Here is a preview from May, a novel of suspense by Marietta
Miles…
Before the Storm
(1987)
Folly Island, North Carolina
May has one fist in her pocket, messing
with the change and lint at the bottom, pulling little tufts apart with her
rough thumb and forefinger. She holds a six-pack of Pabst in the other hand.
The young man in front of her, as old
as her blue jeans, takes his sweet time. Distracted. Scattered. He looks at the
register, counts his money, and stands still. Reads the register again, counts
his money again. May squeezes her eyes shut. Hurry up. Got nothing to do but I want to get on with it.
“How much did you say?” The tall kid
lurches to the left, leans against the counter, wobbly. He smells like a dirty
laundry bin and May thinks he seems more than just drunk.
“Two dollars twenty-five cents,” snaps
Pete, owner of Prickly Pete’s Hot Nuts and General Store. He whistles through
the wide space in his teeth and holds the Marlboros tight in his crinkly hand.
Holding on until he gets his money. There’s a transistor radio on the floor
behind him.
“Record breaking Nor’easter—” The
announcer fades in and out, static buzzes then hums.
“Jesus.” Impertinent, the outsider
rolls his eyes. “Rip off. Cheaper in Harbinger.” Harbinger, tucked on the mainland,
is a small do-nothing town on the other side of Pocahontas Bridge, last stop
before Folly.
Done making a stupid face, he throws
money on the counter toward Pete. The five-dollar bill floats across the
cracked wooden counter, falling then landing on the floor. He reaches quickly,
jerks the cigarettes from the old man’s hands.
“Then, maybe you should go back to
Harbinger.” Pete steps on the cash so it won’t float away and his ensuing
grumble becomes a damp cough. He slowly counts the change and gives out the
complimentary matches.
May shifts from one foot to the other.
The plastic tabs cut into her fingers and she stares at the floor. She moves
her attention to the empty suntan lotion display. Back to the floor.
“Can I get a couple more?” The boy
flips his long black hair from his eyes, pockets the cigarettes, and nods his
head toward the cup full of matches.
“Nope.” Pete, still recovering from his
hacking fit, bends down to pick up his money, leaving no room for niggling.
“Almost out myself.”
Quickly, like a snake, the smelly thug
shoots his arm around the empty bubble-gum rack, snatching a handful of
matches. Loot tucked in his pocket before Pete stands back up.
May can’t help but watch. Out of the
corner of his eye, the boy sees her observing, pretends to ignore her but she
knows she’s been caught and sinks a little further into herself.
“I can only give out one per customer.
That’s it. That’s the deal.” Pete shakes his head. “Not made of matches.” Spit
lands on the register. The old man always sounds angry.
“Whatever.” Done dealing with the old
man, the boy bounces on his feet and turns around, running smack into May.
Shoulder to shoulder. Chest to chest, his head lowered, and looking shifty.
“Watch it,” he says, shoving her. He
rubs his arm hard against the soft of her breasts. She steps back and covers
her chest with her free hand. He laughs, the noise carrying across the store.
May turns, watches him leave, he’s out
the door in a heartbeat, down the steps and yelling at whoever waits in his
car. She tries to disappear, rolling her shoulders even lower, humiliated.
“Anything else?” Pete stifles a yawn
when she steps up. Unfazed and unruffled, Pete has dealt with his share of
drunken teenagers.
“No.” She puts her beer on the counter
and rummages through the pockets of her wool jacket for cash. He rings her up
and she gives him exact change. “Thanks.”
Outside, the kid stands next to the bed
of her truck, his back to her. The screen door falls shut and he looks behind,
shaking his hips and zipping up his pants. May stays put, hoping he doesn’t see
her.
He pulls on the crotch of his jeans,
runs across the lot, and jumps in his car, the motor already running. The Trans
Am pulls out of the parking lot and tears onto the street, leaving a black
smudge on the roadway. The passenger’s arm hangs out the window, flicking a
cigarette. She walks to her little pickup, parked in front of a long-forgotten
johnboat and trailer.
A gust of wind cuts at May’s face.
