The Mermaid

I was eight years old when I saw the mermaid.

I’d been up early enough to eat breakfast with my mother before she left at seven-thirty for her job cleaning rooms at the Captain’s Table. She kissed me goodbye and told me to be careful, but she didn’t say nothing about staying around the trailer with Ted, or about not going out onto the bay alone. So, naturally, I took that as an invitation.

The day was silver from the bottom of the fat gray clouds to the top of the water’s unusually tumultuous surface. A hot wind was whipping up a short, even chop. There was a hurricane coming, but it wouldn’t make landfall for another three days at least. With any luck it would miss us entirely and swerve out into the gulf toward Texas instead.

Not many people on Chokoloskee believe in that kind of luck, though. Not when it comes to hurricanes. We know better.

I wasn’t worried about no hurricane on that particular day. Mostly I was worried about running into my father out there on the water, or Mister Joe Jack or Mister Edmund, or any other stone crab fisherman who might take the liberty of putting out a call on the old man’s radio to update him on the whereabouts of his younger son. Back then, the islanders--all three hundred and ninety-six of us--we took an active interest in one another’s children, property, and general affairs. A young kid out on the bay alone was likely to catch somebody’s attention. There are hundreds, maybe even thousands of channels and passes out there, snaking their way through the mangrove islands and Indian shell mounds, prolific as pebbles scattered across a sandy beach. If you don’t know your way around one pass starts to look just like another, until you look up suddenly and realize that you don’t know where you came from or what you’re headed to.

I wasn’t worried about any of that, though. I lived my whole life on these waters, and I always knew exactly where I was. I also had a certain goal in mind, plenty of time on my hands, and a young boy’s unwavering confidence in my own eventual success. Since the day four months earlier when my brother Ted had brought the matter to my attention, I had already thoroughly searched thirteen different shell mound islands for the fabled cache of Calusa Indian gold. In all that time I’d found plenty of interesting things-- a full turtle skeleton with the shell bleached completely white by the sun; the bottom jaw of an American Crocodile, longer than my arm; and plenty of ancient Calusa pottery, some of it with not so much as a chip of damage-- but I had yet to unearth even a single speck of treasure.

That didn’t discourage me any. I was young and determined, and I knew that there weren’t really ten thousand islands like people like to say there are. There were probably only about eight hundred by my guess, and I had seven whole years or so until I would have to start thinking about a real job. I was sure I’d find the gold and have Mom, Pop, Ted and I living like kings well before that time came.

I felt a rush of relief as I steered the skiff out of open water and into one of the narrower passes without anyone seeing me. I eased up on the gas and drifted slowly through the pass, my eyes searching the islands on either side for any hints of familiarity. I didn’t carry a map, but I had a system. In my young mind I was sure I’d remember the curve of an interesting breathing root, or the ratio of oyster to sand to mangrove of every cove I had already checked for the treasure.

As fate would have it, though, I don’t remember so much of anything except her.

I pulled up beside one of the taller islands with the bumpers out, doing my best to cozy the vessel into the three foot wall of oyster shells that rose up out of the water. The surface was calmer here, sheltered by the trees and mass of land from the restless harbingering winds.

I dug myself a couple of footholds with Mom’s gardening trowel at just about the highest level that I could reach standing high up on the gunwale. The ancient shells came away in chunks, brittle like old cement. The Calusa created entire islands out of nothing but the refuse from centuries of oyster breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. It always struck me as ironic that the shells of the eaten remained here, even after the bones of the eaters had long dissolved into dust.

I was testing the footholds when I looked down and saw her. Right there in the cove, in the water next to the skiff. Her hands were wrapped around the mangrove roots, and she peered through them and upward, directly into my eyes. Her hair was black and it surrounded her completely. I couldn’t see much more of her than that--hands, eyes, hair--but that was enough. Her wide white fish eyes locked onto mine, cold and desperate, and I saw her grey mouth open and form the shape of the words, help me.

I let go of the shells and fell backwards like a dead man into the boat.

The wind was knocked out of me so completely it was like my soul had escaped from my chest and was hovering out there somewhere between my body and the bright layer of clouds, trying to decide what to do next. Lucky for me the cloud cover was so thick that day that heaven was likely near impossible to get to, so after an anxious few seconds my body sparked back to life and heaved in a lungful of moisture-laden air.

I let myself lie there on the deck like a fresh caught tarpon, taking in air in noisy, sucking gasps. When I was ready I got up carefully and picked my way over to the helm. With the gas on, right before casting off, I allowed myself another look. The reflection of the clouds on the water created a mirror effect that made it difficult to see below the surface, forcing me to edge the skiff closer until the black hair came into view, hovering near the surface like a patch of poisonous seaweed. One grey-blue finger poked out of the water, the colors unnatural against the brown of the mangrove root. I saw the finger curl slowly, beckoning me back.

