Becky

In the afternoon a plane arrives on the island.

Night reveals a new green light on a dock across the lagoon.

Sunrise unveils a large yacht anchored in the lagoon.

Any one of these events makes me cautious. All three make me paranoid.

It is early morning, two days after the combined events, when I climb into my skiff and take the back way through the mangroves into town. Momma Clark, the proud owner of the only bar and grocery on the island, has a beer and three fresh donuts waiting for me. “A woman here,” she says. “She the visitor at the Point.”

The Point is one of many abandoned mansions left from the time of the narcos. In the early 80s this small island in the Bahamas was drug central for trafficking narcotics into Florida. Today, the occasional “visitor” shows up, paying through the nose for the privilege of saying they spent the night in a narcos house. No one ever stays long.

“She asking about you.”

I take a swig of beer and grab a donut. I should be surprised. I should be angry. I’m neither.

“What does she want?”

Momma Clark drew up a big smile and points a slender, well-manicured finger at my chest. “She want you white boy. Why, Momma don’t know, but, she want you.” Momma goes behind the bar and takes down an 8x10 photo from the wall. It is me, twenty years younger. I remember when it was taken.

“She pass this around last night. Told her I would post it.”

“She leave a name?”

“Becky.”

I give no reaction and manage to take another swig of island beer and another bite of donut. On the inside, my guts are churning and old memories crash in my head. “Mind if I take this?” I ask, waving the photo.

“It be you ain’t it? Go ahead. I can always get another.”

I thank her for the beer and donuts. I don’t bother paying. On this island there is enough narco cash floating around that the next three generations are paid for. The only time money exchanges hands is when the occasional tourist shows up, and then the price goes up 40%.

I am walking out the door when Momma Clark warns me not to wait too long. I pretend not to hear. On the way home I stop and drift in the mangroves as a power boat speeds by. It is the same boat I saw mounted on the stern of the yacht.

I live on a small piece of land that is attached to the island by a thin strip of sand accessible only at low tide. There is a small grove of trees at the end of this that I call home. The small concrete building used to be a Royal Navy radar station. The narcos fixed it up when they used it as their own radar station and it has most of the comforts of home, including running water and electricity. There are no glass windows, just wooden shutters that I use for storm season. To date I have survived six tropical storms and three hurricanes. A wooden floor gets me up off the hard concrete. There is a small refrigerator, chest freezer and 4-burner propane-fueled stove. My hammock, a small table with two chairs and a few bookcases complete the inside decor. My main living, cooking and eating area is outside under a palm canopy.

Someone has been here. Little things give it away: a turned over cup; a misplaced kitchen knife; and an apple has disappeared from my hanging basket of fruit. However, it is the white rose left on my inside dining table that catches my attention. I take the rose and climb into my hammock. It has her unique aroma of burnt-coconut and vanilla. I let the smell overwhelm me and I go back to a distant time.

It was our third year of college. We were high school sweethearts going back to our sophomore year and been voted the most noteworthy and loyal couple upon graduation. I was in my second year as an Army Reservist and majoring in history and archaeology with a plan to go into teaching. She was a business major and a part-time model and actress. She had gotten a few modeling gigs as a junior in high school and it helped pay the college tuition. A freak accident our senior year made her the leading lady in the high school play which led to her scoring a few spots on local commercials. I’d like to say we were happily content. Even though we hadn’t actually made plans, we both knew we would marry after graduation. Our parents had already planned the wedding. Then two events happened that would shatter our lives and change the course of our futures.

First, she was offered a major part in a new television series. Second, I was approached by two federal agents with an undercover job. I was about to turn my offer down when, at her studio welcoming party, I overheard two executives talking about her “brand” and her “look.” Apparently I wasn’t part of it. I made the decision to leave. I slipped away from the party, called the federal agents and by morning I was a ghost. Before I snuck out of the party I caught a glimpse of her talking with her closest friends. She was wearing her favorite white party dress (she hated black dresses) and was laughing at something someone had said. That was the last time I saw her.

The green light wakes me up. It is midnight. I take a quick shower, run a razor down my face and change into the cleanest shirt and pair of shorts I own. I slip into a still decent pair of Vans and then, with the white rose in hand, I take the skiff across the lagoon to her dock.

