The Ocean Inside Read online

  “I thought about bumming it,” Cal told her, “but then I’d have to go it alone. My friends wouldn’t suffer low budget along with me.”

  Sloan knew that a certain segment of people gave their kids the big European adventure at some point, yet it seemed a perk his parents had thought Cal needed to skip. She’d also noticed that his SUV had more than 100,000 miles, which meant a handed-down vehicle—another indication that his family was either frugal or not as well off as she’d anticipated. Perhaps his parents were conservative when it came to handing money to their children, thus alleviating the burden of entitlement.

  Sloan’s parents had always stressed how many things she and Ainslie had, compared to their own meager childhoods. It wasn’t that either of her parents had been deprived, it was that they had lived simply, with fewer material possessions than children had today. What they didn’t understand was that every kid, even the poorer kids, had iPods and cell phones and televisions with cable in their rooms. Kids had cars, some of them nice cars and SUVs, by eighteen. Kids grew up fast, but her mother was slow to see that. Most eighteen-year-olds were totally responsible for themselves, having been latchkey kids most of their lives.

  The bridge over the Cooper River arched into the sky, suspension cables streaming down in the reflection of ship masts. At the apex, Charleston appeared—the Holy City, with its scattering of church spires forming a jagged skyline. Below the bridge, cranes lifted container cars ashore at the Charleston Port Authority. Farther south, the city turned beautiful where a crescent of affluence threw soft lighting on moving water.

  Down the peninsula, tony neighborhoods came to life behind wrought iron. The arms of live oaks embraced cobblestone streets. Sloan loved Charleston’s architecture and her gardens all touching, crowded as if the entire city whispered secrets. She had walked the rumpled sidewalks with her father, peaking into the inner sanctums of yards and verandahs like the tourists who were both the lifeblood and the burden of the city. Pawleys Island people had bumper stickers that read Shabby Chic, but anyone would have to crown Charleston the chicest of shabby places.

  When they pulled into the Lowcountry Yacht Club, the guard recognized Cal and waved him through. Along the waterfront, where the mouth of the Ashley River flowed into the Atlantic, the clubhouse rose, gleaming like a polished wood and brass ship in the harbor. Not only did the club have a sheen, all the people seemed to be of the same high gloss. Their white teeth and starched button-downs spoke of a pleasant existence. They expected the world to care about their desires. They were confident things would go their way. Of course, Sloan had seen yachts gliding by her house, some docked at the Georgetown Harbor where LaShonda’s father worked. But in this world, boats cost more than homes, and some were finely-tuned athletes, swift for racing and competitive of crew.

  Cal’s grandfather, Joseph Wannamaker, rose from behind a well-oiled wooden table and exchanged a hearty handshake with his grandson. The family patriarch was tall, with a shock of white hair and fierce tan creases radiating from his hazel eyes. Sloan was introduced around the table to Joseph’s wife, Patricia, an elegant, pale woman. Cal’s mother said, “Hi, I’m Bitsy. I know your mother from church.” Cal’s father, Trip, was like the grandfather, tall and commanding, his navy jacket cut with precision to accentuate his broad shoulders and narrow waist. He had the same hazel eyes as the grandfather, the same as Cal. Joseph introduced a cousin from out of town who he relayed had the misfortune to marry north and become a Yankee living in Virginia. Everyone laughed politely and settled in.

  Their server waited for drink orders and the grandfather nodded to his wife. In a long vowel drawl, she asked for “a glass of that Malbec I liiiike.” Sloan had no idea what that was. Ordering progressed from woman to woman around the table until it reached Sloan. Cal nodded to her and she ordered a glass of the Malbec, too.

  “Very good choice,” the waiter said and moved on to the grandfather’s order.

  Conversation flowed as the waiter handed menus around. Sloan noticed no prices on the menu. Orders for snails and lobster were placed, but Sloan stuck with local flounder and shrimp, confident in her ability to eat those without embarrassing herself. As she perused the silver and glassware on the table, Sloan was suddenly grateful to her mother for forcing cotillion on her. Still, she would wait to see what utensil everyone selected before picking up her own.

