7
Daffy showed up around 8 with a box of presents under one arm and a bulging canvas tote slung over her other shoulder.
It was New Year’s Eve, and Jodie and Brooke had got back late that afternoon after a trip that had begun in the pre-dawn winter dark at her parents’ house. Onion had met them at the ferry and dutifully helped load their bags into his father’s rusting pickup. He’d given the baby a long and passionate hug but hadn’t touched Brooke or said a word during the short drive or while unloading the truck. After getting everything in the apartment, Onion had asked, “Coming to The Buffet?” He was referring to the restaurant’s All-You-Can-Eat New Year’s Eve Buffet. Just about everyone still on the island attended this annual affair, calling it Times Square on Shawnituck though it ended well before midnight. Jodie was frazzled and fussy and still recovering from her cold, and Brooke herself was more than worn out and now furious with her petulant husband. “Too tired,” she said tersely before turning to get Jodie out of her tiny jacket and the pink stocking cap Momma had knit for her. When she stood up and looked, Onion was gone, off to work (she assumed) without another word. Brooke had changed Jodie’s diaper, put her in her flannel footed pajamas, then nursed her and put her to bed. The apartment suddenly seemed very quiet and cold—till Daffy arrived.
Brooke grabbed the box and set it on the card table that doubled as their dining table. Daffy lowered the tote onto the kitchen counter.
“Not at The Buffet?” Brooke asked.
“Been to one, been to them all,” Daffy replied.
“So I never have to go again?” she said with a raised eyebrow. She’d been to last year’s and watched everyone else get a little tipsy—some more than a little—from the rum punch while she, then five months pregnant, sipped on club soda all night.
“That would be your decision—next year,” Daffy said as she unpacked the tote bag. “This year, I brought The Buffet to us.” She displayed plastic-wrapped bowls of fried chicken, fried flounder, French fries, hushpuppies, and slaw. She set a covered cake plate off to the side.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“If you think it’s my fig cake!”
Brooke cheered and gave Daffy a high-five.
“But you still haven’t seen the best part,” Daffy said. From the bottom of the bag she pulled out a fifth of Jamaican rum and two quart jars filled with a pale-green mixer. “The heck with that weak punch—we can mix our own right here!” Though still too young to drink legally on the mainland, Daffy (like her brother and most other teens on the island) had been experimenting with alcohol and other recreational drugs for years.
While Brooke slowly rallied from her daze, Daffy grabbed two tall plastic cups off the open shelf, dropped in some ice cubes from the freezer, and combined a generous portion of rum with some of the mixer in each cup. She handed a cup to Brooke then tapped it with hers. “Happy New Year,” she said.
“Happy New Year,” Brooke replied and took a swallow of the drink. She grimaced. “Whew—one or two more like this and it really will be a ‘happy’ new year.”
Daffy smiled. “That’s the idea. “ She took a sip of hers then asked, “How’s Jodie?”
“Conked out.” They both looked toward the crib at the far end of the room, where all that was visible was a shallow mound under several blankets.
“How’d she handle the trip?”
“Like a champ, though she picked up a cold halfway through. Still got some sniffles but the fever is gone.”
“Best baby in the world!”
“Don’t I know it.”
Brooke took another long swallow of her drink then used its energizing pulse to bring her back to life. She stuck a Bee Gees tape in the portable cassette player and turned it up loud, then got out plates and silverware for their dinner as Daffy uncovered the bowls of food. They loaded those plates, sat at the card table, and gorged on the delicious fare while they sipped on their drinks and filled each other in on their Christmas activities. The Howards had set aside Brooke and Jodie’s presents—and there were a lot of them, especially for Jodie—to be opened at a combination late-Christmas and New Year’s Day party tomorrow afternoon at Miss Polly’s.
“But I wanted you to open yours from me in private,” Daffy said with a mischievous grin that made her pale face both disarming and strangely beautiful.
“Before or after fig cake?”
“After,” Daffy said then took their near-empty cups to mix two more drinks while Brooke cleared their plates and got down bowls for the gooey cake.
A half hour later the girls sat on either end of the slightly tattered over-stuffed couch basking in the warm and soothing afterglow of the rich and heavy meal—perfectly crowned with Daffy’s fig cake complemented with a generous scoop of Jan’s (homemade on the island) vanilla ice cream on top—and now well into their third round of rum with a splash of mixer. Somewhere along the way Brooke had switched from the Bee Gees dance beat to the gentler rock of Fleetwood Mac with Stevie Nicks’ haunting voice.
Brooke looked at Daffy and could not help but think of Leah. Her sister had driven them to the mainland’s ferry dock and dropped them off only seven hours ago. They’d parted with hugs and tears and sign language vows—mostly through the eyes—to spend more time together in the coming year. Yet they both knew those pledges were empty. Leah was fully engaged in college and her blossoming life, and was not going to come out here to be a third wheel in her marriage; and Brooke couldn’t show up a Leah’s dorm with Jodie in tow, even if Onion would let her go (which, based on his behavior tonight, he never would).