Big Tom is waiting for me when I pull alongside and I toss him a line. He ties me off. “You OK,” he says to me and leads me down the dock to the golf cart waiting on the private gravel road. Big Tom is four-feet five inches and weighs 105 pounds on a good day. His brother, Little Joe, is six-feet five inches and is no less than 250 pounds. The two were only kids when the narcos moved in and the story goes the two brothers were used for various forms of entertainment. What that was no one has ever asked, but the two were known to be the nicest, and deadliest, pair on the island. They were the self-proclaimed caretakers of the mansions and took their profession seriously. Little Joe drives me up to the house. “Ma’am inside,” he says.

The house is not the biggest of the mansions, but it is rumored to have at least 16 bedrooms and 10 different styled bathrooms. She is waiting for me in what is known as the party room. It is big enough to hold a hundred guests. The lights are dim and she sits on the edge of the couch looking out the all-glass wall to the lagoon beyond. The place is completely white, including the couch. The white sundress she wears blends perfectly. She stands as she sees me. She looks better than I imagined. The sun dress is held up by thin spaghetti straps, drops low at her neckline and ends just below her hips. Her dark hair flows loose and wild down her shoulders. She is barefoot. Her brown eyes still contain the same intensity that originally drew me to her. I stop a few feet from her. I have that butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling. I act like a teenage boy picking up his prom date and hand her the rose.

“Hi stranger,” she says, accepting the rose from me. Her voice reminds me of honey, sweet and pure.

“Hi,” I manage to croak.

She looks for my eyes. I’m afraid to look into hers. There is no flirting, no seduction. Just an awkwardness neither of knows how to overcome.

“Buy you a drink?”

I nod and she skips over to the interior wall. At the push of a hidden button the wall slides to the side and a fully stocked wet bar complete with stools is revealed. She goes behind the bar. I move to a stool and sit down before my shaky legs collapse. For a moment the last twenty years fall away and we are back in our first apartment as she hums and dances while fixing our dinner. It is obvious that she has managed to keep her charm and purity despite her time in Hollywood. I feel dirty and ashamed in comparison.

She reaches out and a Cuba Libre is placed in front of me. Her soft hand continues up to my cheek. I want to turn away, but I can’t. I want to jump over the bar and take her in my arms, but I can’t. I switch off my mind and let muscle control take over. “I shouldn’t have come,” I say as I abandon the drink, get up and walk out. I hear her bare feet slap the tiled floor as she chases me. Her hands grab me as I reach the open patio. She turns me and holds me at arm’s length. I look at the floor until her hands cup my chin and make me look into her eyes. I try to fight it. I don’t wait to meet her gaze. I don’t want her to see the pain, the horror.

I fail.

She takes me by the arm and leads me deeper into the house.

We are in one of the 10 bathrooms. This one has a tub the size of a small pool. We are in the middle of it. She still has her dress on and I have my shorts. She rubs soap into a wash rag and carefully runs it over my chest. She counts the scars.

“I remember this one,” she says, and runs her finger under my chin. She moves her mouth close to my ear. “Timber,” she says quietly. I smile. In high school ROTC I stood at attention too long with locked knees. The last thing I heard before getting pulled to my feet was a classmate calling “timber” as I fell like a tree right onto my chin.

“There’s that smile,” she says, using the rag to clean my face.

We are on one of the many beds in one of the many rooms. I lay on my back, she lies on her stomach. Her head is on my chest. She still wears the dress, I still wear my shorts. My hand rests on her back. Her hand rests on my chest.

“Is there anything there for us?” she whispers. “Can there be an ‘us’?”

I don’t answer. I don’t know.

In the morning I go home. I lay in my hammock. I miss her.

I sleep all day.

That night the green light glows brighter than ever.

It pulls at me, gives me hope.

I take the skiff over. Big Tom meets me at the dock. “Ma’am gone,” he says. “She go in plane.”

The yacht is gone when the sun comes up.

I spend the morning fishing. I spend the afternoon drinking. I spend the night crying.

Momma Clark gets me home.

I lay in my hammock looking for the green light. It’s gone.

The darkness drags on. I think of a dozen ways to kill myself. I fail at all of them.

Sunrise comes and goes. By dusk I am lost.

“Hi.”

She stands in the doorway, her body outlined by the fading light. My heart seizes and my breathe catches. She is the most beautiful thing I have seen. Her legs carry her over and she climbs into the hammock. My arms welcome her.