I pulled out easy so as not to hit her, and then I punched the gas. I didn’t care anymore if someone saw; all I cared about was putting distance between myself and the mermaid, putting my feet down on solid dirt, and getting home to see if Ted was there.

As I eased into our slip, my heart sank when I saw that Mister Joe Jack was already back at the marina with his coolers full of crab claws. He lifted the bill of his sun-bleached cap and squinted over in my direction. I started to hope that he wouldn’t say nothing, but before I could finish hoping Mister Joe Jack called out, “Your daddy know where you’re at, son?”

“Yessir,” I whispered so that he couldn’t hear, and then I took off running for home before he had a chance to ask anything else.

My brother Ted was almost done with high school at the time. Ted was what some folks call a “good egg.” Smartest person in our whole family tree by a long shot. As far as brothers go, he was the best a kid could ask for. Everyone on Chokoloskee believed that Ted was meant for bigger things. Unfortunately, due to the insular nature of our island existence, there weren’t a lot of other kids around who were functioning on the same level. Still, everyone wanted to keep company with Ted, and Ted didn’t seem to mind wasting time with even the lowest types, which often led to situations that got me wishing he would be a little more selective.

That day, after running the whole way home from the marina, I banged open the door and was instantly dismayed to find Buck Pickins and Sam Perez having beers with my brother at the kitchen table.

“Hey,” Ted said when he saw my face, “You okay, Jim?”

“Looks like he just ‘bout to shit his pants,” said Sam.

“Looks to me like he already done,” said Buck, and the two of them glanced quickly at Ted for approval before they let loose with the ugly heaving sound of their mean hick laughter.

“Can I talk to you a minute.” I tried to send a message with my eyes straight to Ted. My mind kept showing me that face, that mouth, blue and hideous: help me.

“Your brother’s ass needs wiped,” Buck howled, and he and Sam pounded the table with their fists.

Ted got up and came over to where I was standing, still in the doorway. He looked me in the eye, serious. “What’s the matter, Jim? Did something happen?”

Suddenly the place got real quiet. I was looking at Ted, but I could see Sam and Buck go motionless behind him. The realization that something could really be wrong was slowly seeping through to their beer-soaked brains. I felt the pressure of their beady eyes staring at me hard, unblinking. My skin prickled.

“No,” I said, “It’s nothing.”

I went back to our room and closed the door.

Sam and Buck cleared out just before Pop got home. I waited until I heard the shower running before coming back out to find my brother. It was getting later in the day, and Mom would be home soon with bagged dinner from the Captain’s Table. She had a good deal there because the lunch cook would set things aside for her; orders that had been mistakes or would have otherwise gone to waste. Most nights we ate steamed stone crab in butter sauce with no more enthusiasm than most other people would eat a peanut butter sandwich on white bread.

Ted was on the couch laying down with his feet up, reading. I went over and stood right by his head.

“I saw a mermaid today,” I said.

Ted set the book down on his chest. “Did I ever tell you about the time me and Pop were kayaking through the ‘glades and we saw that skunk ape?”

“Yes,” I said, shifting my weight around uncomfortably. I couldn’t tell for sure if Ted was making fun of me or not. I thought maybe he was. “This was different Ted. She was...horrible. I hated looking at her. But she looked right at me and she said, help me. I think she’s stuck in the mangroves. I think I need to go back and help her.”

Ted sat up. He didn’t look like he was making fun of me, but again, I wasn't sure. “What was horrible about her?” he asked.

“Everything,” I replied, and my brain showed her to me again clearly, against my will. Her teeth had been so long, gums curling back away from the bone. The cloudy whiteness of her eyes, the inky blackness of her hair. That cold grey finger, beckoning me closer.

“If she was so bad, Jim, why do you want to help her?”

It was a good question. I had been wondering it myself, all day while I stared at the ceiling from my top bunk.

“Hurricane’s coming,” I replied. “If she’s stuck in the mangroves when it hits, she’s going to get ripped to pieces.”

Ted considered this. He nodded. “Well Jim,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “That’s true I guess. The thing is, being your big brother, I can’t let you go out there again before the storm hits. The winds are picking up; it isn’t safe. I’d take you myself, but if anything were to happen to us Mom and Pop would lose the only two sons they have, and that doesn’t seem worth the risk. Maybe she was just resting and is already gone. She could be all the way to the Keys by now.”