So it was with a void in her heart, a void that had been there for several years but that she’d somehow dodged acknowledging let alone confronting, that she gazed on her sister-in-law. While both girls had long blond hair, and quiet and watchful natures (so different from herself), Leah was much more beautiful and graceful and (now) self-possessed. But that meant Brooke might help Daffy in a way no longer needed by Leah.
“So what do you hope your new year brings?” Brooke asked. She figured Daffy might think a minute before launching into a list of teenage fantasies—a boyfriend, a new surfboard (Daffy was the best surfer on the island), a functioning car, an “A” in history: the sorts of things Brooke had wished for when she was seventeen (oh so long ago!).
But Daffy grinned before looking at the floor. “Adulthood.”
Brooke was startled. “And what is that?” Daffy would turn eighteen in the coming year, but somehow she doubted that’s what she meant.
Daffy, still staring at the floor, said, “Freedom.”
“From—?”
“Childhood.”
Brooke held silent and waited.
Daffy looked up after a moment and held on Brooke’s stare. “That’s my life out here—the baby of the Howard clan. I’d hoped maybe Jodie’s birth would help. She’d be the youngest. But it hasn’t made any difference. I’m still Daffy, like the duck—the Howards’ Little Ugly Duckling.”
“Who do you want to be?”
“Anything but Daffy.”
“Tell me.”
She hesitated then blurted out, “I want to be Daphne. I want to be someone known and appreciated for who I am, not what family I come from, or the island.”
Brooke, coming to the island from outside, had always seen it as an exotic place of adventure and freedom from her social world’s rules and restrictions. She’d never contemplated what it would be like to be born and raised here. “I thought you liked being called Daffy.”
“Did you ever ask?”
Brooke grimaced. “I’m sorry.”
Daffy laughed. “Don’t be sorry, Brooke. You were just following everyone else’s lead. But don’t ever assume a kid likes their designated role.”
“Should I call you Daphne?”
Daffy smiled. “That would be nice. That’s what Ralph calls me.”
“Mr. Hopson?”
Daffy blushed. “Yes. Mr. Hopson.”
“Then Daphne it
is, Daphne.”
She smiled. “But only between us for now. Don’t want to shock the oldsters too bad.” She jumped up. “Speaking of shocking—.” She retrieved the box off the table, pulled out three neatly wrapped presents, and set them on the couch next to Brooke. “Time for you to open them!”
Brooke grinned. “I’m not sure what I think about the ‘shocking’ part. Nothing will explode in my face, will it?”
“Well—.”
“Daffy!”
Daphne arched her eyebrows.
“I mean, Daphne!” Brooke corrected.
“No hazardous chemicals or explosives enclosed,” she said then raised her hand. “Scout’s honor.”
“When were you ever in the scouts?”
“I saw it on T.V.”
“Which should I open first?” The gifts were of three sizes—the smallest about the size of a pack of cigarettes, the second of a hardcover book, and the third of a shoebox.
“Smallest to biggest,” Daphne said.
“Good things come in small packages?”
“Good things come in all packages,” she said, then added, “I hope.”
Brooke quickly opened the smallest gift. Inside the box that was inside the wrapping was a bracelet of tiny shells strung on nylon line. “It’s beautiful, Daphne!” Brooke said as she slid it on her right wrist.
“I made it when I was fourteen, before I realized I wasn’t a shell artist. But I’ve not known who to give it to, till now.”
“I love it. Thank you for saving it for me.”
Daphne grinned. “Next.”
Brooke opened the middle-sized gift. It contained what looked to be an antique hinged frame with silver edging and a silver clasp holding the hinges closed. “This is gorgeous! Can I open it?”
Daphne nodded. “It’s old, but it shouldn’t fall apart.”
Brooke gently undid the clasp and opened the two-sided frame. Inside were two photographs mounted beneath oval-shaped glass. The one on the left side was a profile of a horse’s head against a brilliant blue sky—Daphne’s wild horse captured in a moment of stillness on a beautiful island day. The right side held a photograph of a seated woman looking down on a sleeping baby in her lap—a Madonna with child. It took Brooke a second to realize that the Madonna was she, the child Jodie. Closer examination indicated that the photo was taken while she was sitting on a bench in the restaurant’s alcove, sometime last summer when Jodie was just a few months old. Brooke marveled at how serene she looked, like someone else. For that matter, both photos exuded a tranquility that was extraordinary. Brooke looked up from the photos to the photographer. She started to speak but found her voice missing as tears rose to her eyes.
Daphne laughed. “That bad, huh?”
Brooke shook her head vehemently and managed to croak, “No, that beautiful.”
“I got the frame from Dad’s shop and polished it up. I don’t know how old it is or where it came from.”
“And the photos?” Brooke’s voice returned as she blinked away the sudden tears.
“Both from last summer—two wild fillies caught in a moment of stillness!” She laughed. “Bet you didn’t even know I shot you that day.”