Through sand and grit, she turns, watches the car’s taillights, glowing and
devilish, shrink, and speed away. The faint smell of gasoline and urine blows
against her. There’s a shiny, wet spot slicing through the dust on her back
tire. Of course. Scowling at the
insult, scowling at herself, she slides into the driver’s seat.
May turns the key and the truck can
only cough. She tries again. There’s a spasm, a tired grinding noise followed
by absolute nothing. She leans over, resting her forehead on the steering
wheel, and tries once more. Come on.
The engine sputters, kicks, and jerks to life. Thank Jesus.
She heads off in the same direction as
the Trans Am, turns on the radio. Folly only pulls in two stations, one is
country and one is oldies. Neither is very good, too much talk, but it doesn’t
matter. Anything’ll do, she just wants to hear something other than her own
thoughts.
Instead of music, the canned sound of
typewriters working all at once fills the cab. A very serious sounding
announcer breaks in excitedly and she shuts it off.
She makes the turn onto Bay Avenue,
heading south. Bay is the main road in and out of town and it follows the
length of Folly. There is a narrow strip of land and sand on one side of the
street butting against the sound. Here is the trailer park, storage depot, and
an empty lot where people sell used boats and cars. Motels and hostels,
restaurants and arcades line the other side of Bay with neighborhoods behind,
framed by beaches and then the Atlantic.
The ferry terminal, sound-side, marks
the halfway point between north and south. The northern end ascends, following
a sharp slope that leads to clear vistas of the ocean and mainland, pockets of
pine trees and myrtles. North is where most folks would rather be but South Bay
is where most end up.
North Bay is high ground, up and away from
floods and surges. When it rains so much and the island swamps, Bay Avenue
becomes a rushing, white-capped river, the collecting rainwater barreling
south. South, where the vacation houses rent by the week and occupants bring
their own linens, where every house smells like fried fish and the carpets are
stained with whiskey and beer. South Bay is where May lives.
With summer over and only a handful of
locals remaining, the avenue is empty. The trees, the houses, even the street
signs tainted blue in the pale light of fall’s early evening. Folly is, for the
most part, a ghost town.
This time tomorrow though, anyone
remaining will be shuttered up and watching the sky. The sheriff and his
deputy, after making rounds through neighborhoods, running announcements over
the loudspeaker, and checking on old people, will hunker down. It will be quiet
on the island, calm before the storm. May thinks about how much she has to do
before she can reach the quiet.
She sees the inlet open to the right of
her, the dark gray heavens hovering over the milky waters of the sound. The
black towering clouds are still far off and not top of her mind; May barely
considers it, she’s been through storms before. Her fingertips tingle and
tickle, she taps them to make the prickly feeling go away. It’s not the weather
or its damage that has May on edge. She worries the boy in the loud car might
be looking for her.
The First Break
(1970)
Shreveport, Louisiana
May looks over from the passenger’s seat.
Ben Parish is something, all arms and shoulders, tall and gangly. Fine brown
hair skims his collar and he smells like shampoo. Brown eyes, shiny like glass,
close tight when he laughs. He has a small gold chain around his tan neck. She
sees the pulse pumping in his throat. Lumbering and eager, his heart beats
fast, hard. He wants May Cosby with a force that only comes at seventeen. She
wants him, too.
She leans over and spreads her fingers
over his knee. He taps the loose gas pedal with the toe of his sneaker making
May slide forward then back against the leather seats. Wrecked springs squeak.
His blue Mustang Fastback cruises down Broad Street. Kids are jawing and joking
through open car windows. WRVV counts down the most requested songs of the
night.
May’s favorite song comes on the radio:
“Lookin’ Out My Back Door.” Ben reaches forward, turns it up louder, just
enough. She squeezes his knee. A black pickup passes them on the left and
beeps. A familiar-looking boy waves from the passenger’s seat. The October
night is full of stars and electricity. Sons and daughters are on the prowl,
restless and fearless.
At eleven, the movie house on the
corner of Broad and Cary shuts down for the night. Tired patrons, bleary-eyed
from the dark, inch their way out of the parking lot, joining traffic on Broad.
