Gretchen sat, unusually silent, watching the unfolding white wake the boat made in the rocky bay. Candace held on to my arm and appeared a tad seasick. I asked if she was okay. She nodded. “Never liked boats much, and they don't like me.” I took her damp fingers and laced them through mine.
The trip was short; perhaps twenty minutes. I saw the island-barely a mile long, if that, and some indeterminate width that wasn't much greater. Most of the lip of the shore seemed to be grayish sand, and there was a scattering of oak and palmetto trees. I could see a swath of beach, crowned with modest dunes and tall saltgrass. Sangre looked like a midget barrier island that hadn't quite made it out to sea, unlike the mighty stretch of Matagorda Island. Toward one end of Sangre a large, rambling house stood, uncompromisingly Victorian. I marveled that a hurricane hadn't reduced the old house to memory-Matagorda Bay's residents lived on an edge, each and every summer. More than one killer storm had screamed ashore along this section of the coast.
Rufus veered the boat out a bit from the island and gestured toward the empty bay north of the island, opposite the mansion. “That's where they went down.”
“Who?” Candace asked, yelling above the roaring motor and the whistling wind.
“The Reliant. Went down fighting.”
“A Confederate ship?” I asked. “I thought most of the naval action along the coast during the war was up near Sabine Pass.”
Rufus shook his head. “Well, the Confederates built a fort on Matagorda Bay and made the timber look like big guns to bluff the Yankees, but that ain't here no more. Reliant wasn't a Confederate ship. Reliant was one of the five battleships in the original Texas Navy, back when Texas was fightin' for independence. Went down fightin' a Mexican ship. That's how the island got its name. Sangre means blood in Spanish.”
“Rufus, this is a distasteful story. Surely-” Gretchen attempted.
He paid her no heed. “Survivors from the Reliant got to the island. The Mexicans”-he pronounced it Messkins – “captured them and cut their throats, right there on the sand.” He gestured from where the sunken wreck lay to a sliver of beach on the north side of the island, with a dock protruding. He kept his hands so little on the wheel I wondered how he steered. “But Mutt tells the story lots better than I do. You should ask him.”
I stared out at the watery spot Rufus Beaulac had indicated. Somewhere beneath those whitecapped waves the shell of the Reliant rested, its broken hull serving as an empty coffin to God only knew how many boys and men that had dared to defy the Mexicans. Then I glanced again at the beach where Rufus indicated the massacre had taken place. Those poor sailors-they had never lived to see the Republic of Texas born, the admission to the Union, the bonds of brotherly ties shattered in the Civil War, then the pain of Reconstruction.
“Anyone ever dive down there?” T called to Rufus. He stared at me with frank horror.
“Hell, no! With all them dead boys? Who'd want to go down there?”
I started to mention that any human remains would be long gone. “It could be fascinating-” I started, but Rufus crossed himself with a practiced hand and looked at me with reproach.
“You a ghoul, boy,” he said. “You got more to worry about than those dead sailors.” He turned the boat away from the watery grave and aimed it toward the island. I felt a sick unease tug at my heart. You got more to worry about.
4
A tall, lanky man and an older woman in a flowing, robelike dress waited for us as we pulled the boat up to a dock. The man had a thick shock of blondish-gray hair, high cheekbones set in a broad, German face, and watery blue eyes. There was no mistaking the familial resemblance between him and Bob Don. An unlit cigarette dangled from his mouth and he had his narrow hands set on thin hips, watching us expectantly.
The woman was older, in her sixties at least, and she held a small Chihuahua up to her cheek as though it were a puppet. She, too, had the Teutonic countenance I had come to think of as particularly Goertzish, but a warm, gentle smile softened her face. As the boat grew closer she took one of the Chihuahua's tiny paws and waved it in greeting. The dog looked bored with this social nicety and squirmed uncomfortably against the lady's bosom.
