Chesapeake Tide Page 9

  With a low moan the woman turned her face to the wall. Silent tears slid down her cheeks to mingle with the blood and stains on the now foul mattress.

  Later, as Drusilla walked home in the drugging heat of a summer evening, she wondered if she’d taken on too much. The young husband, who wasn’t more than nineteen, had shown an unusual maturity. His first concern had been for his wife, and the words of comfort that she heard him speak were exactly right. He’d insisted on paying Drusilla the agreed-upon fee despite her assurances that she never charged for stillbirths. Maybe the two of them could have managed the child after all.

  When Drusilla tried to speak of her reservations to Dr. Balieu, he hushed her before she could explain.

  “I don’t want to hear another word about it, Drusilla. Sometimes babies die. These people don’t lead the healthiest of lives. The poor child was dreadfully deformed. In my mind, dying early was the best that could happen to the infant.”

  Still, the doubt lingered, and for the first time in years, she stopped by St. Jude’s on the way home to light a candle and make an offering, the exact amount that the bereft father had pressed into her hand two hours before. She justified her visit with the knowledge handed down to all voodoo priestesses, that Christianity had its roots in the religion of the Dark Continent. She wouldn’t tell Verna Lee. The girl didn’t always see things the same way as Drusilla, especially when it came to midwifery. She thought her grandmother was too old. But who would service the migrant workers and other poor folks who didn’t have insurance cards for big fancy hospitals? Those years in San Francisco had given Verna Lee a different perspective. She didn’t always know her place. A black woman should know her place. Drusilla’s head hurt. She rubbed her temple. The doctor said it would be all right. No need for Verna to know anything at all.

  Libby had noticed the shop the first time she made the trip into town. It was so California. Even the name, Perks, would have fit into the Santa Monica/Venice Boulevard scene. She turned the knob and pushed open the door. The jingle of bells greeted her. A large black man, whom Libby recognized immediately, stood at the counter deep in conversation with the woman behind the counter, Verna Lee Fontaine. Both turned at the sound of the bells.

  Cliff Jackson’s face lit up. “Libba Jane Delacourte. I heard you were back. Where have you been keeping yourself?”

  “At home with my mother.” She shook his hand and nodded at the woman. “How are you, Verna Lee? Your shop is wonderful.”

  The woman was obviously sincere. Verna Lee Fontaine lifted the corners of her mouth in a brief smile. “Thanks. What can I do for you, Libba Jane?”

  “Iced tea would be nice.”

  “I’m fresh out, but I’ll brew some if you don’t mind waiting.”

  “Take your time.”

  Verna disappeared behind the swinging doors that led to the kitchen.

  Libby smiled at Cliff. “How have you been, Cliff?”

  “I’m doing well, thank you. I heard about your mama. I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. Actually, she’s much better than I thought.” She changed the subject. “I didn’t realize you were back in this neck of the woods. I heard you’re working for the EPA.”

  He eased his big linebacker’s body into a low chair. “I’m here for the summer setting up an office. There’ve been a few problems around this area of the bay.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “Pollution, possibly even the subterranean wells, although I doubt it.”

  Libby’s intuition kicked in. “PCBs?”

  Cliff hesitated. “I’m not sure yet. I haven’t got anything that amounts to much. As far as I can tell the test results show sludge with residual toxic metals.”

  “What kind?”

  Cliff shrugged. “Nothing specific. Mercury, lead, some chromium. Could be paint or plastics.”

  “Are the PCBs high?”

  “Not serious enough to terminate the fishing industry, but enough to cause an unusually high amount of asthmatic bronchitis, and skin conditions among the sharecroppers.”

  “What about the contaminants?” Contaminants blocked testosterone and created alarming amounts of estrogen in animals dependent on the estuaries. But she doubted that Clifford Jackson or anyone else at the Environmental Protection Agency would willingly admit that connection.

  “High enough. PCBs were banned along with DDT in the seventies, but chemicals still pollute hundreds of our waterways.”

  “What about the human implication?”

