Margaret shook her head as she heard Danny chuckle and gave silent thanks that the young man was like his father in the way he greeted the morning. God knew, she wished she was. Early in their marriage, however, she had thrown a finger in her husband’s face one morning and said, “Listen carefully . . . yelling and loud is not the way I want to wake up. Clowns, insane people, and you may do it that way, but I don’t!” And from that point on, she had never had to.
Billy came back into their bedroom. “More coffee?” he whispered.
“You can talk now,” Margaret said wryly.
“Oh, okay,” Billy said in a normal tone and with a total lack of sarcasm, “you want more coffee?”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.” She turned around. “Billy, get this middle button, please. I can’t ever reach it.” Billy stood behind her and quickly did as she asked. “Thank you.”
As Billy got dressed, Margaret sat at her vanity table and put on her makeup. “Honey?” she asked. “Who said, ‘No man is an island’?”
“You think I don’t know?” Billy grinned.
“No . . . So, who said it?”
“John Donne. Sixteenth-century minister.”
She shot him a quizzical expression. “How do you know that?”
“My mama used to say it. Why are you thinking about ‘no man is an island’?”
Margaret brushed some color into her cheeks and said, “Because I think it’s only partly correct.”
When she didn’t continue, Billy finished combing his hair—always the last thing he did before leaving the house— and leaned against the wall beside her. “Explain.”
She frowned. “‘No man is an island’ means that we all need each other . . .”
“True . . . ,” Billy prompted.
“But in a way, doesn’t that place us at the mercy of someone else’s actions? Aren’t there some choices we can make that don’t require the participation of others—especially if they hate us?”
Billy was trying to follow his wife’s reasoning. “For instance?” he said.
She shoved her makeup back into a drawer and turned to face him. “For instance, whatever Helen’s going through . . . Granted, this is nothing anyone ever seems to consider, but isn’t Helen an island, so to speak, if she chooses to forgive?”
Billy pondered the question, then said deliberately, “If you mean that we are an ‘island’ when we choose to forgive because it is not necessary anyone else be involved in the process . . . then, yes, I think you are right.”
Warming to the thought, Margaret asked, “Billy, where is it written that for one person to forgive another, the offender must ask for forgiveness? Where is it written—not in the Bible, for sure—that for one person to forgive another, the offender must deserve it?” Margaret stood. Eyes narrowed, head cocked, she asked, “How about this . . . where is it written that for one person to forgive another, the offender has to approve it, accept it, or even know about it?
“Look at it this way . . . ‘No man is an island’ if we choose not to forgive. Not to forgive means we yield ourselves to another person’s control—another person’s governing values and his attitudes and actions. We are forced by someone else into sequences of act and response, of outrage and revenge, and you know what? It always gets worse. Our present, when we refuse to forgive, is endlessly overwhelmed by the past. But we become an ‘island’ when we forgive. The act sets us apart from the burdens of people we generally don’t like in the first place! Forgiveness frees the forgiver.
“Sometimes we attach our entire lives to the moment we were hurt and allow it to define and consume our very existence. We travel with that hurt—that offense—and brood over it every time it comes to mind. We sleep with it, eat with it. The ‘wrong’ that has been done to us dictates how we speak to our children, our spouses, our friends . . .
“Even when those who have mistreated us, abused us, cheated us, or oppressed us . . . my God, Billy, even when they die, our anger and resentment do not have the decency to do the same! Our hurt continues to live.”
“Until we forgive.” Billy nodded. “I see it. There is no such thing as managing one’s anger. It simply can’t be done. The only answer is to forgive . . . and get rid of it forever.”
CHAPTER 12
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, EVERYONE AT THE CAFÉ WAS talking about the blackout. Finally, though without specifically mentioning why, the Feds had issued a proclamation requiring all coastal structures to cover their windows and doors at night. Black paper or cloth was suggested as best suited for the task. And this was no voluntary exercise—the blackout was mandatory and would be enforced by the local sheriff’s department.
“More work for you, ain’t it, Wan?” one of the regulars called out to the deputy, who sat at the counter with Billy.