  Once they had ordered, Patricia leaned over and asked Sloan, “Now tell me, sweetheart, who aaaare your peeeeople?”

  Sloan had always wanted to say that she was one of the Sullivans who founded Sullivan’s Island, but she didn’t even know if the island had ever belonged to a Sullivan at all. What she was certain about was that she didn’t want to tell the regal Patricia Wannamaker that her family was from New Jersey.

  “My mother’s people are from outside of Charleston,” she replied. “My mother’s family owned a farm.” Farm was generally a polite euphemism for plantation, only in Sloan’s family’s case, it really wasn’t. They had truly had just a small working farm.

  Patricia smiled and motioned to the waiter. Sloan’s empty wine glass was replaced. She was pleasantly on the way to her first buzz and mesmerized by how the others expertly gripped decorative shells with tongs and scooped out the dark blob of escargot. Lobsters and jokes were cracked for an hour, but afterward the conversation grew sedate. The grandfather lighted a strong cigar and spoke of his father, a shrimper, a hardworking man who barely managed to keep his family above poverty level.

  “I raised my own son to be productive,” Cal’s grandfather said, “to take risks and make sure he’s worthy. Shirtsleeves. Remember shirtsleeves, Cal.” Joseph smacked his grandson on the back. There was a look from Cal’s grandmother, her brow ever so slightly wrinkled. He smiled and politely changed the subject.

  Sloan had once studied the economic theory of shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves in three generations in a civics class. Basically, it describes how a family with nothing can spawn a family member inspired to rise above. He gains a fortune, passing it along to his heirs, but by the third generation, wealth becomes so ingrained in the family’s daily life that following generations grow lackadaisical and unproductive. This slackness eats away at the fortune the elders accumulated, and a generation later, part of the family ends up as blue collar workers, back in shirtsleeves again. A simple theory on gaining and losing wealth that Sloan thought probably had validity.

  But these people seemed to be a long way from turning in their white collar membership card. The women sported Louis Vuitton handbags and Chanel sunglasses. The men were comfortable in their Brooks Brothers suits and leather shoes. The marina was their home-away-from-home, and they dined here with as much ease as if they were lounging in their own living rooms. Outside, the masts of sailboats and yachts tilted with the water’s motion. Occasionally, the dock under the club let out a groan, as if to shift its burden. The wine made Sloan notice all this more intensely, although her focus pulled in and out on the discussion. When she scanned from person to person around the table, there was a vapor trail before her vision solidified. She leaned into Cal and said, “I’d love to go look at the boats.”

  He’d smiled. “Sure,” he said, then, “Grandpop, can I show Sloan your boat?”

  “By all means, son. Help yourself.” His grandfather raised a swinging glass of wine his way and then turned back to the conversation.

  Cal grasped her hand and led her through tables of white linen each topped by a silver candelabrum. Sloan was fascinated by one table with a candlestick of a mermaid, scales intricately twined with her hair. Along the dock, boats shone like the prized possessions they were. There was plenty of activity as people wiped down boats, rolled sails, rewound ropes, and hosed decks.

  The Wannamaker boat was a Regatta. Cal told her in a way that let her know it must be important or expensive, yet it was by no means the largest craft at the club. They were surrounded by fabulous tall sailboats and shiny motor behemoths with bulbous white leather se
ats. The Wannamakers’ sailboat was a beautiful thing made of balsam wood the color of honey and dark cherry. Sloan knew this wood because her grandfather had once pointed it out to her in their own smaller boat when he had given it to them.

  The name painted in block letters on the stern of their vessel was B.O.A.T.

  “Wow,” Sloan said, sarcastically. “What an original name.”

  “You don’t know what that means, do you?” Cal grinned at her.

  “No.”

  “Everybody in the sailing world knows. It means Break Out Another Thousand.” He laughed. “A boat always needs some sort of repair.”

  They stepped onto the polished deck and descended a delicate ladder into the galley. Belowdecks, everything was efficient and miniature. No space wasted. It had a table that could seat five, a tiny television, a couple of beds in the back.

