JIM BARTLETT - ISLE OF PALMS

​Jim Bartlett has been fortunate to have a number of stories, ranging from flash to novella, featured in Fiction on the Web, Ontologica, Fewer Than 500, Fairlight Books, CrimeSpree Magazine, Friday Flash Fiction, Spillwords Press, and a number of other wonderful publications. Though mentally he strolls a warm California beach with his wife and golden retriever (shhh, she doesn’t know she’s a dog), they live on a special little island in the Pacific Northwest.
You can find more of his stories at: https://islandtales.net/stories/

ISLE OF PALMS
​

Darcy drops the paddle’s blade into the water, slowing the kayak just enough to allow the surf to set her gently on the welcoming beach. With the bow edged into the wet sand, she plants her bare feet, closes her eyes, and leans back, soaking up the sound of the soft waves as they kiss the shore. 
Lovers since the beginning of time.
Sitting there she remembers the very first time she took the kayak out, and how her troubles and worries fell like a tropical rain from her shoulders. Since then she’s made it a daily routine – no, ritual – to come back each time they once again begin to overwhelm.
After moments that seem like hours, she takes a deep breath and finally opens her eyes. The tiny island’s beauty with its sugar-white sand, turquoise waters, and swaying trees, steals her breath, and she feels as though she could stay here, resting on this kayak, the swell breaking behind her, forever and ever. 
This is her sanctuary. A haven of serenity and peace. By all counts, here, on this beach, on this isolated little isle, her weary soul should be at rest, her mind settled into the comfort of calm.
Yet today something lies unsettled. Different. She feels the sharp edge of the turbulence of uncertainty stirring within, and it warns her of a brewing storm somewhere just beyond the horizon ready to unleash its fury.
She tries to shake it off. Find her normal breathing rhythm. But a group of seagulls, their voices riding a light breeze that carries the fragrance of a patch of hibiscus not far up the way, begin to cackle and caw, almost taunting her as they haggle over the remains of a clam or crab. Wanting more. Wanting more.
There’s something familiar in their cry. What, she’s not sure, but whatever it might be cinches her gut into a knot, triggering memories better left in the shadows. As they get louder, more insistent, her gaze shifts to the ugly mark just below her shoulder. It’s purple and swollen, and the sight of the bruise gives rise to the hair along her arm and a chill racing down her back. She takes a deep swallow, her body now tingling with a sudden sense of urgency. An edge of panic. She stands, drawing the paddle from the water, and takes a tentative step, the warm sand caressing her toes, the afternoon sun warming her cheeks.
But she can’t afford to give in to their temptation, their yearning to keep her in their embrace. Paddle in hand, she begins trudging her way up the rise, her legs moving ever so slowly, as though something pulls her from behind. At first, each stride is a struggle, but little by little fear gives her strength, and her pace quickens. 
There’s a row of palm trees at the top of the beach, their fronds swaying in the breeze. Yet, to her, their wave seems more a beckoning. A call of hope. Of escape to a harbor of refuge. And she knows she must find her way there. Tuck into the safety of their shadows. 
She begins to run, as the sensation of darkness is creeping up ever closer from behind. She can now feel its hot breath upon her shoulder and it drives her to push harder, faster, her heart becoming a thumping base drum, her lungs burning with fire. She throws the paddle – it’s only slowing her down – and stretches out her legs. Yet when she looks up, the trees seem no closer. Rather they seem to retreat with her harried approach.
She refuses to give up and the next time she looks she’s halfway up the beach, freedom just a few steps away. But someone or something grabs her hair from behind and spins her around. A fist, as if dropping from the crystal blue sky, strikes, and in an explosion of pain and light, she falls to the tattered carpet, one eye sealed shut, her cheek already swelling. When she looks up with her good eye, Clyde, her husband, unshaven and brows furrowed, still wearing the same sleeveless sweat-stained t-shirt and angry face he wore yesterday, glares down at her.
 “Where yous think yer goin’ woman? I duns told yous, my beer’s empty and the game’s about to start.” 
He shifts on his unsteady feet, then leans down, poking a finger in her face. He starts to say something when, from behind him in the living room, gruff men’s voices cackle and caw that their cans are empty, too. They’ll be wanting more. Wanting more.
“Sounds like Jake and Sam be needin’ one, too. Git your ass in the kitchen and do yer duty.” He uses the finger to push back her forehead, then stands, his fiery gaze still raining down upon her. “And bring us sum more peanuts,” he shouts, before turning back to join his friends.
Putting a hand to her eye, she pulls herself up, and limps into the kitchen, where a soft breeze blows in through the screen door. It carries the fragrance of her hibiscus planted out in the back yard, her only connection to the ocean she’s never seen. There she lingers for a moment, standing with a hand to the refrigerator’s handle, allowing her bare feet to take in the coolness of the worn linoleum floor. Slowly, she turns her gaze to the screen.
But it’s then a cheer rises up from the front room. The game has started. For her, it’s now.
