Heather

This short story is a response to fellow blogger Kevin’s No Theme Thursday prompt post for this week. Kevin, thanks, lots of great ones!

The last time I was in the house at the end of the island was the summer of 1968.  For the first time in thirty years I was looking at it again.

Nothing has changed; everything has changed.

I wish to God I had said something.

Living there, on that tiny spit of land just off the Virginia coast… it’s hard to explain. 

The Davis Cut bridge was all that connected me to the outside world. Once I crossed it, it was as though I was stepping into a different time. The placid waters of the Chesapeake, the wheeling gulls…the endless rhythm of the tides…that was my world. 

Nobody on the island watched TV much. The news about the Vietnam war, the riots, the assassinations…that was not part of my world. Nor was my twin sister’s death, our fractured family, my pain. That all faded here.

My world was crab traps, collecting shells, the smell of low tide. Gliding along in a little sailboat watching the sun set over the bay.

And the biggest part of my world that summer was her.

She moved into the last house on the island in April, on my birthday. People on the island respect each other’s privacy, so nobody knew her name for a few weeks. 

I was staying alone at a friend’s place for the summer, three houses down. I’d seen her sitting on the beach, arms around her legs. Sometimes when I took the boat out, I could see her in the kitchen. Or sometimes on the porch swing, reading.

One day I was going through the mail and I found a piece that was supposed to go to her. 

Her name was Heather.

I knocked on the door and I had my first glimpse of her. It’s strange how sometimes people grow on you slowly, over time. It’s like they slowly come into focus. And other people burst into your world in a way you’ll never forget. She was the latter. 

All that I loved about the island… the tall grasses that swayed in the afternoon breeze, the herons that picked their way through the marshes, the wild honeysuckle… they all seemed to be her. Or her them. I’m not sure. All I knew was that I was looking at one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. 

Finally she broke the silence. “Yes?” she asked. “May I help you?” A touch of a southern drawl. I stared, then regained my senses.

“This piece of mail is yours, I think.” I handed her the envelope. I held it a second too long and a faint smile appeared.

“You’re the first person I’ve met here,” she said. “Would you like to come in?” 

She sat on the porch swing and I sat across from her in a wicker chair. On a table between us was a bottle of wine, some cheese and fruit. She did most of the talking. 

“Fent and I have been married for eight years,” she said. She reached for a cracker with cheese. “We’re both from little towns down in Louisiana,” she said. She pronounced down as day-own. “We met at LSU while he was in ROTC.” 

She took a sip of her wine and continued. About six months after Fent arrived in Vietnam, his forward base was overrun by a night raid of VC. Most of his unit were killed, the rest captured. They found no trace of Fent; officially, he was MIA. 

Heather twirled her wine in her glass and didn’t look up. “We’re hoping he’s safe. Maybe he’s in a POW camp. But I’ve heard such awful things.” She met my eyes. “You can’t imagine the dreams I have.”

Fent’s family had money and after he went missing, they urged her to get away from things for a while. She could stay at their cottage; they’d let the army know where to reach her if need be.

As the wine went down and she talked, I had a hard time paying attention. Her blonde hair framed a tanned face, and two wide-set green eyes projected humor and kindness. Her upturned nose was dotted with sun freckles and her mouth was turned up in the corners as though she was constantly about to smile. She was entrancing. Fent was a lucky guy.

She asked about me and I told her I was spending the summer on the island before I went off to UVA in the Fall. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with my life; I was hoping it might come to me over the summer. I told her I was thinking of being a writer.

“A writer,” she said, reaching for another cracker. “I love reading. What would you write about?”

I barely knew her, yet I found myself telling her things I’d never told anyone. She just listened and sipped her wine. I felt safe entrusting her with my secrets; she was a safe harbor.

I told her about Kitten’s death in a car crash four years ago, how we each dealt with it in our own way. Mom put up walls; Dad turned to the bottle. How all my friends, not knowing what to say, had drifted away. I channeled my anguish into my journals. 

Heather reached over and touched my cheek gently. Things blurred as four years of pain finally came out. I wept and shook as I described my relationship  with Kitten. How we laughed at the same dumb things and often finished each other’s sentences. How she always knew the right things to say. How she should be going to UVA with me in the Fall but instead she’d been dead for four years now because of some drunken bastard. I felt ashamed and wiped angrily at my tears.

“I better go,” I said finally. The wine was gone and I felt spent. I stood up and she came over and embraced me. Her hair was soft and she wore no perfume, just a clean soap scent. I found my arms encircling her waist as she hugged me. She finally broke the embrace and cradled my face in her hands.

“It’s gonna be OK,” she said softly. “You’ll see. I’m here any time you want to talk.” She kissed me on the cheek and smiled.

After that, things changed. If the island felt like an escape from the world before, now it was a retreat lined with beauty, love, kindness. And even though I was 18 and she was 30, it made no difference. 