  “You like to sail?” Cal asked her. “I could take you sometime.”

  She scooted into the booth at the table and leaned back against a cushion.

  “Oh, I think I’m drunk,” she said.

  He laughed. “You ever been drunk before?”

  “Not really. I mean once, I guess. I didn’t like it.”

  “What about this time?”

  She opened her eyes and smiled at him. “The company is sure a lot better this time.”

  He grinned and slid into the seat beside her. She waited for his touch, her heart suddenly a live thing inside her. He slid his hand into her hair so smoothly that she knew he had done this many times before, but she didn’t care. He was the cutest boy ever to kiss her. He was rich. What was not to like?

  He brought his lips close to hers and hovered just long enough for her to think he might not kiss her, then he leaned in and his tongue ran smoothly over her lips and into her mouth. She melted into him, knowing all the while that Cal was a player.

  He kissed her until her mouth was raw and then he slid his fingers lightly against her right nipple, just once. He caught her eyes as he did it, a move so bold she was frozen with delight. He leaned in for a final short kiss, then backed his way out of the seat and offered her his hand.

  “I’m sure they’re missing us,” he said and helped her squeeze out of the tight space.

  Her lips tingled in the night air, slightly raw from Cal’s kiss. Back at the clubhouse, her face warmed at the thought that everyone at the table knew what she had been up to, but no one seemed to recognize they had entered the room, so involved and loud was the conversation. Apparently, the booze had flowed freely while they were gone. Perhaps the family was used to their golden boy heading out to the glorious boat for a grope session with a new love interest.

  “Hey, everybody,” Cal said. “We gotta go. We’re driving to Pawleys.”

  He leaned down, and his grandmother presented her cheek, which he dutifully pecked with affection. His mother clamped his face between her diamond-encrusted hands, wrestled him down to her, and kissed him lightly on the lips. He shook hands with his father and grandfather and nodded to his cousin.

  Outside, the valet brought the Jimmy around, and Cal handed him a couple of bills.

  “Thank you, sir,” the valet chirped as he slipped the money into a pocket of his white uniform.

  “Let’s drive around,” Cal said and took a right onto Murray Boulevard. The avenue hugged the Ashley River until it opened up to big water at The Battery, where Charlestonians had watched the clumsy back and forth attacks of Confederate and Union forces at Fort Sumter while they enjoyed tea and bourbon on the porches of their elaborate multihued Georgian homes.

  They rounded the end of the peninsula, past the Coast Guard base on Tradd Street, and headed back uptown on East Bay, meandering through side streets that Sloan had never ventured upon. Down a cobblestone lane they popped out by a worn stucco Huguenot church that each day cast her shadow upon wide, black women with deft fingers sewing sweetgrass baskets with needles made of silver spoon handles, their creations swirling like charms along Charleston’s sidewalks.

  It wasn’t yet time for tourists to crowd the narrow lanes, boiling out of restaurants along King and Market streets. They came for the Old World romantic allure of this city steeped in history and pedigree. Cal pulled slowly around a horse and buggy, tassels and passengers swaying in union. The gray-clad guide motioned to a stately home with a flying staircase cloaked in ivy.

  They cut through an upscale shopping district where tiny boutiques and designer shops hugged the constricted streets fronted by antebellum architecture. Cal picked expertly through one-way streets, crawling gradually toward the College of Charleston.

  He grabbed his cell and said, “Call Ethan.”

  Ethan answered on the first ring. “Zup, man?” the thin voice said.

  “Ethan, dude. Grab some people and meet me outside. I’m in the Jimmy.”

  “Be right there.”

  They were parked on the street outside a dorm for only a few seconds before a swaying cluster of drunks stumbled toward the SUV. As they filled the vehicle, Sloan noticed the whiny girl from the first day at Brookgreen.

  “Hey, y’all,” Cal said. “This is Sloan. Say hey.”

  “Hey,” they said in unison.

  She smiled and nodded her head to the jam-packed car. She noticed the whiny girl wedged into a corner looking anxious and irritated.