  “Those are still theoretical, however—” Cliff shrugged. “No one wants to believe lower sperm counts and increased levels of prostate and testicular cancer in men and breast cancer and endometriosis in women could be the result of chemicals currently sprayed on crops, gardens and lawns all over the United States.”

  “In other words, the most toxic chemicals known to man can be found on the shelves of local hardware stores. Does Dr. Balieu think the contaminants are in the fish?”

  “That old quack? He could eat bad fish three times a day and never put two and two together.”

  “Maybe not. But he’s the only doctor we’ve got,” she said quickly. “Any rise in cancer rates, primarily liver or kidney?”

  Cliff shook his head. “Not that I could find out. But there is something unusual in the oxidation levels around the creek.”

  Libby felt her palms sweat, a sure sign of internal agitation. No one would come forward to substantiate it, but the link was there and it wasn’t DDT or any other toxic pesticide found in manufacturing or farm runoff. Biological oxygen demand was always evident in areas where stored radioactive nuclear waste had leaked into the groundwater. Her dissertation was based on it. She’d seen the results in alligators in the Florida Everglades, herons from British Columbia and bald eagles from the Great Lakes regions. Nearly twenty years after the drums were buried, descendents of wildlife exposed to uranium were born apparently healthy, but upon closer inspection carried two sets of sex organs. Female gulls in California were sharing nests for lack of male mates, terns in New Bedford Harbor had bizarre sex organs and twisted beaks. The long-term effect on humans was horrifying to think about. Slow down, Libby, she told herself. BOD doesn’t always mean nuclear spillage. “Have you heard about the unusual rate of leukemia?” she asked casually.

  “That’s why I’m here. Could be the runoff from farms along the Susquehanna.” Clifford stroked his chin. “Although a high biological oxygen demand isn’t all that dangerous. Sometimes it’s beneficial.”

  “What about shellfish in local waters?”

  “The supply is down. But that could be due to overfishing. We just don’t know.”

  Libby’s mouth was dry. “Are you working on it?”

  Cliff sighed. “I can’t do everything, Libba. I need manpower. Right now there isn’t any to spare.”

  Libby took the plunge. “I’m available.”

  “What about your credentials? Got any?”

  “I’ll admit to a few.”

  “Do you need a job, Libba Jane?”

  “I’d like a job and this is my field. I’d like to come home for good.”

  “Are you staying?”

  “I think so.”

  “I need more than that.”

  “You said you needed help for the summer. I can give you that and a few months more for sure. I can’t promise full-time. I came home to be with my family. But a few hours a day would work for me. As for staying permanently, I’m not absolutely sure I can do that. I have a daughter. If she settles into school here, we’ll stay. If not, I’ll take her back to California.”

  “This job isn’t a popular cause around here. Close as we are to our nation’s capital, there’s still a states’ rights mentality here on the peninsula side of Maryland. Folks don’t like squealing on one of their own.” Cliff didn’t like it himself. He’d grown up on these waters. There wasn’t a man within fifty miles of the Cove that he hadn’t sworn and fished, arm-wrestled and slept off a drunk w
ith. An investigation could lead to a fishing blackout. “Can you do that, Libba? Do you have any experience with people spittin’ on your shoes or in your face when you tell ’em they can’t go to work in the mornin’ to feed their families?”

  “So far, no.”

  He nodded. “Fair enough. Come on in day after tomorrow and we’ll talk.”

  Verna Lee returned with a pitcher of tea, two sweating glasses and a flask filled with a clear liquid. “Help yourself,” she said. “I’ve got a few things to do in the back. Holler if anyone comes through the door.”

  Deciding against the sugar water, Libby picked up her glass and sat down across from Cliff. “Are you worried?” she asked bluntly.

  His smile was grim. “I’ll tell you that when you’re officially on the payroll.”

  “I’ll be in day after tomorrow.”

  “Don’t disappoint me.”

  She drained her glass and looked around. “Verna Lee’s done well for herself.”