Wan grinned. “Can’t work more than twenty-four a day,” he said, “and that’s what they got me doing now.” The group laughed as Wan turned back and finished his eggs.
“What are you supposed to do?” Billy asked quietly. “Anything different from what you’re already doing?”
The deputy shrugged. “Not much. The sheriff said he wants us out of the cars now . . . so I guess that’s different. We have to actually walk around the house or business or whatever. I’m headed out today . . . supposed to talk to the owner of the structure or, failing that, post a written order on the door about the whole deal. Then we do some night checks next week to make sure everybody’s complied. That’s the idea anyway.” Billy nodded as Wan wiped his mouth and stood up. As he counted out the change for his breakfast, the deputy, as casually as he could, asked, “What time does Helen come in today?”
“About ten thirty,” Billy responded smugly. “Same time she comes in every day she ain’t workin’ breakfast. You’ll see her, Wan, don’t worry.”
“Oh, I’m not worrying. Just, you know, making conversation. I’ll probably be back for lunch.”
“Yessir,” Billy grinned. “I’ll bet you will.”
“Oh, shut up,” Wan said, embarrassed, and Billy laughed.
“Hello, Wan!” Danny came from the kitchen to stand near his father. “Where are you going today?”
“Beach road, Danny. Starting up with the blackout stuff. You heard, right?”
“I heard,” Danny said, his eyes wide with excitement. “Can I go with you today, Wan?”
“Danny . . . ,” Billy started, with an apologetic glance at Wan.
“It’s okay actually,” the deputy said to Billy. “That is, if you don’t mind.” Sensing his friend’s hesitation, but seeing Danny’s hopeful expression, Wan sought to make Billy more at ease with the idea. “The sheriff’ll be fine with it. He knows Danny, and so does just about everybody we’ll be seeing. It’s gonna be mostly a lot of walking around. Everybody who lives out there drives trucks. I can’t get the squad car stuck so I’ll be walking in from the main road in almost every place.”
“Please, Daddy,” Danny begged. “I can help Wan. Please?”
Billy looked at Wan, who said, “We’ll be back in time for him to help at lunch . . . he’ll be great company for me.”
“All right, go,” Billy said. “But you listen to Wan and do what he says.”
The deputy grinned as Danny jumped into the air, hugged his father, then calmed immediately. “Let’s do it, Wan,” he said.
Billy shook his head and went back to work. He had heard his son asking Wan about the siren as they left and hoped the two were at least out of earshot before the deputy allowed Danny to turn it on.
A short time later, the two were turning off Highway 3 and onto the Beach road. “Who do we get to talk to?” Danny asked.
“Every-single-body,” Wan replied. “We’ll start right up here at these houses on the lagoon, then on out all the way to Fort Morgan . . . you’ve been there, right?”
“Unh-huh. I go with my daddy sometimes.”
“We need to hit every house, cottage, and squatter’s cabin between here and the fort,” Wan said.
“That includes the bay side . . . Navy Cove, where old Harris Kramer is . . . and anything else over there.”
“My daddy doesn’t like Harris Kramer,” Danny said. “My daddy spelled a word about Harris Kramer to my mama, but I don’t know what it was.”
“Anyway . . . ,” Wan drew the word out to get Danny’s attention back to the subject. “I need you, Danny boy, to be looking—”
“My daddy sings that song to me,” Danny interrupted.
“What?” Wan was confused.
“‘Danny Boy.’ My daddy sings that song to me. Oh, Danny Boy. He makes me and Mama laugh. It’s a song about pipes. Do you know what pipes are?”
“Ahhh . . . yes. Danny, I need you to look closely through—”
“Pipes are things you play songs on.”
“That’s right,” Wan said. “That’s exactly right.” He took a breath. “Now . . . Danny . . . what I need you to do . . . is watch through the woods as we drive along. We can’t miss a house, okay?”
“Okay, Wan. I’ll look very closely.”
“Good man.”
“Wan, are we going to Helen’s house?”
