OCEAN OF STORMS

1957

An old potato sack—crammed with newspaper, stones, and wads of discarded clothing—swung at the end of a rope dangling from the branch of a tall oak tree. A stuffed pillow case served as a head, denim sleeves for limbs. A grinning face had been scrawled on with a hunk of charcoal.

A twelve-year-old boy, Cecil Allred, stood facing his creation with fists poised.

“Listen up, you ugly mother-scratcher! You licker of dog turds! You sniffer of old ladies’ dirty drawers! I’m putting you on notice! Today, by order of the Honorable Sheriff Allred, you will die again!”

Cecil charged forward and wailed away. The potato sack jolted with every blow.

Then Cecil stumbled back, breathing hard. He spat and ground the bubbles into the dust with his boot. He hitched his thumbs through his belt loops. “There now,” he said. “I reckon that’ll learn you.”

He turned and ambled in circles around the tree, surveying the surrounding yard. To his left the dense trees and curling underbrush of the forest lay in shadow. Then came the chicken wire fence that separated his yard from the overgrown lot beyond. Cecil had heard stories about the house that occupied this lot, how the ghosts of a murdered family haunted its ruined rooms, that if you removed the boards from the windows and looked into the glass, you would see a reflection of your own rotting corpse.

Next his own home rotated into view. A ramshackle screened porch stretched from one corner to the other. Most of the screens were ruptured or torn away; only the warped joists remained, starkly exposed. Except for a narrow passage leading to the door, the whole space was packed to the ceiling with junk—old furniture, pots and pans, moldy towels, broken toys, even a rusted-out lawnmower. When he reached the point in his march closest to the house, Cecil heard from within the indecipherable jabbering of his mother. Her huge body wedged into a red vinyl armchair, a pack of extra-long menthols at her side, she would be delivering one of her incessant, crabby monologues to the walls.

At last he faced the well-kept lot on the other side of the yard. Beyond the fence he saw three girls in cotton dresses tossing a beachball through the air. He knew the tallest girl from school—she was in his grade but, unlike Cecil, took classes designed for smart kids. The other two were her sisters.

He interrupted his rounds and crossed to the fence and stood with both arms slung over the rusty wire. He gazed out at the spacious lawn with an expression—he hoped—of stoically magnetic disinterest. Before long the girls had spotted him. The beachball fell to the ground as they stopped to return his stare. They huddled together, whispering. Then the tallest strolled calmly in his direction while the remaining pair resumed their game.

When she was close enough to see his face, the girl spoke. “Hello, Cecil,” she said.

The boy nodded. “Howdy.”

“Having a good summer?”

“You bet.”

She looked over his shoulder at the stuffed man hanging from the tree. “What happened to your friend?”

Cecil frowned. “Long arm of the law,” he said.

Now she stood only a few feet away, her hands clasped delicately in front of her. Cecil noticed, for the first time, a star-shaped scar on her forehead, just between the eyebrows. It looked like a miniature spider web. “How’d you get that scar?” he said, pointing. “Somebody shoot you or something?”

The girl laughed. “Honestly, Cecil! What a question! You ought to have better manners.”

“Shucks,” he said. “Just asking.”

“Well, let me ask you something. Don’t you remember my name? Here we’ve been talking all this time and you haven’t said it once.”

“Sure I do,” he said. He paused and dropped his eyes and scraped his toe through the dirt. He coughed. “Evelyn, ain’t it?”

Evelyn smiled. “Yes.”

“Well, look here, Evelyn. I’m fixing to embark on a action-packed adventure. Care to tag along?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Cecil. My sisters might not approve. Will it be dangerous?”

Cecil stepped back and stood with his feet planted cockily apart. “You can count on it,” he said.

Evelyn turned and waved to her sisters. They waved back. Cecil crouched down and lifted a section of the fence so Evelyn could crawl through.

When at last she stood before him, smiling and dusting off her hands, Cecil said, “First we’ll need a car.”

They set out, shuffling along the side of Cecil’s house. As they passed beneath the living room window, the voice of Cecil’s mother grew painfully distinct. Cecil saw Evelyn lift her head. Then, when the words began to sink in, she lowered it again, pretending not to hear.

“Let’s cut around quick,” Cecil said. “When you get to the road, turn left.”

They walked side-by-side along the curb. At the far end of the block, just visible behind a row of pine trees, stood a two-storey house with a padlocked shed out back. Cecil knew that parked inside this shed was a brand new Corvette convertible. The old man who lived in the house took frequent vacations, and Cecil kept careful watch. Yesterday morning the old man had set out in his everyday car, dressed in a plaid sportcoat and feathered hat, an ancient bulging steamer trunk in tow.

