The Mermaid Chair by Sue Monk Kidd Read Free Book Online Page A

ourselves like the Swiss Family Robinson, he rowing his bateau through the creeks, stopping to bog for fiddler crabs, which we’d sold for bait at fifty cents a 36
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    pound on the ferry dock. We’d known every channel and sand-bar, exactly where the shell rakes might snag the boat’s bottom during low tide. The summer I was nine, before everything collapsed, we’d been dauntless, scavenging for turkey tracks and alligator drags. At night, with the palmettos rattling wildly around the house, we’d slipped out through the window and gone to the slave cemetery, where we’d double- and triple-dog-dared the ghosts to come out.
    Where had that girl gone? Staring into the tannic-looking waters, I felt a terrible craving for her.
    I was surprised by the weight of memory, the awful conta-gion of family, of place. I remembered my father steering his twenty-foot Chris-Craft, the meerschaum pipe I’d bought him clamped between his teeth, and me tucked between his chest and the wheel. I could almost hear him calling, “Jessie, the dolphins are here,” see myself racing for the rail, listening for their breath to spew, the slit of darkness as they broke the surface.
    When the northwest side of the island came into view, I was already thinking about his boat exploding. About the clipping in Mother’s drawer. “Police speculate that a spark from his pipe may have ignited a leak in the fuel line.” I let my eyes sweep over the the water, remembering where it happened, then looked away.
    I walked the length of the ferry rail and watched the island draw closer. It was only five miles long and two and half across, but it seemed even smaller from the boat. The rooftops of the shops behind the ferry dock came into view, laughing gulls loop-ing over them, and beyond that the live oak, palm, and myrtle thickets that filled the green heart of the island.
    The engine throttled down as the pontoon approached the t h e m e r m a i d c h a i r
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    dock. Someone threw a rope, and I heard the creaking of old wood as we were hitched tightly against the pilings.
    On the pier a few people in beach chairs dangled rods over the side, fishing for channel bass. But no Kat and Benne. Kat had promised they would meet me. I went back inside the boat, collected my suitcase, then stood at the window as the other passengers debarked.
    A few moments later, they came hurrying up with Max trotting behind them. They were holding hands, and Benne appeared to be half dragging Kat, who was wearing her high heels with the thin socks. Her hair was pulled up into a dark red top-knot, a color my mother referred to as “port wine.” Pieces of it were starting to unravel around her face.
    They stopped at the edge of the dock and looked up at the boat. Max sat between them, wagging half of his tail as if it were jointed.
    When Kat spotted me at the window, her chest rose visibly.
    “Well, don’t just stand up there! Come on down here!” she yelled.
    Benne sprang into a funny jig, lifting her feet and marching in place. “Jes-sie, Jes-sie,” she chanted, and Max started to bark, which created an eruption of gulls along the edge of the dock. The other passengers paused to stare, then glanced at one another, embarrassed.
    Home. There was nothing to do but collect my suitcase and wade into it.
    There were half-moons, like pale, yellowish shadows, under Kat’s eyes. She embraced me at the same moment the aroma of the island penetrated, a powerful brew of silt, old crab pots, 38
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    salted air, and black, gooey mudflats alive and crawling with pungent creatures.
    “You made it,” Kat said, and I smiled at her.
    Benne laid her round face against the sleeve of my coat and clung to me like a barnacle. I put my arm around her and gave her a squeeze.
    “You didn’t want to come,” she said. “You hate coming here.”
    Kat cleared her throat. “All right, Benne, that’s enough.”
    Benne was not finished, however. “Mama is