Brooke shook her head. “No idea.”
“The best pictures are when people don’t know they’re being photographed.”
“I bet you’re good at that.”
“Hiding in plain sight? Been doing it all my life. Just had to add the camera.”
“Don’t ever stop.”
“Hiding in plain sight?”
“Documenting the world so beautifully.”
“Open the last present,” Daphne said, turning the topic away from herself.
Brooke carefully closed the frame and set it on the upright packing crate that doubled as an end table to the couch. She then tore into the wrapping of the third gift, somehow sensing that it didn’t contain fragile contents (and hoping she was right). Inside was a plain cardboard shipping box with the white label addressed to Daphne Howard. The box was unopened and wrapped so well that Brooke had to get the scissors out of the kitchen drawer.
“The suspense builds,” Daphne joked and began a low drumroll on her thighs.
Brooke sat down on the couch and cut through the packing tape. Inside was another box. This one had Trojan printed on it, and Contains One Gross (twelve boxes of twelve condoms) of Lubricated Latex Condoms with Reservoir Tip. Taped to the box was a sheet of paper with the message: Thank you for purchasing our product. Please enjoy! It took Brooke a few seconds to realize that this was not a practical joke, that the box really contained what it claimed to contain, that her baby sister-in-law had given her a Christmas gift of one hundred and forty-four condoms. When that fact had settled in, she shrieked, “Do you think we have sex five times a day?”
“Why not? I would!” Daphne said, then quickly added, “If I had a partner and a place to do it.”
“Sundays too?”
Daphne purred. “Sundays six times!”
“What about church?”
“After church, and before.”
Brooke shook her head. “How did you know where to order them?”
“I’ll never tell.”
“Good. I guess I don’t want to know too much about my little sis-in-law.” Then she looked at the box of condoms and did a quick estimate of cost. “But this is way too much, Daphne. Let me pay for them.”
“No way—my gift. That’s what allowance is for! I’ll think about you enjoying them,” she said, then added, “But not in too much detail.”
To that both girls shrieked, “Ewww!”
Brooke took the box and went into their bedroom and hid it far under their bed. Then she dug through one of her bags from the trip until she found a large metal-clasped manila envelope containing numerous documents and a thick catalogue. She returned to the living room and handed the envelope to Daphne. “It’s not wrapped pretty, but this is your Christmas present from me.”
Daphne undid the clasp and pulled out the contents. It was a complete admissions package from Center University, including a course catalogue. Brooke had visited Center’s campus during her trip home and picked up the materials. Also in the packet were several typed letters of introduction to admission officers and deans, all extolling the many qualifications and desirable character traits of one Daphne Howard. The letters were signed by Brooke with the identifying phrase beneath the signature: Brooke Fulcher, daughter of Franklin Fulcher.
Daphne said, “I thought you said you wouldn’t be a good reference.”
“I exaggerated my bad behavior just a tad. Father and Momma graduated from Center, and so did my brother. And Father has several classmates who are now administrators there. These letters will get you in to meet them.”
“How can I thank you?”
“No thanks required. These letters get you in the door. The rest is up to you.”
Daphne paled, seemed to shrink into her old self.
So Brooke quickly added, “Just take them your transcript and a portfolio of your photos, Daphne. They’ll throw open the doors and give you a scholarship to boot.”
Daphne’s countenance lightened a shade, but she still looked doubtful. “I’m just a shy girl from an island forgotten by time.”
“You’re a brilliant young woman and photographer with a unique background. I know these guys, Daphne. They are desperate for diversity. They’ll take you in a minute.”
“I’ll hope you’re right.”
“I am. You’ll love Center.”
“Then why did you leave it?”
The question caught Brooke off-guard. She hesitated before saying, “Love.”
“Oh, yeah—five times a day.”
Brooke laughed. “Maybe—a few times.”
“And no condoms.”
“Nope. Jodie instead.”
“Your wish back then was the same as mine.”
“How so?”
“You wanted adulthood—and got it.”
&
nbsp; Brooke nodded slowly. “I guess so. Be careful what you wish for.”
“No. Wish for what you wish for, then grab it when it comes along.”
“And live with the results?”
“Nothing else to do.”
From outside the walls of the apartment there arose the crackle of fireworks. Brooke checked her watch—11:30. Where was Onion? The buffet had ended hours ago.
Daphne also looked at her watch. “I’m going to the fireworks.” The island’s volunteer fire department set off fireworks over the harbor every New Year’s Eve and Fourth of July. “Want to come?”
Just then, Jodie rolled over in her crib and whimpered, perhaps stirred by the firecrackers outside, or the shrieks of the girls.
Brooke shook her head. “No thanks—adulthood calls!”
“So it does.” Daphne leaned over and hugged her sister-in-law. “You’re such a good mother. You’re such a good friend. Thank you.”
Brooke said, “My little sis.”
“Always.”
Jodie cried out again. The two sisters parted, Daphne to put on her coat and head out into the night, Brooke to lift her daughter out of the crib and nurse her.