  “And that over there,” Cal said, pointing to the agitated girl, “is Heather.”

  The red-eyed girl wiggled her fingers at Sloan.

  “Heeey,” Heather drawled.

  All the riders crammed in the back seat jiggled and twitched with energy. Nobody asked where they were headed. Cal drove down toward the market and cut up Bay. Occasionally, he would beep the horn and raise his hand to a friend on the street. A few guys walked up to Sloan’s side of the car and talked past her to Cal about nothing at all. “We’re headed to McCormack’s,” he’d say, and they would reply, “See ya there.” Sloan was amazed by how randomly happy people were. Nobody was worried about a thing.

  They invaded a small Irish pub at the entrance to Waterfront Park. Inside the warm wooden bar, they ordered pitchers of beer, drank freely, played darts, smoked cigarettes, and talked loudly over Irish folk songs. It gradually occurred to Sloan that since she was with Cal she had immediate rank within the circle. She didn’t know the names of all the people from the car, nor the other guys who arrived later, but everybody treated her as if she were a part of them, and Sloan relaxed and just watched.

  “Come here,” Cal said and led her toward the tiny women’s bathroom. He pulled her inside and locked the door. He took a thin silver spoon and scooped stark white powder from a brown glass vial. He put the spoon to his nose and quickly inhaled.

  “Is that coke?” Sloan whispered.

  “Here, little girl. It’s nose candy, little girl.” His voice wavered in a comical way.

  “Sniff it up?”

  “Just like this.” He put the spoon to his nose again and snorted.

  “What does it do?”

  “You’ll see. Trust me. You’ll like it.”

  He held the spoon out to her and she felt a rush of adrenaline as she leaned over and inhaled the powder. A metallic taste came to her throat and a tingle washed down into her chest.

  “Good?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. What’s it supposed to feel like?”

  “Take another bump. You’ll see.”

  She repeated the process but didn’t feel particularly inspired in any new way. He cleaned the spoon with this finger and then ran his finger over his gums. He returned the spoon and vial to a black velvet pouch with a drawstring and shoved it into his pocket.

  Somebody paid for their beer with a gold credit card, then they all made their way next door to the park where a modern fountain spurted patterns of water. The game was to anticipate the pattern and run through without getting wet. The guys played for a while, but finally gave up and dragged the girls into the water. The girls screamed and laughed. Sloan laughed
, and suddenly she felt compelled to run into the water. Cal grabbed her and pointed to a police cruiser creeping by. They all stumbled down into the park along the wide pedestrian boardwalk, snickering and checking behind them for cops.

  Swinging benches were in constant movement under a row of pergolas. A couple vacated a swing and the group descended upon it, squeezing in until there was no room for Sloan and Cal.

  Cal said, “Come on. Let’s go see if we can spot any dolphins.”

  At the end of the pier they took a right turn to where the walkway widened and ran into the dark. There the water felt close, its movement apparent.

  “There’s usually a couple of dolphins that come around here waiting for tourists to throw some kind of food in the water,” he said.

  “My sister has dolphins that she swears come to see her now that she’s sick. She knows their names and everything. Some researchers from Coastal Carolina named them.”

  “That’s cool. What’s their names?”

  “I don’t remember. Ainslie could tell you.”

  Ships glided silently by, dark and foreboding except for bright running lights on bows, masts, and sterns.

  “So, you have a nice family,” she said. “They’re fun.”

  “Just wait until you get to know them. They’re self-absorbed assholes.”

  They waited there for an elusive dorsal fin to slice the water, but none appeared. The night grew closer and she shivered. He pulled her to him and she trembled again, but this time without a thought to the damp fingers of ocean air.

  CHAPTER 10

  Storm Surge

  Lauren leaned on the porch railing watching the men below manhandle the rusty trailer, groaning with the weight of their old wooden runabout. Emmett had his shirt off. The muscles in his back tensed with effort. He’d mentioned his intention to refurbish the old boat, but Lauren had hoped it was just another one of his vocalized, but never attempted ambitions. But here he was, straining and grunting as he and his buddies shoved the boat backward into the latticed carport below the house.