“Yep,” Wan answered. “But I don’t think Helen will be there. By the time we get out that far, she’ll have already gone to work.”
Danny brightened. “But we will pass her! She will come this way, and we will be going that way! We can wave.”
“Maybe, buddy,” Wan said. “But don’t be disappointed if we don’t see her. We’re likely to miss each other. We’ll be off the main road most of the time. We’ll drive in as far as we can, but it’s all walking from there.” Wan pulled the squad car off the road and under some huge live oaks. Shutting its engine off, he slapped Danny on the knee and said, “You ready?”
Danny nodded energetically and opened his door. “Not the kind that have water in them,” he said.
Wan, halfway out the squad car, leaned back in and looked through at the earnest young man. “What?” he asked.
“The pipes are not for water. They are for playing.”
IN LESS THAN TWO HOURS, WAN AND DANNY HAD COVERED fourteen houses on the lagoon—most of those near the area called Shellbanks—five cottages in the beach dunes and two squatters’ cabins Wan had known about that were back in the pines. They also visited the folks at Callaway’s Grocery, a tiny cinder block building, and posted a sign on the one-room Lagoon Baptist Church, which of course was empty on a weekday.
Most of the homes were occupied that morning, and the two young men were offered coffee or milk or cake at almost every one. Even the family at the second squatter’s cabin—the first had been deserted—presented a hot pan of cornbread. Wan claimed a full stomach, which was true, but more likely did not wish to take food from the mouths of a family in obvious need.
There were several squatters’ cabins scattered throughout the area, most in the lagoon swamp or some other outof-the-way location. These structures ranged from simple lean-tos to much larger, old home sites that had fallen into disrepair and been abandoned. Families who had been devastated financially or those who had never recovered from the Depression—and of those, there were many—took over the cabins, usually for short periods as they traveled on, in search of better times.
For their part, the locals did not seem to mind the transient population. They understood that they were not criminals or “trash,” but people who had simply experienced a tough run of luck. In addition, the squatters usually left the structures improved in some way when they departed. It was a traditional expression of gratefulness to which most adhered. A matter of pride, it was also a way to “pay the bill” and ready the structure for the next person or family who came along.
Wan parked the squad car at the entrance to Helen’s property. “Here we go again, Danny,” he said. “You making it?”
Danny wiped his forehead with his arm and smiled. “I’m making it.”
“This is Helen’s house,” Wan said as he reached into the backseat for a blackout notice. “She won’t be home, so we’ll just leave this on her door. Sorry we have to walk in, but there ain’t no way this car’ll make it through her driveway.”
“Too much sand, huh?”
“Yes, sir, too much sand.”
As they trudged toward the cottage, Danny asked, “Why don’t we just give Helen her paper when we see her at lunch?”
Wan glanced at his pocket watch. It was almost time to head that way. “Well, Danny, that’d be a good idea, but the sheriff made us promise to go to every house in person.”
“Okay. Have you ever been to Helen’s house before? I came once with Mama and Daddy. Helen had an aunt named Jean. I called her Miss Jean, even though she was old—”
Wan stopped suddenly and put his hand out to halt Danny. “Hush,” he said.
“What’s wrong?” Danny was puzzled.
“Danny, be real quiet.” They had just come around the last curve in the long driveway. The cottage was still seventy-five yards or so in the distance, and Wan was staring intently at it. Without thinking, the deputy loosened the pistol in his holster and eased to one knee, bringing Danny down with him.
There was someone—a man—underneath Helen’s house. He was moving . . . doing something . . . looking for something. Wan watched, unable to see clearly because of the distance and the cottage’s vertical support pilings that obscured his view. Who is this? Wan thought. What is he holding? Is that a rifle in his hands? Shotgun?
Locals, extremely respectful of another person’s property, rarely ventured in or around someone’s home without permission; therefore, an unannounced guest was likely to be suspected of ill intent. This guy, Wan thought, seems unannounced.
“Danny,” Wan said quietly, “do you see that man?” Danny nodded yes, staring. “Do you recognize him?” This time, Danny shook his head no. Wan thought for a moment, then asked, “Danny, has Helen said anything about having a visitor?”
