he had a wife in tow.

  Levi started up the wooden staircase off the front room, carrying the lantern held out before him. Two bedrooms up there built into the roof, one to the left of the stairs, one to the right, vaulted ceilings, wood floors. Nice place. One and a half stories was enough space for two people. And both rooms were furnished, a relief, since it meant he and Tamara wouldn’t have to sleep together.

  His relief felt strangely like disappointment.

  The larger bedroom had a full-size brass bed and a nautical navy blue rug. It was the smaller room that got Levi’s attention. The twin bed had a brass frame like the one in the first bedroom, but the rug was pink. Pink? Didn’t seem like a color a man would choose if a man were doing the choosing. He took a closer look around and found books on the shelves—Daddy Long Legs, The Secret Garden, Black Beauty, Anne of Green Gables. Books for children. Books for girls. A pink cowboy hat hung from the closet doorknob. No, a cowgirl hat. And a silver horse statue sat on the windowsill, forelegs high in the air and wild mane flying. When Levi turned to leave, he saw wooden blocks above the door frame, letters painted on them.

  T-A-M-A-R-A

  Well, fuck it all and then some.

  Tamara’s father had tenderly fashioned a room for her, picking out books for her and rugs and ponies. He’d planned on bringing her here to live with him but had killed himself instead. Had hearing the news that Tamara wasn’t his biological daughter killed his love for her? No. He’d read the suicide note. Nash Maddox loved his daughter to the very end. So why had he killed himself instead of bringing her here to live? Levi knew Nash Maddox didn’t desire women. He didn’t understand it, being a lover of women himself, but he never judged any man or woman for their bedtime predilections. As his uncle Andre told him at age sixteen, “As long as nobody gets hurt and it doesn’t spook the horses, do what you want and keep the details to yourself.” Good advice that he’d always held on to. Didn’t sound like Nash Maddox had spooked the horses. Tamara said he’d been a good father and surely she would have been happier with him here than with her mother. The dead were good secret keepers and Levi made his peace with never knowing the answer. Easy for him to do. Harder for Tamara.

  Levi left the room as it was. It would hurt Tamara to see it, but love hurt and he wasn’t about to deny her a last sign of her father’s love.

  But he wasn’t her father. They weren’t blood at all, Nash Maddox and Tamara. But Nash was Levi’s blood. For the first time since learning George Maddox was his father did it occur to Levi that it meant Nash Maddox had been his brother. Now passive acceptance of Nash’s life and his death turned to active anger. His own brother, threatened and bullied into marrying Tamara’s mother. His own brother, plotting to rescue Tamara from the influence of her mother and grandfather. His own brother, left with no recourse but suicide when that plan failed for whatever reason. Levi allowed himself one private moment to grieve for his half brother. Any man who could love a child who wasn’t his own blood as his own was a good man, and Levi wished he’d
known his brother, wished he could have saved him. But instead, he’d save Tamara. For the sake of his brother he’d take good care of his wife. He’d protect her from her mother the way Nash wanted. He’d even protect her from himself.

  Levi took a steadying breath, letting go of his anger, at least for now, at least for Tamara’s sake. Back downstairs he inspected one last room. An office of sorts, small with a wooden desk by the window and nothing much else in it but an armchair and a chest-high filing cabinet. He opened one drawer full of invoices and index cards and a liquor cabinet. Nowhere did Levi see blood or bullet holes or anything Tamara shouldn’t see. There was a faded patch on the wood floor beneath the desk where a rug used to be. Was this where Nash had shot himself? Had the blood stained the rug? One pane of glass in the window looked cleaner, newer and brighter than the rest. That must have been where the bullet had gone through. Thankfully someone had replaced the pane. They’d removed the rug, fixed the window and cleaned up. Someone had prepared the house for them. But who?

  Levi opened the desk drawers looking for spare keys. The top drawer stuck on the track, and when he yanked it back, a piece of paper was dislodged from where it had been trapped. Levi turned to the window and examined it in the light.

  “Nash, you devil,” Levi said.

  It was a Polaroid picture of two men sitting on a yellow beach chair in the sunshine. One was a white man who Levi instantly recognized as Nash Maddox. The man sitting next to him was black and about Levi’s age. Nash looked the way he’d looked when Levi had last seen him a few years back. So he guessed this picture was taken not that long before Nash killed himself. Nash looked good in the picture, with his black hair slicked back and a big grin on his face. The black man in the picture was movie star handsome. His eyes had an upward slant to them that put one in mind of pictures