I knew then that he didn’t believe me. I could feel my face getting hot.

“We can always ask Pop to go take a look,” Ted offered. “They might be staying in for the next few days, but if he’s going to be out at all before the storm, maybe he can swing by and check--”

“No,” I said quickly, “Don’t tell Pop.” I felt enough like a stupid dumb kid just talking about it with my brother. No way was I going to be caught dead telling an adult that I saw a mermaid, and she needed my help–and oh, by the way, she was very scary, too.

Ted nodded once and went back to reading his book.

I tried to not to think about the mermaid, but my traitorous mind refused to let her go. All night long I dreamed about her. In my dreams her milky eyes flashed angrily-- Where are you? Come back! HELP ME! I peered down at her through the mangrove, trying to explain, to apologize. Then her arms, atrophied down to bare bone and sinew, would shoot up suddenly through the roots. Her cold fingers would close around the back of my neck, yanking my head down toward the water’s surface, right down to her hideously bloated face, pulling me closer so that I could hear her, closer, my face going under. I tried to strain against her, but those icy fingers were a vice, the arms too strong for me to fight.

The arms were real, but they belonged to Ted. My brother shook me awake just in time again and again throughout the night, saving me from being drowned, returning me instead to my own sweat-soaked sheets.

I passed the next couple of days in something of a stupor. Every radio on the island was tuned to the National Hurricane Center, making it so that there was noplace you could go to avoid the echo of that broadcast fighting its way through air so thick it made walking feel like swimming. We were on watch, just waiting for evacuation orders to come through. Pop, Ted and I nailed plywood over the windows while Mom packed the car, slipping the folder with our birth certificates into the trunk next to jugs of water and trash bags filled with clothing and irreplaceables.

But the order didn’t come, and so we didn’t go. Three days passed, and although the clouds threatened violence and the breeze agitated the palms so that they whispered to one another angrily under their hot, dry breath, the water levels didn’t rise much, and we didn’t see a drop of rain.

We should have felt relieved. For once, the weather gods were finally on our side. But when I think back on that time-- which I do, and often-- I recall that the atmosphere on the island was heavy with apprehension and the feeling of general unease. It’s as if we all knew that hurricane or no, there was something hideous lurching straight for us; something that could not be kept out by fixing plywood over windows or tarps over rooftops. Something was coming for our little island that would leave total destruction in its wake, shattering our community so completely that there would be no rebuilding from it.

And every night, I dreamed of the mermaid. I had taken to yelling out, “Ted! Help me! She’s drowning me!” as she strained to suck me under, her mouth forming the shape of something between a shriek and a pucker, as if she were pulling me toward her for a ghastly kiss. Ted would act just in time, and after a few nights of this Pop was there too, holding down one of my thrashing limbs and exchanging looks with my brother that I didn’t understand.

That morning, the radios confirmed that the storm had made its way back out to sea. Ted shook me awake as soon as Mom had left for work. “Take me to where she is,” he said. “I’ll help you help her.”

My heart pounded wildly as Ted steered the skiff out into the bay. I wondered if the currents had been strong--could she still be there? Or worse-- what if she wasn’t there, and never had been? Could I have made up the gruesome creature in my silly boyish mind? What if the mermaid had been nothing more than a clump of noxious seaweed, or a trapped dolphin carcass, grinning its crazy rotting grin in a way that had set my imagination squirming? The shame of it would be too much to bear. I wanted her to be there.

I remember that the first pass I pointed him into wasn’t right. Still, I knew that we were close. As we cruised around the bend of a large mangrove island, we realized at once that we had found the place. Ted cut the engine and the two of us stood there on the deck in silence, swaying with the waves.

We watched as our father and Mister Joe Jack hauled the body out of the mangroves and into Mister Joe Jack’s crabbing boat. Our father was standing in water up to his chest, passing the dead girl up to Mister Joe Jack, who was lifting her by one swollen grey arm, one mottled leg. Her long black hair covered most of her face, but not all of it. From where I was standing next to Ted in the skiff, I saw the hair over her face part ever so slightly. One blank white eye peered out at me for a long last look--a look that would haunt me for the rest of my natural life.

You see, I was eight years old when I first saw the mermaid.

I’ve seen her again every single night since.

***

Kara Q. Rea’s short stories, poetry and essays have appeared in Marrow Magazine, Sylvia, Birthing Magazine, and elsewhere. She lives in an antique farmhouse in rural New Hampshire where she can be found revising her debut psych thriller novel, and preparing to query for representation. You can connect with her on Instagram and Twitter @karaqwrites or by visiting her website, https://www.karaqwrites.com/