Cherry muscle cars with spoilers and fins, jacked and lifted pickups or
borrowed family wagons parade to the very end of Broad. Eventually, the swarm
of young ones sets down at Lowell’s. Kids eat fries and nurse
chocolate-strawberry milk shakes. Talk football. Listen to the radio.
They fight. Boys roll around on the
blacktop, agitated and hot for no good reason. John Lowell stomps out to break
up the mess. Girls cry in the bathroom, confused and excited by the
overwhelming show of animal instinct.
Football players, cheerleaders and
their manicured friends head home early. They are committed and unwavering in
their loyalty to team. Practice is every day except Monday plus two games on
Saturdays. Tonight, they make tracks home to Mom and Dad. Some will stay out,
the less than perfect ones. May and Ben sit in the front seat of his car,
facing each other, leaning close.
“You wanna go with the others? Down to
the creek?” Ben asks May. “It’s all dried up and they have a bonfire most
Fridays.”
Her mother’s endless nagging continues
to interrupt her sweet thoughts. Don’t
ride in cars with boys. Good girls don’t do that. Boys don’t really like those
girls. People will see. People will talk. May isn’t sure why mother cares
so much about what other people think. Her mother hates most everyone.
“And it’s cool enough, there won’t be
any mosquitos.”
“Sure,” she says.
The tidy, perfect Mrs. Cosby doesn’t
matter right now but Ben sure matters. May blinks her mother’s voice away. Just hush up, Momma.
“Good. That’s good.” He looks out the
front window and back to her. “You drink?”
“I mean, I have.”
“They’ll have a keg.” He looks
concerned.
“It’s okay. I still want to go. I’ll be
okay.”
“Good.” He turns and starts the car,
revving the engine, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.
A brown pickup is parked cattycorner in a
ditch, near an old fence covered in kudzu. Music is playing on the radio and
the doors to the truck are open wide. Clutches of high schoolers spread around
the makeshift fire pit. Some are seniors from East Shreveport. Some are from
Bossier City. They are all outsiders, the ones who think right now is probably
as good as it gets.
Ben leads May through the crowd. They
find the keg chilling in a trashcan filled with ice, protected by sturdy
members of the senior class. There’s a tall skinny kid, wearing glasses and a
black T-shirt. He’s tapping the keg, taking the money. Ben pays him a few
bucks, takes the cups, and nods his head coolly.
Having only stolen a few sips from
errant cocktail glasses at Christmas parties, May isn’t sure what to expect and
she brings the beer to her nose for a sniff. She thinks it smells like the
laundromat on base, wet and mildewy. Gritting her teeth, she takes a drink. At least it’s cold.
Arm in arm they walk across the
clearing to the outside of the gathering, the air around tinged with smoke.
They take a seat on a broken oak. He puts his arm around her shoulder, drinking
his beer with ease.
Across the way, May spies a boy and
girl kissing. Heads tilt back and forth, lips open, shiny in the firelight. He
moves his hand from under her sweater, searching then slipping slyly between
her legs. Her mouth opens and she leans back. May flushes bright, her neck hot
and blotchy. When she turns away, she sees Ben watching her.
His smile is quick and wide. “Come
here.” He takes her by the hand, looking around, making sure no one sees. They
head away from the fire, away from all the people, to a stand of three
magnolias. Grown together the old trees look like a cave or small house. Ben
walks in first and guides her over the roots and seeds. They sit close to the
trunk, in the cool, soft dirt.
It’s different among the branches, the
moon peeking through the waxy, green leaves. May sits in the quiet, holding her
knees in front of her, suddenly chilly. Ben spreads his jacket on the ground
and slips off his shirt, rolling it up like a pillow. He leans May back to the
ground.
He’s so close, she feels his breath
against her cheek. They kiss like the boy and girl by the fire. When May pulls her
sweatshirt over her head, Ben wraps his arms around her, feeling her warm, bare
skin. With the last of their clothes beside them, he settles between her arms
and legs.