Moments later they stood before the door of the shed. As Cecil gazed up, rubbing his hands together, Evelyn said, “I don’t know about this, Cecil. We could get in heaps of trouble. Let’s go back to my house and play hide-and-seek.”

Cecil rolled his eyes. “What are you so nervous about? Shucks. I should’ve known not to bring a girl.”

“You’re lucky I’m here to talk you out of being foolish.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Come on,” Evelyn said, tugging his arm. “We’ve got lemonade and ginger snaps.”

Cecil felt his face flush with anger. “You go ahead if you want, Miss Priss. I figure you’re just chicken.”

“Why, Cecil, you’re nothing but mean and spiteful. What’s more, you haven’t got the slightest notion how to speak to a lady. Anyone can see this door is locked. If I go home, you’ll just stand here like a loon until you come to your senses.”

Cecil stepped sideways and snapped a twig off a nearby tree. Then he reached up and raked the end of the twig along the top of the door frame. A brass key tumbled down, landed on the ground between Evelyn’s feet. Cecil smiled.

After removing the padlock, Cecil swung the door open. Slender blades of yellow sunlight pierced the darkness inside the shed. Dust motes swirled through the air. The car lay under a heavy tarp, facing forward. A chrome bumper glinted below the front edge of the canvas.

Cecil and Evelyn each took a corner of the tarp and carefully peeled it back. Their eyes widened as the Corvette’s gleaming red hood, its windshield and black leather seats, and finally its polished taillights slid into view. The tarp spilled backwards off the trunk and fell in a heap onto the hard cement floor.

Cecil whistled reverently, ran a hand along one side of his crew cut. He snapped his fingers.

They popped the doors open and sank into the seats. Evelyn rubbed her palm against the sleek dashboard. Cecil gripped the wheel.

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” Evelyn said. “But do you know how to drive this thing?”

“No sweat,” said Cecil. “My brother taught me.”

This was a lie. In fact, Cecil’s brother, Rodney, had been dead for seven years, killed under mysterious circumstances in the mountains of Korea. Cecil had been only five at the time—hardly old enough to remember his brother, much less learn to drive. But he did remember Rodney. Last summer, when Cecil had plundered Rodney’s closet and then strutted around the house in his old army shirt and cap, his mother had throttled him with a mop handle. Not much later, his father retired to the White Horse Motel with a whiskey bottle and a shotgun.

But Cecil paid close attention whenever his mother drove him around town. So—although he had no intention of reproducing her hellbent, chaotic manner—he counted himself an expert.

“We’d better stick to the back roads, though,” he added.

To reach the pedals, Cecil sat on the front edge of the seat, his head craned above the wheel. With his left foot he pressed in the clutch, then cranked the engine. It roared to life beneath the hood. He wiggled the gear shift, stepped on the gas.

The car lunged forward and stalled. Evelyn screamed. She turned to Cecil, who sat with his forehead pressed against the wheel. She smacked him hard on the shoulder. “Cecil Allred, you’ve purely lost your mind! You back this car up right away and take me home. You maniac!”

Cecil straightened and eased Evelyn back into her seat. “Take it easy,” he said. “I was just testing the—shocks. Have a little faith, will ya?”

Evelyn threw up her hands. “Oh brother!”

They set out again. After another rocky start, Cecil managed to maneuver the car through the old man’s back yard, over the gravel driveway, and out onto the street. He turned left—away from their two houses—and promptly ran a stop sign.

But before long he’d left the neighborhood behind and found a long stretch of two-lane highway flanked by solid walls of pines. The road ran straight ahead—shimmering, black, and empty. To their right, screened by the trees, a freight train rocketed alongside the car, its wheels chugging. Then it sped past and faded into the distance. The wind roared all around them.

“I can’t believe we stole a car!” Evelyn cried, smiling.

Cecil, his face strained by concentration, managed a laugh. “Heck, we’re a couple of outlaws now!”

Evelyn giggled. “Does this mean we’re on the lam?”

Up ahead, a black sedan emerged on the horizon. Seized by panic, Evelyn dropped to the floor and curled up into a ball. Cecil glared through the windshield and followed the sedan with his eyes. As it drew closer, he began to make out the driver, a smiling man in a felt hat with one elbow jutting through the open window. The sedan whooshed by. Cecil glanced into the rearview mirror and watched the sedan shrink behind them. At last it disappeared.

