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"Okay then!" I release River, and pick up my fork. "Did you try this red rice, Mr. Bennett? My mom makes the best you've ever had."
He looks at me, his gaze calculating. As if he's now having to take my measure once again because he got me wrong before. "You don't say." Sam picks up his fork and spears a veal cutlet. "Tell me about your family. Have they been here since before the Civil War?"
I brighten. Here is a topic I can talk about at length.
"I hope you're in for a long journey. Because my family actually came from what was then called West Central Africa…"
Twenty-Four
Pearl
The ferry chugs along narrow waterways, on its way from the mainland to Sapelo Island. I’m seasick but doing my best to repress it. So I lean on the railing of the boat, wondering how old it is. At least forty or fifty years would be my guess.
Aunt Delta sits beside me on a bench, looking silently out at the sea.
"It's pretty today," I say. "Look at all the greenery coming to life."
It's true. Every massive oak tree that we sail past is dripping with dark green moss. Bountiful green grasses sprout from the shore to our left. Even the water that the ferry cuts through has a sheen of green algae on the surface.
Delta looks up at the sun with a frown. "At least it's not hot," she allows. "In a couple of weeks, we wouldn't be able to come out this way in the middle of the day like this."
The ferry slows, turning to make its final approach to the ferry terminal on the island. I can see the oversized shed that stores a bus and several golf carts beside the terminal. An older man stretches, eyeing the ferry. He's probably leading tours of the island today.
"Thanks for coming out today," I tell Delta. "I wanted to come out here on a whim."
My aunt stands up, lifting a large basket on her forearm.
"I'm always glad to come here. This is where our people are from."
I purse my lip. It's no use to point out that two days ago, my aunt was railing about how Black people can't ever feel comfortable in the United States and we all need to go back to the motherland in Africa. Delta regularly flip flops on whether our home is Sapelo Island, our home is the Vintages Resort, or our home is Africa. I let her have her own feelings, because I haven't lived her life of struggle and heartache.
At seventy-three years old, Delta is an elder worth respecting.
I take her free elbow, guiding her off the ferry as soon as it docks. We rent a golf cart and start down the bumpy main road.
Everywhere I look, things are in bloom. As we drive away from the sea and toward the center of the island, houses begin to spring up. A row of storm-damaged houses wrapped in yellow and blue plastic tarps lean crookedly; two young guys work a band saw out front. One of the men lifts a hand in salute as we pass.
Ever the Southerner, I wave back as I navigate around a huge pothole. Delta points at the next structure, huffing. "I can't believe that big, empty house is sitting right in the middle of the island. You know, that's Jim Parsons's vacation house."
I eye Delta. "Who is Jim Parsons?"
As we drive past, the mini-mansion sticks out like a sore thumb, a three story monstrosity with white columns, and an Antebellum feel. It's all brand new and flawless, looking like a termite's dream.
"He's the only White face on the Sapelo Island Preservation Committee. He and a realtor teamed up to take over the committee and now they're okaying new construction left and right. They voted to allow construction of private residences up to thirty-five hundred square feet. Then they turned around and made it possible to turn already-built private residences into vacation rentals." Delta smacks her lips. "It's corruption, pure and simple."
I lift a brow. "I hadn't heard about that."
"You should pay more attention. It's your birthright that Jim Parsons is turning into a tourist trap."
I'm about to argue that she's exaggerating. After all, it's just one house. But then I see a whole new block of row houses has popped into view. Outside, an older White couple pushes a stroller down the newly laid sidewalk.
"Holy crap," I say. I have to do a double take. "It's only been six months since I've been here. But there's a new block of what looks an awful lot like rental homes."
Delta fans herself, looking like she smells a rotten egg. "It ain't right."
We head into the main drag of Sapelo Island, Hogs Hammock. The little strip contains a few historic houses, the post office, and the sky-blue general store, which is in an old trailer that's been recently painted.
Aunt Delta runs into the store with her basket full of jars of jam. She must be doing some visiting, because I’m left sitting in the shade of an oak tree for a while.