  Cliff looked around. “It’s a nice little place.”

  “My daughter thinks so, too.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Chloe’s sixteen.”

  “Good Lord.”

  Libby laughed. “Exactly.”

  “This promises to be an interesting summer,” Cliff observed. “All kinds of people are coming home.”

  “If you’re warning me that Russ Hennessey is planning on taking over his daddy’s fishing fleet, don’t bother. I already know.”

  “That one could be difficult for you, Libba. I don’t need a conflict of interest here.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Cliff. That was a long time ago. We married other people.”

  “And look how that turned out.”

  Libby raised her eyebrows. “Since you’re so well informed, how did it turn out?”

  “It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out when you both come home divorced.”

  “I’ll be leaving now,” she said politely. “Give Verna Lee my regards.”

  “Will I be seeing you day after tomorrow?”

  “You can count on it.”

  Clifford Jackson, his forehead wrinkled in concentration, stared at the door for a long time. He liked Libba. He’d always liked her and respected her, too. He felt the same way about Russ. Hell, he’d known Russ Hennessey most of his life. There was a streak in him that some would call soft. Clifford knew better. Whatever it was that drove Russell Hennessey had nothing to do with softness. He was smart. He liked to read and he was a whiz at numbers. Every once in a while his conscience showed up as a dangerous penchant for the underdog in a town where redneck mentality was as homespun as cotton candy at a carnival.

  Cliff had first witnessed it in the second grade at Lafayette Grammar School. He’d been one of six black students in a classroom filled with the offspring of illiterate crackers from the soybean fields and the affluent few from the socially correct side of Marshyhope Creek. Russ had been one of the latter. From the sidelines, Cliff had watched the kickball and foursquare games of the white boys with interest and more than a little longing. It was Russ who suggested that he play. Even in 1974, black children did not assume their welcome. Clifford’s mother had warned him expressly of the dangers of overstepping his place. It was Russ who’d noticed him first, hanging back, pretending not to show his need.

  At first, Cliff believed it was the promise of his height and shoulders that attracted Russ’s attention. Later, much later, he realized that Russ was a law unto himself. He flouted convention whenever possible, and nothing lit the fires of his temper more than inequity, whether it was on the docks, in the classroom or on the football field. Russ Hennessey didn’t care about the color of a man’s skin any more than he cared who his father was or on what side of Marshyhope Creek he was born. He’d worked the trawlers with shrimpers and dockhands, black and white, since he was seven years old. According to Russ, the measure of a man was the effort of his hustle. He’d decided early on, when Clifford stopped a fly ball in the outfield with a dive that bloodied his nose and broke his finger, that Cliff Jackson measured up just fine. And because it was Russ who passed judgment, everyone else accepted it as well.

  Verna Lee walked out of the kitchen. “What was that all about?”

  Cliff shrugged. “You heard as much as I did. She’s got the right credentials. Lord knows she’d be accepted around here. One of their own, so to speak.” He grinned. “You could say a ripe peach just fell into my lap.”

  “You might be taking on more than you can handle.”

  “So, what else is new?”

  “Sometimes it doesn’t pay to rehash the past, Clifford. You dig too deep and everything around the hole starts to crack.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Libba Jane’s daughter doesn’t concern herself with appearances and she won’t be happy when her mama tells her they aren’t going home. Your new employee may not last.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “I always thought yours was an unlikely friendship.”

  “Whose?”

  “Yours and Libba Jane’s.”

  Cliff shook his head. “Libba and I knew each other, but Russ was my friend. We lost touch for years until I took the job with the EPA. I was looking for an architect to remodel the house I’d bought in Georgetown and his name came up. Apparently he and his partner had a high-profile firm specializing in unique designs. Russ didn’t disappoint me. Why he sold out is a mystery to me. He had to be making money hand over fist.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me at all,” Verna Lee said. “Russ always was a homebody. His daddy’s company wasn’t big enough for both boys and Russ always was odd man out.”

  “Why was that?”