Evelyn lifted her head. “Did he see us?”

“I couldn’t tell. Shucks. Maybe we’d better find a hideout.”

“Oh, Cecil, if we get caught my mother will kill me!”

“Yeah,” Cecil said. “You ain’t the only one.”

Evelyn climbed back up into her seat. They drove the next few miles in silence. Then a wooden sign appeared on their left. It read: HAPPY CAMPER CAMPGROUND.

“Ooh!” Evelyn shouted, pointing. “Turn in here! Turn in here!”

“Keep your socks on,” Cecil muttered. “I see it.”

He turned into the gate. The steel bar that normally blocked the entrance lay in a patch of weeds on one side of the road. A rusty chain dangled from a nearby post. Once inside, the first thing they saw was a crumbling cabin marked “OFFICE,” its front door face-down in the dirt. Three windows held jagged shards of glass.

Cecil drove slowly along the meandering gravel path, churning up clouds of white powder. The dry stones crunched beneath the tires. Every thirty yards or so they passed a campsite—a scooped-out clearing in the trees containing a cement slab, campfire pit, and picnic table. Each looked more neglected than the last. When they’d traveled far enough into the woods to feel secure, Cecil pulled into one of the sites and cut the engine.

They sat there, unmoving, for a full minute. The surrounding stillness, interrupted now and again by the throbbing of frogs, crept over them. They popped the doors open and climbed out. Without a word, each stepped back onto the path and began walking.

“I hear Mrs. Beasley has a glass eye,” Evelyn said at last.

“How do you know?”

“Didn’t you ever notice? She’ll be going on and on about Christopher Columbus and she’ll sneak a peek out the window and only one eye will move. It’s creepy.”

“That’s nothing. I got a uncle that lost his pecker in the war. It made him so mad they locked him away forever.”

“Really? What’s a pecker?”

“The thing that girls don’t have.”

“Well, I’d rather have a glass eye than a pecker.”

“You’re crazy.”

The next campsite they came to looked identical to the others—except that an old black dress hung from a line stretched between two trees. The fabric appeared stiff and mildewed. A gentle breeze blew through the forest, causing the dress to twist eerily back and forth. Cecil and Evelyn stopped.

“Look at that,” Evelyn said. “It gives me the willies.”

“Everything gives you the willies.”

“Who do you suppose left it here?”

Cecil shrugged. “Maybe they did it by accident. Maybe it’s a sign. Who knows?”

“I think it’s your friend’s wife.” Evelyn giggled. “Is that why you executed him? Did the stuffed man murder his true love?”

Cecil scowled and stalked off down the path. Evelyn skipped after him, singing a mocking rhyme.

“Come all you young children
And hear the sad tale
Of the scarecrow that lost it
And killed Abigail.

“Of gingham and lace
She was fashioned with care.
Now she swings from the branches
Like the scarecrow—her slayer!”

Cecil spun around, his fists clenched. “Shut up!” he shouted. “Hell’s bells, girl! Ain’t you got good sense? There ain’t no luck in stirring up ghosts.”

Evelyn stood twirling her hair in her fingers. “Oh, Cecil, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Do you really believe in all that hoodoo stuff?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

They approached another site. The picnic table, shattered by a heavy blow, lay in toppled pieces on the ground. Fractured branches were strewn about, and the whole area—even the trees—had been scrawled with dripping spray paint. Red, black, and blue lines, thick and tangled, covered everything.

Cecil nodded sagely, his eyes glinting. “You see?” he said. “Didn’t I tell you about causing trouble?”

“Jeez Louise,” said Evelyn.

“This here’s a fresh job.” He tapped his finger against a nearby stripe of paint. “Still a mite tacky.”

“A mite? It’s the tackiest thing I’ve ever seen!”

“Well, they weren’t aiming to win no beauty prize.”

“I’m scared, Cecil. This time for real. Maybe we ought to get out of here.”

Cecil shook his head. “Too dangerous,” he said. “Anyhow, the old boys who pulled this stunt don’t come out till after dark. We’re safer here for the time being.”

Evelyn sighed. “If you say so. But I still don’t feel like staying.”

Cecil cupped his hand against her shoulder and guided her away from the ruined clearing. As they walked further along the path, staring down at their dusty shoes, Cecil said, “I ever tell you about the time I found a chandelier in Weeping Willow Creek?”

Evelyn shook her head.

