A Country Rag
Whole Woman

Gifts to be Delivered

Harriet manages the Tropic Isle next door—twenty rooms, pool and shuffleboard court. My Gulfbreeze has fifteen, no pool, but shade from old seagrape trees. Both places are the mama-papa kind on the old part of this gulf front, but we’re close to the gulf, which is more than you can say for the new high rise resorts.

“Lily McRay,” Harriet has been preaching to me now for a year. “You aren’t careful enough who you check in. Your Alabama grandmother might have run her boarding house like a big-hearted mama, but it’s a different world now. You read the papers, don’t you? Weirdos don’t have to look like rock musicians any more. They can appear to be regular fellows and still murder their girlfriend in your motel bed. They get a TV movie made about them, but your business goes down the tube.”

Harriet means well and she’s smart. Ran her own cleaning establishment in New Jersey before she lost it to a philandering husband and came down here to Florida. You should see her running stray boys out of the Tropic Isle pool. Of course, those boys sneak right back just to pester her. I’d try something else myself.

This morning I take my coffee and book up to the second balcony as usual. This is my hour of peace and quiet, unless Harriet comes over. By ten, most folks have gone out to the beach for their dose of Florida sun or gone off for a day at Disney World. The cleaning lady is downstairs if anybody needs me.

But here I sit, not even opening my book. I’m wondering about that Maryland couple in 5B. I’m waiting to see if they’re going to come out to the beach today with the child and acting normal.

I checked them in three nights ago, a young couple in their thirties with a boy about five. The child whimpered and stayed scrunched up in the arms of his daddy— well, I take for granted this is the daddy. The thin blond wife looked preoccupied. They both went out without asking about restaurants and the like, the way people usually do, even when they are road weary like those two.

Foster is the name, in a rented car. Seems like anytime I pass 5B, the blinds are drawn. Makes me worry.

In the past, I would have knocked on the door and asked what I could do. For years I treated my guests like family, that’s why I had repeats. Nowadays, I squelch the notion because people can be touchy about their privacy. Some act like friendliness from a stranger is intruding on their business. Maybe Harriet is right. Maybe I’m getting suspicious as she is. The idea takes the shine out of the day.

I set my book aside and squint out past the top of the seagrape leaves. Under the sun, the gulf glitters all the way to the horizon where it turns dark blue. But it’s rolling in with a lazy rhythm. Everything looks normal out there—the bright white curve of beach dotted with browning bodies. You can smell the coconut lotion all the way up here in a good breeze. Along the foaming edge, bikini girls are strolling and toddlers digging.

There— the Maryland couple is trailing along my little board walk toward the beach. Now why aren’t they dressed for that hot sun? No, she’s wearing shorts at least. They’re holding on to that little fellow’s hands, practically dragging him along.

Wouldn’t you know, here comes Harriet.

I hear her flip flops slapping up the back stairs. She shows up, heaving a sigh, plops down in the other deck chair, stretches out her brown legs and pulls a pack of Marlboros out of her waistband. In the red halters and white shorts she wears, Harriet looks for the world like a scrawny old bird, though I’d never hurt her feelings and say so.

She lights up and gives me a sassy grin through her smoke. “What you reading today, romance or that positive thinking crap? Lily McRay, sixty years shoulda wised you up. By the way, the Hertz Chevy couple still here with the frightened looking kid? ”

I  nod. “They’re staying three more days. “

“Something fishy about that pair. That’s why I told them I was booked.”

“They’re out there now,” I say.

Harriet cranes her neck to squint at the beach. “Yeah. Look at that, will you? He’s dressed like a bank clerk. At least she’s in shorts. I saw them in the T-shirt shop last night. You should have been there.”

We both watch. Foster has picked up the boy and they’re walking around bodies, toward the surf where other children are playing and being normal. The Fosters’ boy is clinging on the man’s shoulder. I ask Harriet about last night.

“You should have seen them in that shop. The kid was hiding under the racks crying, the clerk complaining. They picked him up and got out of there fast.”

I listen to that, more grieved than I let on. “Something’s real sad there,” I admit.

“Sad, smad.” She waves her cigarette. “They’re hiding something. The kid, most likely. Probably kidnapped him from some court hearing. Or worse. The things that can happen curl your hair. You ought to watch the talk shows instead of the stuff you read.”

I shift my chair out of the line of her smoke, but the look she gives me burrows right in. Some awful imagination blooms up about the Fosters from Maryland.

“Harriet, I can’t call the beach police and say the people in A-5 look unhappy and stay too long in that dark air conditioned little room and have to drag their baby to the beach.” “See, you know something’s wrong.”

“I’ve thought of going to the door with some oatmeal cookies. I made them last night thinking that. I’ve thought of asking them to let the boy come look at my tropical fish tank.”