  Verna Lee shook her head. “Who knows why a parent prefers one child over the other? Jealousy, maybe, or else old Beau Hennessey knew that Mitch wouldn’t make it anywhere else? All I know is that if there’s anyone who belongs in Marshyhope Creek, it’s Russ. His roots go back two centuries and he loves the place.”

  Cliff thought back to their occasional conversations and remembered Russ’s answer when asked of his future plans. He’d shrug and grin, replying that he’d finish school, settle down in the Cove, marry Libba and raise another generation of Hennesseys to terrorize the peaceable citizens of Marshyhope Creek.

  Libba Delacourte. Now, there was one fine woman. Not that he would verbalize that sentiment in front of Verna Lee. He didn’t consider himself particularly intuitive, but even he could feel the animosity between the two women when they were together.

  Still, even now, seventeen years after high school, thinking of her made Clifford smile. There had been no one sweeter, smarter or prettier than Libba Jane Delacourte. It wouldn’t have mattered even if they had been the same race. For as long as Cliff could remember everyone knew that Libba belonged to Russ. She’d soothed his temper, forgiven his wildness and balanced his quicksilver moods with nothing more than a quiet whisper. Everyone with eyes could see how she felt about Russ Hennessey and that was her problem.

  Bright, ambitious, elegant, the town’s golden girl was meant for much more than a two-bit town full of rednecks. Libba had been as antsy to leave the stranglehold of Marshyhope Creek as a rat stuck too long in a coffee can. Cliff knew it, her teachers knew it, her parents wanted it and Russ suspected it, but her dreams didn’t threaten his until the day he watched her rendition of Julia in Chekhov’s A Doll’s House. Cliff remembered the way the drama class sat that day, mesmerized, allowing her voice to wash over them, humbled by her talent, touched by her symbolism, shaken by the combination of words and thoughts that had taken root in her mind.

  The rest of that day, Russ had been strangely quiet. By Monday of the following week he was himself again, but Libba was different. There was a glow to her, a guarded sensuality that wasn’t there before, and her behavior toward Russ was definitely more proprietary. Clifford had known what it meant right away. Coming from a different world, he wasn’t
as particular about matters of the flesh as were those who lived on the right side of Marshyhope Creek. Russ had staked his claim and that claim was Libba Delacourte. At the time, Cliff had deemed it a senseless gesture. He would have sworn on his daddy’s gravestone that Libba and Russ were paired up permanently. It was as plain as the red in her cheeks when she looked at him. Who would’ve ever thought the girl who loved literature would turn into a scientist?

  “I never could figure out why Libba ran off like that,” he mused.

  Verna Lee snorted. “Libba Jane had Hollywood on her mind. She wanted to be an actress. She would have taken off with anyone who promised her a stab at it even if he didn’t have all that hair and white teeth.”

  Cliff was losing interest in the conversation. Verna Lee was having her usual effect on him. His gaze lingered on her golden skin, her sultry mouth, her wild tawny hair and settled on her long, long legs. “Why are we talkin’ about this?” he asked.

  She laughed and moved toward him. “I’m open for another two hours, Cliff. Come back later.”

  “You’re a tease, Verna Lee.”

  “Sometimes,” she admitted. “And sometimes I give you everything you want. That’s the reason you keep coming back.”

  She was wrong, but he didn’t contradict her. He didn’t know what he wanted from Verna Lee Fontaine, but it was more than sex. “Not everything,” he said, leaving the implication open, waiting to see where she’d take it.

  “Don’t, Cliff.”

  “Why not?”

  Verna Lee ground a fist into her waist. She looked like an Aldo Luongo painting, one long golden leg exposed by the slit in her turquoise sarong, tawny curls spilling over bare shoulders. Her voice was soft, regretful and thoroughly serious. “Let’s just say I’ve had enough of upwardly mobile black men trying their hardest to pull themselves up the corporate ladder. I’ve been that way before. I won’t make the same mistake again.”

  “Maybe you picked the wrong man.”

  “No doubt of that.”

  “Why not give it another try?”