“One day I was out fishing, and I found a nice pool where the water’d backed up behind a pile of rocks, so I waded in up to my waist and cast into the eddies. I’d been standing there for almost a hour, shivering and feeling pretty discouraged, when a big old fish struck my line and started pulling like a godamighty whale. I been fishing since I was six years old, so I know my business, and I’d never felt one tug that hard. It was dragging me toward the rocks, and I was shuffling my feet along the bottom trying to keep up, when I stubbed my toe on what felt like a lady’s open jewelry box—only a lot bigger. Well, I couldn’t manage to step around it, it being so huge, and eventually I tripped over it and lost my rod. You can imagine how mad I was—I’d just lost the best catch of my life—so I dunked my hands into the water and grabbed ahold of the thing and yanked it up to get a good look at it. I don’t know what I was expecting, but sure enough it was a eight-point chandelier, just like they have in them fancy mansions you hear about. I dragged it through the water and hauled it up onto the bank. It was muddy, of course, and full of weeds. But I took it home and cleaned it up and it fetched me thirty dollars at the pawn shop downtown.”

Evelyn laughed. “No! Why, Cecil, you’re just pulling my leg!”

“I ain’t neither. You can ask anybody.”

“What did you do with the—”

They stopped again. A dead hog lay belly-up on the picnic table before them, its body sliced open from tail to jawbone. Its guts spilled out over the benches and onto the slab below. The animal had been lashed to the table with barbed wire. A twelve-inch sausage, thick and red, was shoved halfway down its throat.

Evelyn’s head snapped back as though she’d been struck. She staggered across the path and collapsed against a tree trunk. “Let’s—please—leave!” she cried.

Cecil stared with lurid fascination at the flies swarming around the carcass. “Good thinking, partner,” he said. “About face!”

And so they wheeled, stumbled, and sprinted back up the path. Along the way, the trees and rocks and sky—everything around them—melted before their eyes. The gravel path rose and buckled, twisted back and forth. The sky flashed red, then white, then orange. Cecil turned to grab Evelyn’s hand, but when he looked he saw her fragile skeleton glowing beneath her skin. He shouted—but his voice produced only a buzzing roar. Then the two campsites they’d seen earlier rippled by, this time occupied by those who’d left their mark there. In the first, a group of sneering teenagers, spattered with paint, taunted them as they passed, spitting and squeezing their crotches. In the other, an old woman stood naked, her pale body puckered by ancient wounds. When the car came into view, they heard demonic laughter behind them, turned, and saw a man framed by a wall of fire, swinging a bloody axe. His head was looped with barbed wire. He barreled toward them, eyes burning. Cecil and Evelyn leapt into the car.

When the doors slammed shut, the visions stopped. Cecil cranked the engine and threw it into reverse. The car lurched backwards.

Soon they’d made it to the gate. This time they saw a placard they’d missed on the way in—nailed to a tilting post, facing them now, its words printed boldly in red block letters: KEEP OUT.

“That’s good advice,” Cecil muttered.

The car idled as they faced the highway. Cecil and Evelyn sat trembling in their seats, gasping for air. Their faces hung slack and sallow.

“Turn right,” Evelyn said. “I’m ready to go home.”

“Hold up now. Don’t you think we need some time to settle? We go home all jittery like this, we’ll give ourselves plumb away.”

“I can’t bear being out in the open.”

“Just relax. We’ll feel right as rain in no time.”

Cecil turned left and accelerated down the highway.

The late afternoon sun burned before them, its golden light bathing the asphalt. After another few miles, the Savannah River rolled into view. Its dark water sparkled. Cecil veered off onto a dirt road just before he reached the bridge that crossed over into Georgia. The car dipped down a hill and rolled into a clearing. Cecil parked behind a cluster of trees.

The bridge loomed above them like a gigantic iron chrysalis. On the far side of the river, about half a mile down to their left, a paper mill smoked and rumbled. Directly behind them, a pale green water tower rose against the sky.

“Shoo,” Cecil said. “That old mill sure does stink.”

“Tell me about it,” Evelyn said, then shivered.

They climbed out of the car and walked together to the water’s edge. Long ribbons of yellow foam floated near the bank. They gazed across to the distant shore.

“This here’s the end of South Carolina,” Cecil said. “Over there—that’s where the crackers really get crazy.”

Evelyn smiled, hooked her arm around Cecil’s, and turned him to one side. “Let’s go for a stroll,” she said.

“Shucks,” Cecil said. “I wish we had us a boardwalk or something.”

Evelyn laughed, then sighed and ran her fingers along the curve of her throat.

“Dahling, I do believe I left my parasol back on the veranda.”