“I think it’s supposed to hurt,” he
whispers, their mouths touching while he talks. “Now. The first time, I mean.”
He shakes his head. “Not always.”
“I’ve read that.” She whispers and
shivers all at once, not afraid but not entirely brave.
“You sure about this?” he asks. A wind
shakes the trees around them; they lie together, still, feeling every part of
each other, pushing as close as they can. Hiding her face in his neck, she nods
and squeezes her eyes shut.
“Maybe they’ll let you stay with someone.
Isn’t your mom friends with that lady from the church? Just until winter
break.” May and Ben are tangled up on his messy bed, arms and legs wrapped
tight. She rubs her face against his scratchy sweater. “Your mom’ll listen.
Won’t she?” May’s voice is speeds up, racing.
“Never has before.” There are boxes on
the floor. His records and pictures stacked for packing. The walls are bare and
the posters thrown in the trash. “It’s like I don’t even exist,” he says.
The Parrish family is leaving for
Tinker A.F.B. in Oklahoma. Ben’s father, a captain, received transfer papers
days before. May had counted six hours away and four hundred miles between
them. Staring at the bright, freshly painted ceiling, she considers what her
days will be like, alone, with only her family.
“All they do is tell us what to do.” He
lays his arm over his eyes. “Never ask us what we want.” Their parents are the
same, unaware of the life in their children. Pack up your things, everything
that ever meant anything. Start all over. Again.
They stay together until his mother
pulls into the drive, car full of cleaning supplies and fast food. When they
hear the station wagon door close, May runs out the back door. She makes it
home but walks around the block until her face is no longer red from crying.
“Stop pouting.” Her mother walks into the
living room, a cup of coffee in her hand. “Boys don’t like girls who cry.” May
tugs on the brown and red blanket thrown over the back of the couch. Boys don’t like this. Boys don’t like that.
How does she know?
“What was he to you anyway?” Her mother
sips her coffee, looking out the window. “You act like you were in love.” She
waves her hand dismissively and heads back to the kitchen to call a friend or
to read one of her books.
May wipes her face and walks to her
room, closing the door. She turns on the radio and flops down on her bed. Pillow
over her face, safe from her mother, May lets herself cry until she falls
asleep.
There’s a letter in the mail, messy
handwriting and wrinkled paper. She reads it repeatedly, feeling the paper for
any hint of him, taking in the way it smells. Not wanting her mother to see,
she hides it between her mattress and box spring.
May spends her allowance on pink paper
with little flowers. She starts and stops writing so many times, nervous that
she appears too eager or too sad. Still wondering if she wrote it just right,
May drops it in the mailbox two blocks from home, on her way to school.
Another letter from Ben arrives. Four
pages of everything that is wrong with Tinker, everything that is wrong with
his family and school. Feeling only a little guilty, May is relieved, grateful
that he hasn’t moved on. She carries the note back and forth to school, reading
it when she’s lonely. Finally, she tucks it with the other. He sends another,
it is short, he asks how she is and how school is going. He doesn’t send any
more.
She reads his notes again. Not
understanding, thinking she is not trying hard enough, she writes more letters
on the pink paper and hopes he writes back, soon.
“Hello.” A woman answers, groggy, as if
she just woke up. The line is faint, a fragile connection.
“Mrs. Parrish?” Ben had given her this
number in one of his letters. “Hi. It’s May.” Silence. “I was wondering if Ben
is around.”
“May?” Mrs. Parish asks, taking far too
long to think. “From Shreveport?”
“Yes, ma’am.” There’s a long silence.
May starts to feel embarrassed. Girls
shouldn’t call boys.
“I’m sorry, May. He’s out right now.”
The woman pauses, confused. “I don’t expect him back for a while, Friday night
and all.”
“I see.”
“What’s your number? I’ll get him to
call you.”
“Sure.” May gives her information, even
though Ben had it written down. She twists the telephone cord. “Bye,” she says
but Mrs. Parrish is already off the line.
Excerpted from MAY © Copyright 2018 by Marietta
Miles. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.