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Authors: Patricia Sprinkle
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relatives buried down here on this island?”
Dr. Flo spoke across Katharine. “I might have.”
He looked at her for what seemed like several minutes without saying a word. Katharine had the feeling he was putting something through his sluggish mental computer and waiting for results. Finally he waved one hand and spoke in the tone of one repelling a cur. “Go on back where you came from. You got no bidness down here. Go on home, now. You hear me? Go on!”
The boy looked from the old man to the women in the car. Curiosity and surprise flitted across his face in equal parts. He muttered, “Daddy needs those graves moved.”
“Your daddy needs his head examined is what he needs. He sure doesn’t need to stir up all this mess. You ladies go on home. You can turn around down past the bend, then you come right back out, you hear me? Don’t you go messing around where you aren’t wanted. Go on, git!” He slapped the car’s fender like it was the flank of a horse.
Past the bend they entered a clearing guarded by ancient live oaks with wide, low branches, broad trunks, and a thick crop of hoary Spanish moss. Katharine pulled to a stop near one oak to take her bearings. Even crabgrass grew sparsely there, with sand showing through like a balding man’s scalp. In the center, where the sun was brightest, ruins indicated the foundations of a small building. From what was left, Katharine deduced it had been built of tabby—a Low Country construction material made of lime, sand, and oyster shells. On the far side of the clearing a rusting wrought-iron fence marked a square in the wilderness, ringed by cedars so old that their limbs were scrawny and the Spanish moss in their branches flapped like long gray beards. A broad slough flowed at the edge of the dry land, then marshes stretched for miles, brown from the summer sun. Hammocks on the horizon looked like ranges of hills.
Katharine caught her breath in wonder. “No wonder developers want to get their hands on this land. People would pay a fortune to have this view.”
Dr. Flo was busy replacing her dainty sandals with beige walking shoes. “You’d better not be one of them. You’d wake up every morning hearing your daddy saying, ‘What you needing that expensive house for, shug?’ But if we are finished admiring the scenery and second-guessing dead men, are you ready to roll?” She tied her second shoe and opened her door.
“You’re okay to get out even after what he said?”
“Of course. The lawyer told us to come.”
“Let me drive closer, then.”
Dr. Flo slid to the ground. “You can’t drive over that ruin, and at least the grass is short enough to see a snake. I’d guess that’s the cemetery, wouldn’t you?” She pointed to the fence. “I can use exercise after all that riding.” She took her notebook and pen, but left her briefcase and purse in the car. “They ought to be safe here, don’t you think?” She headed across the clearing.
Katharine cut the motor and opened her door. As heat rolled over her like a wave, she reached in the backseat for a wide-brimmed straw hat she used for gardening. Settling it on her head, she climbed out into a patch of soft sand. “Yuck!” Grit slid and shifted beneath her soles and a sandspur got lodged under her little toe.
“The mosquitoes are terrible,” Dr. Flo called, picking her way through the grass and slapping her bare arms and the back of her neck. “We should have brought bug spray.”
Katharine pulled out the sandspur and winced. “I should never have worn sandals. They are already full of sand. I’d go barefoot if there weren’t so many sandspurs.”
“You can wash later. Come on.” Dr. Flo was nearly at the fence.
Katharine trudged across the grass. The crabgrass was laced with other grass—both the kind that grows sandspurs and the variety with small saws on each blade. They clutched and scratched her bare calves and ankles. She yearned for long pants and socks.
“This
Dr. Flo spoke across Katharine. “I might have.”
He looked at her for what seemed like several minutes without saying a word. Katharine had the feeling he was putting something through his sluggish mental computer and waiting for results. Finally he waved one hand and spoke in the tone of one repelling a cur. “Go on back where you came from. You got no bidness down here. Go on home, now. You hear me? Go on!”
The boy looked from the old man to the women in the car. Curiosity and surprise flitted across his face in equal parts. He muttered, “Daddy needs those graves moved.”
“Your daddy needs his head examined is what he needs. He sure doesn’t need to stir up all this mess. You ladies go on home. You can turn around down past the bend, then you come right back out, you hear me? Don’t you go messing around where you aren’t wanted. Go on, git!” He slapped the car’s fender like it was the flank of a horse.
Past the bend they entered a clearing guarded by ancient live oaks with wide, low branches, broad trunks, and a thick crop of hoary Spanish moss. Katharine pulled to a stop near one oak to take her bearings. Even crabgrass grew sparsely there, with sand showing through like a balding man’s scalp. In the center, where the sun was brightest, ruins indicated the foundations of a small building. From what was left, Katharine deduced it had been built of tabby—a Low Country construction material made of lime, sand, and oyster shells. On the far side of the clearing a rusting wrought-iron fence marked a square in the wilderness, ringed by cedars so old that their limbs were scrawny and the Spanish moss in their branches flapped like long gray beards. A broad slough flowed at the edge of the dry land, then marshes stretched for miles, brown from the summer sun. Hammocks on the horizon looked like ranges of hills.
Katharine caught her breath in wonder. “No wonder developers want to get their hands on this land. People would pay a fortune to have this view.”
Dr. Flo was busy replacing her dainty sandals with beige walking shoes. “You’d better not be one of them. You’d wake up every morning hearing your daddy saying, ‘What you needing that expensive house for, shug?’ But if we are finished admiring the scenery and second-guessing dead men, are you ready to roll?” She tied her second shoe and opened her door.
“You’re okay to get out even after what he said?”
“Of course. The lawyer told us to come.”
“Let me drive closer, then.”
Dr. Flo slid to the ground. “You can’t drive over that ruin, and at least the grass is short enough to see a snake. I’d guess that’s the cemetery, wouldn’t you?” She pointed to the fence. “I can use exercise after all that riding.” She took her notebook and pen, but left her briefcase and purse in the car. “They ought to be safe here, don’t you think?” She headed across the clearing.
Katharine cut the motor and opened her door. As heat rolled over her like a wave, she reached in the backseat for a wide-brimmed straw hat she used for gardening. Settling it on her head, she climbed out into a patch of soft sand. “Yuck!” Grit slid and shifted beneath her soles and a sandspur got lodged under her little toe.
“The mosquitoes are terrible,” Dr. Flo called, picking her way through the grass and slapping her bare arms and the back of her neck. “We should have brought bug spray.”
Katharine pulled out the sandspur and winced. “I should never have worn sandals. They are already full of sand. I’d go barefoot if there weren’t so many sandspurs.”
“You can wash later. Come on.” Dr. Flo was nearly at the fence.
Katharine trudged across the grass. The crabgrass was laced with other grass—both the kind that grows sandspurs and the variety with small saws on each blade. They clutched and scratched her bare calves and ankles. She yearned for long pants and socks.
“This
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