I found excuses to go to the last house on the island several times a week. Our relationship deepened. She’d tell me about her family, what it was like growing up in a sleepy little bayou town. About her love of nature and the hours she’d spend taking photographs of live oaks, spanish moss, brooding swamps.

I took her out sailing. She loved it. Her long hair blew in the breeze and she turned her face into it. When the wind changed and the boom suddenly swung over our heads, she laughed and ducked. She liked it best when the wind filled the sail, and we leaned over the opposite side and let the spray hit us.

One day, we came back from sailing. She went inside to fix a snack while I tied up the sunfish. As I walked through the back door, I heard men’s voices. 

There were two army officers standing in the living room, looking uncomfortable. Heather clutched a piece of paper and I caught the tail end of it. “—dog tags uncovered as we were fortifying the base. He was killed the night of the raid. I’m sorry, there are no remains.”

Heather sobbed. One of them spoke. Truly sorry for your loss, anything you need, blah, blah. What else could you say? Heather turned away, still clutching the letter, and I indicated to them they should go; I ushered them out the door.

I turned to her and waited. Then I said “Is there anythi—“

“No, no,” she cried. “Please just go. I need to be alone. I’m sorry.” 

For the next two weeks, I lived a strange existence. I didn’t feel like doing any of my usual things. I barely ate. I mostly read, slept or drank. Kitten and Fent; we were two survivors. Well, at least now she knows, I thought.

Finally, I thought maybe it was time. I walked down to her house with a bouquet of wildflowers I picked. I heard a rumble and looked to the east; thunderheads were building and heading our way. The tops looked rosy and yellow in the late afternoon sun.

She managed a wan smile when she saw me; she was wearing the same outfit she was when I first met her. She hugged me, then said “C’mon in. Sorry about the mess.”

Several boxes were in the living room, and clothes… some folded, others sitting in piles…were on the seats, sofa, and some in the boxes. I was puzzled. “What’s this?” I asked.

She gave me a sad smile. “Fent’s momma and daddy are coming to fetch me tomorrow,” she said with the drawl I had grown to love. “They’re taking me back home.” My heart sank.

“I’ve got two more bottles of wine,” she said. “Not much to eat, though. Would you like to help me finish them?” I nodded.

We sat on the porch as the sun went down behind us. Soon, only the very tops of the approaching thunderheads were lit. Lightening flickered and faint booms echoed over the bay.

I took her hand and asked her how she was doing. She put her hand over mine and paused for a second. “I just had this feeling,” she said. “I hated it, hoped I was wrong, but I think I knew all along he was gone.” A tear ran down her cheek. “We were gonna have kids,” she said. 

She started to say more, but her voice grew tight and the dam broke. Great wracking sobs erupted and she looked at me with tears. We stood and I took her in my arms as she let it all go. My neck got wet as she choked and cried and described bits and pieces of the life they would now never have.

The thunderstorms arrived; the first fat drops hit the dock, the walkway, the roof. She pulled away. “You’ve been such a friend this summer.” She looked at me tenderly. I’ve had so much fun with you and if I’d known for sure about Fent, it might have all been different.” My throat grew tight. She hesitated.

“Would you do me a favor?” she asked. “Would you dance with me? I’d like to play our song…me and Fent’s.” I nodded and she picked a record out and turned it on. She faced me and held out her arms. I needed no second invitation.

I didn’t recognize the song, but it was a smoky jazz number that sounded the way I envisioned her town. As we danced, slowly, the rain began in earnest. Soon it began to be hard to hear the music over the noise. She held me closer and kissed my neck.

The neck turned into the cheek; and after the cheek, she kissed the tip of my nose. I pulled away and looked at her. Her eyes were big and shining, filled with desire. This time, it was me cradling her face, but instead of a peck on the cheek, our lips finally met. 

The thunder boomed and our kisses became more passionate. I opened my eyes once to peek at her; her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted. I was lost. When the song finally ended, she took me by the hand and led me to the bedroom. 

We made love as the storm hurled sheets of rain at the windows. We poured ourselves into each other, the hurt and the pain receding with each tender movement, gasp, moan.

Afterwards, spent, laying in each others’ arms, I wondered if I should speak. Tell her I was crazy about her since that first day. That I was ready to forget about UVA if it meant we could have a life together. That she was my world.

I knew at some level our lovemaking had been her farewell to Fent; but on another level, she said things could have gone differently between us if she had known he was gone. I wanted to tell her all these things. But she was fading fast. I decided I’d come back in the morning and tell her.

I never saw her again. I went back around 11:00 am, but the door was locked. I looked through the curtains and all the boxes were gone. I went around back and checked the porch, but it, too was locked.

Over the years, I thought about looking her up; I remembered the name of her town. Of simply showing up and asking her to marry me, in front of all the wagging tongues. But I never did. I took the easy way and went to UVA. I’ve been on the NYT’s best seller list several times.

On impulse, I walked down to the last house and knocked on the door.

The 30-ish woman who answered could have been Heather’s twin from 1968. Same hair, same freckled nose, same faint smile.

Except she had my eyes.