Gretchen wiggled fingers at the welcoming party, but tension crinkled her eyes and Bob Don frowned for a moment before replacing his grimace with a grin.
I glanced at Candace. I hoped I didn't look as petrified as I felt. She gave me a hopeful, warm smile. I did my best to return it.
Rufus leaped out of the boat and moored it to the dock. The khaki-clad man didn't offer to help; instead, he lit his cigarette with a battered Zippo lighter and peered at me through the feather of smoke that crept past his weathered face.
We disembarked and I helped Rufus pull our luggage out of the boat. Bob Don shook hands with the man.
“Hey, Cousin Tom. How you doing?” Bob Don was using what I called his “sales pitch” tone: friendly, slightly cajoling, hinting that he'd love to do nothing more than listen to you talk the whole day long. It had moved any number of new and used cars off his lots.
Cousin Tom didn't seem swayed by it. He exhaled a plume of sour smoke and said, “Well, don't you got yourself an entourage this time, Bob Don. How do, Gretchen?” His voice was deep and raspy. He nodded toward Gretchen, who clutched Bob Don's arm and put on her party smile.
“I'm fine, Tom. Hello, Aunt Lolly, how nice to see you!” Gretchen chirped.
Bob Don leaned down and kissed the lined cheek of the lady with the dog. She giggled with glee and kissed him back with a resounding smack on the cheek.
“Bob Don, so good to see you. You, too, Gretchen,” she added with a considerable drop in enthusiasm. She wielded the Chihuahua into Bob Don's face. “Give Sweetie a big oP kiss!”
Bob Don opted instead to pat the tiny critter on the head. I couldn't blame him, as Sweetie's tongue draped out of its mouth in the summer heat.
“Oh, you'll hurt Sweetie's feelings! And him being a blood relation!” The woman, whom I now supposed to be Bob Don's aunt Lolly, frowned and cradled Sweetie in her arms. Tom rolled his eyes in exasperated impatience. Gretchen coughed. The dog was a blood relation? Perhaps I wasn't the only surprise on the family tree.
“Are we the first ones here?” Gretchen ventured to break the sudden silence.
“Not hardly. Everybody else is already up at the house. Uncle Mutt's in rare form. Be warned.” Tom's eyes locked on me in the same calculated scan that Rufus had performed back on the coast. “This him?” His voice hadn't gotten any friendlier.
“Yeah, it is,” Bob Don said, smiling genuinely for the first time in a couple of hours. 'Tom, this is my son, Jordan. Jordan, this is my cousin Tom Bedrich.”
I extended a hand and Tom took it in a macho death grip that went beyond firm. I squeezed back for all I was worth. “Well, you look enough like a Goertz. I guess.” His pale blue eyes went to Candace and a smile touched his lips. It was a grimy grin and I didn't like it one bit. However, I told him I was pleased to meet him.
“And, Jordan, this is my aunt Louisa Goertz Throck-morton. Aunt Lolly, this is my son Jordan.”
Aunt Lolly surprised me with a deep curtsy. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, my dear boy.” She sprang back up, brandishing the dog. “And this is Sweetie, who in a previous life was your great-uncle Charles Throckmorton.”
“Uhhhh-” was the only response that came to mind. My mama didn't raise no social morons, though, so I ignored her announcement about her husband's reincarnation. “It's a real pleasure to meet you, ma'am. Hi, Sweetie,” I improvised, patting the dog's head.
“Oh, my dear, you must call me Aunt Lolly. Everyone does.”
“Okay. Aunt Lolly, Tom, this is my girlfriend, Candace Tully.”
Tom took Candace's hand with considerably more enthusiasm than he had mine. “Pleasure to meet you. Do you go by Candy?”
“Never voluntarily,” Candace said politely.
“Then Candace it is. A lovely name for a very lovely lady.” Tom suddenly seemed aware of his disreputable appearance, dragging a hand across his dirty, worn polo shirt. “Y'all have to forgive my clothes. I've been puttering