At first, Cecil thought Evelyn was teasing him. But after glancing over and noting the sparkle in her eyes, he soon caught on and eagerly took up the game.

CECIL. My dear, you are a charming woman indeed.

EVELYN. So I’ve been told before. But I simply can’t see my way clear to agreeing with that assessment.

CECIL. I would expect no less. Your modesty is your most winning quality.

EVELYN. And your talent for baseless flattery is yours.

CECIL lifts her hand and gestures toward a nearby log.

CECIL. Come. Let’s repair to this seat of leisure and enjoy the advance of twilight.

EVELYN. A capital proposal, my good man.

They sit. CECIL inhales deeply through his nose.

CECIL. Don’t you find the scent of apples that pervades this grove most stimulating?

EVELYN. Truly. It fills our garden’s pungent air with nature’s sweet perfume.

CECIL. You possess the soul of a poet. Observe how the declining sun paints the leaves with burning fire.

EVELYN. The sight makes one nostalgic for a time one never knew.

CECIL (smiling indulgently). The day will come, milady, when we shall feast on rich ambrosia. Until then, our duty consists of savoring the present hour—not the fleeting chimeras of a bygone age.

EVELYN. You speak as one who rules his own mind. But a stone flung from a great height, being insensible, knows not from whence it came.

CECIL. I confess I fail to grasp your meaning.

EVELYN. Consider the fate of a creature propelled through history’s great tumult ignorant of the hand which set his course in motion. Such a one would surely lose his bearings—for navigation requires coordinates, balance, and a steady destination. To blind oneself to preceding time ensures a precipitous, wayward journey. Memory is our surest safeguard against chaos.

CECIL. It seems I woo a philosopher who discourses with insight rare.

EVELYN. Nonsense. I merely assert the tenets of the common people’s teaching.

CECIL stands.

CECIL. Even so, you have kindled within my breast a passion heretofore unknown. Therefore rise, I pray you, and indulge me in a waltz.

EVELYN stands. Orchestral music wafts into their ears. They dance.

EVELYN (breathlessly). Sir, your technique is quite impeccable.

CECIL. I find that an inspired beau will rise to the occasion.

They continue until the music stops, then separate and bow.

CECIL. Please accept my humblest gratitude. You are a marvel.

EVELYN (with a coy smile). Well—if you insist!

The two children burst into laughter and collapsed onto the ground.

Evelyn said, “What do we do now?”

Cecil thought for a moment—then his eyes lit up. “Let’s climb the water tower!”

“All right. I’ll race you to the ladder.”

“You sure you can stand to get beat?”

“I’m not worried.”

Cecil shrugged. “Your funeral,” he said. “Last one there is a Commie spy.”

They scrambled to their feet and took off across the clearing.

For the first thirty yards or so, Cecil opened up an impressive lead. Then he spun himself around and ran backwards, grinning wolfishly at Evelyn. “Come on now,” he called. “You ain’t even trying.” Evelyn pressed her lips together and surged forward. Just before they reached the tower she overtook him, so Cecil turned back and pulled even once again. They touched the ladder at the same time.

“I’d call it a draw,” Cecil said, panting.

“Yeah. You’re lucky I let you catch up.”

Cecil gestured toward the lower rungs. “Ladies first,” he said.

Evelyn shook her head. “No way. I’m wearing a skirt, you sly dog.”

Cecil blushed, then began climbing. Evelyn followed.

The ground dropped steadily away beneath them. As they ascended, chips of paint and powdered rust came off in their hands. Their shoes produced metallic clangs that shot through the whole structure. Wind rippled their thin clothing.

At last they reached the narrow catwalk that circled the giant tank. They slithered through the railing, stoop up, and turned around. The sunset—a dazzling explosion of reds and pinks and yellows—burned on the horizon.

“Oh, Cecil!” Evelyn cried. “It’s so beautiful!”

“I’ll say. Ain’t I full of good ideas?”

“You certainly are.”

“Shucks.”

They stood only a few inches apart, their faces glowing in the fading light. Slowly, and after several false starts, each leaned toward the other. Cecil’s hand slipped around Evelyn’s waist. They kissed.

Then they separated and turned to face the railing. Evelyn’s hair fluttered against her shoulders. A few dim stars pierced the darkening sky.

From the highway below came the wail of sirens and the squeal of rubber tires. Three patrol cars barreled into the clearing, red lights twirling. Radios squawked and crackled. Policemen spilled out and pointed up at the tower. The stoutest one raised a bullhorn to his mouth.