Or never.
Without knowing how she got there, she finds herself opening the gate at the back fence, the screen door slamming behind her. She hurries out into the alley and to the rear of the garage. The door is open, the car inviting, but the keys hang from a hook next to the refrigerator. She can’t go back. There’s no going back.
She starts right, but stops, reversing and heading two buildings up, where she tosses her sweater onto the side of the pavement in the weeds. A distraction to buy time; it was only slowing her down anyway.
She spins back around and races to the end of the alley, making a left on First Street. She’s running now, hoping to never again feel that hot breath on her shoulder. By the time she arrives at the intersection, she’s gasping for air, and her heart is trying to beat its way out of her chest.
Here she must go left, no, wait, right! She darts across the busy road against the light, oblivious to the honking of horns, the squealing of skidding tires, and the vulgar shouts of drivers recommending she make better choices with her pedestrian ways.
She continues to run, two blocks, then three, finally turning left down a street whose name rings a bell. She wobbles more than walks now, her legs nothing but rubber, her feet red and raw. She stops here and there, leaning against trees or fences, hoping to catch her breath, stop the burning in her lungs. 
An hour passes, then two. She begins to doubt herself; she thought she knew the way. But none of the street names here sound familiar, allowing the shadow of dread to seep into her bones. 
Somewhere into the third hour, the sun nearly done for the day, she stumbles to an intersection, legs and lungs ready to quit, though her will is still strong. She steps up to the sign, her heart jumping.
Shoreline Avenue.
From deep in her pocket she pulls a wadded receipt from the grocery store, an address and name penciled in on the back side.
1541 Shoreline. 
    With newfound energy her legs carry her down the street, racing by house after house until a small rambler in need of paint, a small child’s bike out in the driveway, catches her eye. 
    1541.
    Shaking, she makes her way to the door and knocks, not quite believing she is really doing this. From inside she hears the giggles of at least two kids, a woman telling them to hush, as she needs to get the door.
    The porch light comes on and a moment later the door opens. The woman who answers is wearing a Midwest Mart uniform, her nametag proclaiming her to be “Karen,” and her hair is up in a bun. Though the light is harsh, Darcy recognizes her immediately, as this was exactly how she was dressed the first time they met.
Darcy shakes her head. Of course she was. She was the checker that pulled her aside when she noticed the cuts and bruises Darcy wore that day.
Behind Karen, in the living room, a few toys strewn about, two kids, maybe seven or eight, race across the sofa, shouting in glee as they jump off the end and disappear into the hall. The woman starts to turn, but can’t pull her bulging eyes off Darcy. Finally, after a long moment of silence, she gives off a whistle followed by a “tsk.”
“Good lord, girl. Would you look at you!” Her gaze drops to Darcy’s bloodied feet. “And you’re barefoot. Git yerself in here, let’s not let the flies in.”
  Karen pulls more than leads Darcy into the front room and then the kitchen. She flings open the freezer and grabs some ice, wrapping it in a dishtowel that had been hanging from the cupboard door. She puts it to Darcy’s eye, then places Darcy’s hand up to hold it. “Keep that there for a bit, missy. You’ve got a heck of a shiner. No use making it worse.” She leans over, grabs a couple of paper towels, wets them, and then wipes a small trickle of blood off Darcy’s lip.
“You done the right thing, Darcy. This is all gonna work out. Just have to give it some time.” She turns toward a hall that leads off the back of the kitchen. “Mama, can you come in here?” Then she turns back, looking Darcy straight in the eyes. “Okay, Frank, my hubbie, is working the second shift today. Gotta git them hours when you can. And I kent afford to miss any more work, they’re already cutting hours at the store, so I’m gonna call someone to come and git you. Mama will be here with you while you wait...okay?”
Darcy nods, but is lost in a trance. Nothing makes sense to her, her body aches from head to toe, and she’s just run away from everything she knew.
A tiny slim woman, traces of gray in her hair, a smile on her face, steps into the kitchen. “Looks like you tangled with a tiger, young lady. But you come to the right place. We’ll get you fixed up, don’t you worry none. I’m Emma. I guess you’re Darcy. Karen’s been telling me about you.”
Darcy nods, but once again it’s from deep in a fog. 
“Mama, I gotta go. Kent be late again. Call Willie over at the shelter. He’ll send someone right over.”
Emma nods and gives Karen a kiss on the cheek. “Git, you, I’ll watch the kids and make sure our girl here is taken care of.”
Karen squeezes Darcy’s arm, wipes a tear, and heads for the door. “It’s all gonna be okay. Just wait and see...”
As she leaves, Emma pulls out a cell and punches in a familiar number. 
“Hey Willie. Emma. Can you swing by? We got someone here that really, really needs you guys pronto. That’s great...thanks. You’re a peach.”
She turns to Darcy. “Willie runs the Isla de Palmera shelter. No one, I mean noooo one will ever find you. And you’ll get the best of care, Sweetie.”
“Is-la day...what?”
“Isla de Palmera. It’s Spanish...for Island of Palms.”


​