“No,” Danny whispered.
“Danny?” Wan spoke quietly, but with intensity. He was trying to watch the man at the cottage, keep still, and look into Danny’s eyes at the same time. “Danny, I want you to stay right here, you hear me? Do not move. Don’t move ’til I call you, okay?” Danny continued to look toward the house. Wan popped him on the shoulder. “Danny, okay?”
“Okay,” Danny said, but before the deputy could move, he grabbed his arm. “Wan, is that a bad man?”
“I don’t know. Stay here, okay? I mean it.”
“Okay,” Danny said again.
Wan slipped into the trees to his right and eased around a large dune. His intention was to get closer to the house. After carefully stepping through a large clump of palmettos and trying not to think about how many rattlesnakes he’d seen in bushes just like these, the deputy moved across a thick stand of scrub oak and stopped to get his bearings. Fifteen yards off the drive. Dune line paralleling the beach. How close am I?
Wan silently climbed the dune and peeked his head over the top. He was almost thirty yards closer. Forty yards to the house, Wan calculated, maybe forty-five . . . The man was still there, but he had his back to the deputy and was on the other side of all those pilings. Wan squinted. The sun was almost overhead, leaving the man in shadow. It was tough to see. What has he got in his hands? Not hands. Hand. Whatever it is, he’s carrying it with one hand. Like I carry my rifle. Oh, Jesus . . . it’s a rifle. I think.
Before moving again, Wan glanced to where he had left Danny . . . and froze. Danny was not there. Sticking his head up higher than he knew he should—especially since a guy with a rifle was less than fifty yards away—Wan scanned the brushy area desperately for Danny. Where was he? There. No, no, no! Danny, Danny! Wan scrambled furiously down the dune. Danny was creeping down the drive path toward the cottage!
Which way? At the bottom of the dune, Wan had to instantly choose whether to continue around the mountain of sand and attempt to intercept Danny before he was seen—or to go back the way he came and grab the young man from behind. B
ack, he decided and rushed in that direction.
Wan was in the oak clearing when he heard the voice from the cabin. He didn’t understand what had been said, but it had been loud enough . . . the man could have only been addressing Danny—the boy had obviously been spotted. The deputy tore through the palmetto thicket, dropping all pretense of stealth.
Drawing his gun, Wan could see Danny through the trees and brush. The young man was now standing straight up, no longer trying to hide. He was looking at whoever had called out and was right in the middle of the driveway—like a deer in the headlights. Wan heard the man call out again. He struggled to see . . . and there he was. Wan caught a glimpse here and there . . . The man was moving swiftly.
Wan took one quick step to his right and got his pistol up. Still the man came. He doesn’t know I’m here. Danny! Move! Run! Wan’s heart was about to come out of his chest. His breathing was ragged and so loud that he was afraid the man might hear him. He saw the stranger more clearly now . . . or at least the top of him, from the shoulders up. The brush between them was still much too thick. Come on, Wan thought. Let me see the rifle, man.
The stranger stopped less than five yards from Danny, but the positioning couldn’t have been more advantageous for the deputy. Wan was no more than seven or eight yards away, he had not been spotted, and he had a clear shot at the guy’s head.
Wan could see the fear on Danny’s face and remembered the boy’s earlier question: “Is that a bad man?” The deputy silently eased back the hammer on the big .45 and thought, If he’s a bad man, he’s a dead man.
Wan Cooper had never really wanted to be a deputy. It was just one of those things that had happened. Growing up, he’d wanted to be a doctor, but that took college and, well, when his father died, Wan wasn’t even able to finish high school. Being the oldest, and the only boy, he went to work in order to support his mother and three sisters.
Wan hired himself out to farmers and managed to keep the family fed and clothed, but at nineteen when Harper Gilley, one of his father’s old friends, had been elected sheriff, he sensed an opportunity. Wan applied for and was accepted as one of Sheriff Gilley’s three deputies. And he’d been a deputy ever since.