Hooligans

ISLE OF SIGHS

It was eight thirty when I started out to the Isle of Sighs and it was dusk by the time I had put Front

Street and Dunetown behind me. Crab fishermen were standing hard against the railing of the twolane bridge that connects the main island to Sea Oat Island. Below it, an elderly woman, as freckled as

an Iowa corn picker, and wearing a battered white fishing hat with its brim folded down around her

ears, fished from a flat-bottom skiff that drifted idly among the reeds in the backwater. The hyenas

hadn‟t got this far yet.

Sea Oat was the buffer, a small, marshy islet that separated the whore-city from the wistful Isle of

Sighs. There were few cars, the road was populated mostly by weathered natives on bikes. The

islanders seemed to have prevailed here, stubbornly refusing to surrender to time or progress. I passed

what seemed to be an abandoned city square, its weeds crowding the wreck of a building at its center,

then half a mile farther on, a small settlement of restored tabby houses, surrounded by laughing

children and barking dogs. Streets narrowed to lanes, oyster shells crackled beneath my tires, and the

oaks, bowed with age, turned the roadways into living arches, their beards of gray Spanish moss

shushing across the top of my car.

I was racing the sun, hoping to get to Windsong before dark, but as I got closer to the old, narrow,

wooden bridge that ties the Isle of Sighs to Sea Oat, I unsuspectingly burst out of the trees for several

hundred yards and the marsh spread out before me for miles, like an African plain. It was as if I had

suddenly driven to the edge of the world.

I pulled over, got out of the car, and leaned against a fender. The sun, a scorched orb hanging an inch

or two above the sprawling sea grass, lured birds and ducks and buzzing creatures aloft for one last

flight before nightfall. I watched the sun sink to the horizon, merge with the flat tideland, and set it

briefly afire. The sky turned brilliant scarlet and the colour swept across the marsh like a forest fire.

The world was red for a minute or so and then the sun dropped silently behind the sea oats and marsh

grass.

Whoosh; just like that it was dark.

When I got back into the car, I had a momentary attack of guilt. My mind flashed on Dutch and the

promise I had made to him. No scandal, I had told him. I thought about that for at least sixty seconds

as I drove on through the oak archways and across the narrow bridge to the Isle of Sighs. Nothing

here had changed. It was like driving into a time warp. here and there, along the rutted lanes, handcarved signs announced the names of houses hidden away among pine and palm. Once this had been

the bastion of Dunetown, a fiefdom for the power brokers who took the gambles, claimed the spoils,

divided them up, and ruled the town with indulgent authority. The ho.mes were unique, each a

masterpiece of casual grace.

Windsong was the fortress.

It stood at the edge of the woods and a mile from the main road, down a narrow dirt corridor, tortured

by palmettos and dwarf palms, that was more path than lane; a stately, two-story frame house, ghostwhite in the moonlight, surrounded by sweeping porches, with a cap of cedar shingles and dark

oblong shutters framing its windows. Before it, a manicured lawn spread a hundred yards down to the

ocean‟s edge. Beyond it, past the south point of Skidaway Island, a mile or so away was the Atlantic

Ocean. The gazebo, where bands had once played on summer nights, stood near the water like a pawn

on an empty chessboard.

Memories stirred.

A lamp burned feebly in a corner room on the second floor and another spilled light from the main

room to a corner of the porch. Otherwise the place was dark.

I stopped near a dark blue Mercedes sedan that was parked haphazardly on the grass near the end of

the driveway, got out, and stood for a minute or two, letting my eyes deal with the darkness. Moon

shadows were everywhere. A south wind drifted idly across the ocean and rattled the tree branches.

Out beyond the house, a night bird sang a mournful love song and waited for an answer that never

came. It was obvious why Chief had called it Windsong; no other name could possibly have fit.

I remembered Chief and Stonewall Titan, ending each day sipping whiskey on that porch. I opened

the trunk and put my pistol under the spare tire and pressed the lid shut as quietly as I could. This was

no place for sudden noises.

The boathouse was a dark square, jutting out into the ocean to the east of the house. I walked down

toward it. The night bird started singing again and then, suddenly, flew off in a rustle of leaves. Then

there was only the wind.

I knew what I was going to say; I had been rehearsing it in my head ever since I saw her.

Hang tough, Jake, don‟t let soft memories shake you. Get it said and get out.

I was ready.

She was standing in the boathouse, haloed by the moon, swinging on a twenty-five-foot Mako bow

line clamped to a hook above her head. She didn‟t see me at first. Eyes closed, she was lost in the

moonlight, stirring her own memories.

