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Authors: Elizabeth Black
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down between her shoulder blades, a line of liquid metal.
When I was old enough to leave the house at will, I would find and observe certain Islanders—a girl my age with a clubfoot in a round black shoe, the old man who worked at the newsstand, who would sometimes take out his teeth and set them on the counter. “I can’t believe they want to be photographed, not like this,” Eleanor said.
“They do. They’re friends,” I said. It was a lie—I was not good at making friends.
The one I sought out constantly, made excuses to visit, was the cashier at the bait shop. He had the pale eyes and scorched hair of a fisherman, and he was missing a hand. I used to hang around the shop examining the lures, and sometimes I would buy mud minnows that I later released into the storm drain, just so I could observe him and the wizened knob of his stump.
Growing up, I believed I was deficient in a way that I couldn’t identify precisely and that this explained my failure to fit in with my family. It was something inside, not visible, a matter of character or outlook, I thought. And for that reason, hard to come to terms with. But here was a man whose defect was plain to see, and it didn’t bother him at all. I stared as he matter-of-factly measured out the bait shrimp, made change, his sleeve rolled comfortably above the elbow. I hoped that if I studied him long enough, I might learn his secret.
Chapter 8
THE NOISE OF THE PARTY FILLED the Carraday house. Outside, night was gathering in the long fingers of the oleander hedge. In the rose garden, draped tables held silver bowls heaped with glittering cracked ice and pink shrimp and silver platters of oysters. There were piles of blanched asparagus and darker green bottles of champagne. Slowly, I made my way down the buffet. Someone spoke my name and I turned. It was Tyler Henry. “What’s good?” he asked.
“Everything.”
He leaned over my shoulder as I served myself. “What’s that?”
“Mud bugs.” He looked blank. “Crawfish.”
“And I thought Texans only ate steak.”
“There’s barbecue over there if you want it. But this isn’t really Texas, it’s the Free State of Galveston.”
“Meaning?”
“It’s different. You can see it, can’t you?”
“I can hear it,” he said. “You don’t talk like a Texan. Will doesn’t either.”
“My parents are Yankees. Will went to school in Connecticut. But it’s true, people here don’t talk like other Texans.”
“What about Mary Liz?”
“She’s from Oklahoma.”
Ty smiled. “Obviously, it’s more complicated than I thought.”
“Hollywood has a lot to answer for,” I said. I lowered my voice. “I hope you won’t pay too much attention to Mary Liz. To what she said.”
“You mean that I’m Will’s boy?” Ty winced, but it was mostly forshow. “Well, it’s not so far off. My title is director of special projects, but basically I handle whatever Will doesn’t feel like doing.”
“Is that a good thing?” I asked doubtfully.
“Yes, in fact. What he tells people is that I’m in charge of all the really exciting stuff. He’s been very gracious. He’s introduced me to everyone.”
I took a piece of bread and put another on Ty’s plate. “So how do you like the Island?” I asked. “Are you disappointed? No range, no cattle to speak of, no cowboys, no rodeos. Was that what you expected?”
“I don’t know what I expected,” Ty said. We walked together across the freshly mowed lawn. Ty held a white folding chair for me and we sat down. Over his shoulder I could see the terrace where Will and Eleanor stood. When Patrick arrived, he would have to come and find them.
“I did see some cattle near where I’m staying,” Ty said.
“That’s not a real ranching operation. It’s a tax deduction. The land will be sold to a developer before long.” I shook out a napkin. “There are coyotes though. You can see them on the beach at night, if you’re patient.”
“You’re
When I was old enough to leave the house at will, I would find and observe certain Islanders—a girl my age with a clubfoot in a round black shoe, the old man who worked at the newsstand, who would sometimes take out his teeth and set them on the counter. “I can’t believe they want to be photographed, not like this,” Eleanor said.
“They do. They’re friends,” I said. It was a lie—I was not good at making friends.
The one I sought out constantly, made excuses to visit, was the cashier at the bait shop. He had the pale eyes and scorched hair of a fisherman, and he was missing a hand. I used to hang around the shop examining the lures, and sometimes I would buy mud minnows that I later released into the storm drain, just so I could observe him and the wizened knob of his stump.
Growing up, I believed I was deficient in a way that I couldn’t identify precisely and that this explained my failure to fit in with my family. It was something inside, not visible, a matter of character or outlook, I thought. And for that reason, hard to come to terms with. But here was a man whose defect was plain to see, and it didn’t bother him at all. I stared as he matter-of-factly measured out the bait shrimp, made change, his sleeve rolled comfortably above the elbow. I hoped that if I studied him long enough, I might learn his secret.
Chapter 8
THE NOISE OF THE PARTY FILLED the Carraday house. Outside, night was gathering in the long fingers of the oleander hedge. In the rose garden, draped tables held silver bowls heaped with glittering cracked ice and pink shrimp and silver platters of oysters. There were piles of blanched asparagus and darker green bottles of champagne. Slowly, I made my way down the buffet. Someone spoke my name and I turned. It was Tyler Henry. “What’s good?” he asked.
“Everything.”
He leaned over my shoulder as I served myself. “What’s that?”
“Mud bugs.” He looked blank. “Crawfish.”
“And I thought Texans only ate steak.”
“There’s barbecue over there if you want it. But this isn’t really Texas, it’s the Free State of Galveston.”
“Meaning?”
“It’s different. You can see it, can’t you?”
“I can hear it,” he said. “You don’t talk like a Texan. Will doesn’t either.”
“My parents are Yankees. Will went to school in Connecticut. But it’s true, people here don’t talk like other Texans.”
“What about Mary Liz?”
“She’s from Oklahoma.”
Ty smiled. “Obviously, it’s more complicated than I thought.”
“Hollywood has a lot to answer for,” I said. I lowered my voice. “I hope you won’t pay too much attention to Mary Liz. To what she said.”
“You mean that I’m Will’s boy?” Ty winced, but it was mostly forshow. “Well, it’s not so far off. My title is director of special projects, but basically I handle whatever Will doesn’t feel like doing.”
“Is that a good thing?” I asked doubtfully.
“Yes, in fact. What he tells people is that I’m in charge of all the really exciting stuff. He’s been very gracious. He’s introduced me to everyone.”
I took a piece of bread and put another on Ty’s plate. “So how do you like the Island?” I asked. “Are you disappointed? No range, no cattle to speak of, no cowboys, no rodeos. Was that what you expected?”
“I don’t know what I expected,” Ty said. We walked together across the freshly mowed lawn. Ty held a white folding chair for me and we sat down. Over his shoulder I could see the terrace where Will and Eleanor stood. When Patrick arrived, he would have to come and find them.
“I did see some cattle near where I’m staying,” Ty said.
“That’s not a real ranching operation. It’s a tax deduction. The land will be sold to a developer before long.” I shook out a napkin. “There are coyotes though. You can see them on the beach at night, if you’re patient.”
“You’re
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