“Cookies. Geez. You might have a couple of kidnappers or molesters in your place and you’re thinking of giving him cookies. Look. They’re coming back in now. Carrying that kid.” She stands up to watch. “You better do something or some newspaper story will say those two were here, in your place and you didn’t kick them out.”

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“Give them some excuse. Say the plumber’s coming.”

“That won’t help the boy.”

She shrugs her skinny brown shoulders. “Tell the police to stop them on Gulf Boulevard for a check. Main thing, you won’t be involved.”

Soon as Harriet leaves, I go downstairs, feeling miserable, and walk past their room. The blinds are drawn. I go back to my room behind the office and sit like a worried lump, squelching the urge to go comfort that child. But I don’t need Harriet to remind me you don’t invite a strange child into your place these days to eat cookies or watch tropical fish.

Maybe I’ll take these cookies and go to the door and ask how he is. A sneaky suspicious thing. They could say thanks and close the door.

The front bell rings and I have to go check a sunburned family out, and check in some new people who want to know about deep sea fishing, and then the cleaning lady comes in to get paid, and I have to listen to her troubles.

With the office is quiet again, I go back and look at the plate of cookies ready to be delivered. I’m still looking at them when the bell rings again. It’s Foster, there at my front desk, looking as grim as ever. I can see his wife is sitting in the car holding the boy.

“We’re moving on,” he announces.

I don’t feel relieved one iota. I blurt out, “Is your boy all right? I’ve been worried about him.” I look right into that young man’s face and he eyes me right back.

“In time...he’ll be all right...I hope.” He puts down his key and walks out.

“Wait!” I follow, waving my arms and stop him by his car. “Mr. Foster — I must talk to you.”

“Yes?”

I say what I had wanted to say for three days, knowing it’s not what Harriet would recommend. “Is there anything I can do?”

He stops and looks at me. His face is the color of his hair, pale ash blond. He looks like a kid grown old in a hurry. “I wish,” he says finally. the words flat and final.

Because I’m waiting, shaking my head, he takes a breath and says, quickly, “Tad is my brother’s child. Or was. Something pretty bad happened to my brother and his wife. And Tad saw.”

It’s so quiet for a second I can hear the breeze in the seagrapes. “Right after, his grandmother died. She had been keeping him after —it happened.” His jaws look tight. “We have been advised Tad needs a psychiatrist, maybe extended professional care. My wife and I haven’t dealt with children, haven’t dealt with any of this before, but before we gave in—” He stopped. “We decided to try giving him this trip. We had hoped...”

He looks toward the sunset colored beach, but must be seeing something dark in his mind. “Bad things can happen, you know, Mrs. McRay.”

“I know they do.” Never have I denied that.

“What did you hope for?”

He opens empty hands. “Something good to happen for him. He’s frightened of any strangers now. We wanted him to see other children playing on the beach. We hoped people would smile and talk to him. Hoped he’d see the world isn’t all bad.”

“If you had told me —”

“You don’t ask people, hey be kind to us, this kid you’re frowning at is not just a crying brat. He’s a traumatized child needing help.” He looks away, mouth tight, shoulders slumped. “So—the trip was a lousy idea. Didn’t help. We’ll take him back to the doctors.”

Even as I say it, I realize I sound like a foolish old woman. But foolish only because it’s too late. “I wanted to invite him down here to ... to see my tropical fish. I kept thinking...”

His smile is cold. “That would have been nice. He misses his grandmother, besides the other thing. Thanks anyway.”

He turns toward the car, drops himself in and is backing out as I shout, “Wait! I had cookies...” But he’s wheeling on out to the boulevard and into the moving traffic.

I go back. The sitting room is growing shadows heavy as remorse. In the lighted tank, my tropical fish are putting on a show with no one to watch. The phone rings. It’s Harriet screaming to high heaven that the boys have put seaweed in her pool. I tell her the Fosters are gone and why.

“Ahah! Told you.”

“But they were the victims.”

“Well, you never know, do you?” Harriet says airily.

“That’s just it, Harriet — you never know.”

I don’t try to explain what I mean by that. I don’t say it might seem safe to distrust everybody. But that way you miss the ones who need trusting, and that makes everything worse and less safe for everybody.

I just checked in a couple, a big bossy fellow, and a nervous girl who might be eighteen, but maybe not. He went off to the liquor store. The girl is standing out front, arms folded as if she’s not ready to go in. Or maybe she’s looking at the last streak of sunset. I’m going to call her in here to give her the cookies. Don’t care if she laughs at such a silly thing. Or she may need a friend and a telephone. Who knows for sure unless you offer?

I’ve decided. Harriet has her way, and I have mine.