A small Sony tape deck was whispering on the dock beside her. And that summer came back, a riptide

that erased whatever scenario I had planned. I recognized Phil Spector‟s breakaway guitar on the old

Drifters version of “On Broadway.” Twenty years ago I could whistle every note and break, right

along with him. I didn‟t even think, I just started whistling softly between my teeth, amazed that I

could still keep up with all the riffs and pauses.

She turned, startled, her fawnlike eyes fluttering as they tried to adjust to the darkness. The ocean was

slapping the pilings beneath us and the Mako bumped easily against the rubber tires in the side of the

dock.

Nothing else but the wind.

“Jake?” she said, a decibel above the night sounds.

“Yeah.”

She moved away from the line.

“You can still do it,” she said, and laughed.

“I‟m a little rusty,” I said.

“No. Not rusty at all.”

There was an awkward pause, where you feel you should say something just to fill the silence. She

did it for me.

“I‟m so glad you came. I wanted it so bad it hurt.”

“You haven‟t changed at all,” I said huskily. “Time has passed you by.‟,

“You always say the perfect thing, you always did.” Another pause, then, “I didn‟t even hear you. I

was lost for a minute.”

“I can‟t think of a better place to be lost.”

She eased toward me, a shimmering vision, still moving slightly with the music.

“Remember the night party? Dewey Simpson got drunk and tried to swim to the channel marker in his

tuxedo. .

I remembered it and said so.

“...and you kept egging him on...

The moon silhouetted her, trim legs etched behind a white cotton skirt.

and we kept playing that song, o‟er and over, while Teddy swam out to pull him in..

The brief triangle of her bikini panties, the swell of one of her breasts, tinted by a moonbeam.

“And my eighteenth birthday, where we took the dune buggy and left Teddy and that girl on the

beach. .

Her blond hair was swirling in the wind, whipping the shadow of her face.

“We were at the very end, remember? Down at the point.., the breakers were running so high.”

She whisked her fingertips down her neck.

“It was so hot that night. Remember how hot it was?”

I began t feel the same heat, rising round my neck. She was some piece of work, make no mistake.

“It was just like tonight. . . the moon was full. .

She was close enough to smell.

“. . . that was the first time I ever saw you naked.. .“ And now she was close enough to feel my heat.

“We were lying there in the dunes and you let the buggy roll down the hill. .

“Oh yes, I remember. .

“You were gorgeous..

“You still are,” I heard myself say. My voice was as shaky as a spinster‟s dream.

“I feel the same way now, Jake. I feel like I‟m on fire inside. .

She moved against me, her breasts exploring my chest as tentatively as a butterfly exploring a

blossom.

But it was not 1963 and we were not on the beach; it was now and here and she stepped back from

.me, her dress already unbuttoned, her breasts pushing out past the white bodice, and she lifted her

shoulders so gracefully that s he hardly moved, and the dress slipped away, hovering down to the

dock at her feet, and she leaned forward, her hands sweeping swiftly down her thighs, and suddenly

she was naked before me again.

If anything, time had improved her body.

She moved against me and I ran my hands slowly across the swell of her buttocks, pressing her haul

against me. She began to rock back and forth, urging me to rise to her, I let the flat of my hand slip

down along her thigh and then back up, and she urged herself against it. She was warm and moist and

she clamped her legs together, trapping my hand, and began to rock harder. Her fingers moved nimbly

to my belt, unfastening it, and then she slid her hand down and began to caress me and then we were

moving together.

“Oh, God, Jake,” she moaned, “where have you been?”

I lowered her slowly to the cushions in the boat and she stretched out before me, her hands over her

head as I teased her, my hand barely touching her soft down, until suddenly she thrust up against my

hand. She began to tremble under my touch, took my hand and pressed it harder, and began to move

my hand with hers, showing me where to touch, what to explore, orchestrating her pleasure. Her

hands groped for something to hang on to, found the edge of the seat and clutched it. Every muscle in

her body seemed to be responding. She was moving back and forth as my fingers sought all her secret

places.

She started to whimper and the whimper became a growl, deep in her throat, and she stiffened

suddenly, wrapped her arms around me, buried her head in my shoulder, and her cries were muffled

against my flesh. She reached down, searching with desperate fingers, and turning slightly, guided me

into her. Then there was only the feel of her, her soft muscles engulfing me, urging me to come with

her, and the rush of her mouth against mine.

There was nothing else.

No Ciscos, no Taglianis, no hooligans, no wounds or screams of grief. There were only our own cries

of joy and relief, whisked to sea on the wind.

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