Cracks in the Shell

Chapter 2

Sunday morning debuted with a clear sky. Despite this and optimistic radio bulletins, Mambo was still convinced the storm would strike the island and kept her store open. When the morning past without a single customer, she decided she’d warn her fellow parishioners in person. So she’d called Carlos and convinced him to give her a lift to church.

Carlos grumbled under his breath, his morning fishing plans now ruined. Today was his daughter’s birthday, and he’d felt like spending it alone. They rumbled west along the coast in silence, windows rolled down for the breeze.

Finally Carlos asked, “Is this a sales gimmick?” Mambo didn’t reply, her eyes closed, head resting against the belt strap. “You’re just going to panic folks. The storm’s passed.”

“Shush, they must be warned,” she said without moving. Carlos gave up and turned to watch a frigate bird gliding overhead. It followed the coastal road, buoyed by updrafts from the cliffs nearby. From that height, he knew the island resembled a giant doorstop, ramping skyward towards the bluff at one end. Henry once told him these cliffs gave the Brac its name, a Gaelic word apparently. Well, cliffs were definitely the most prominent feature here on the island’s eastern point. Made sense to name the island after them. 

The tiny village of Spot Bay lay nestled beneath the bluff, on the narrow coastal plain sandwiched between the rocks and the sea. Carlos waved at the old men in their pressed suits as he idled past. Spot Bay was an old town; most of the youth had moved off the island as soon as they were able. Those who returned seldom left the Brac again. Carlos wondered if he ever would. No, they’ll probably bury me in one of those plots overlooking the sea, right next to Henry and Mambo. He began to pass cars parked on either side of the road, a sign they were getting close.

By the time they reached the small, whitewashed church at the end of the bay, the service had already concluded. People were gathered on the lawn just beyond the beach, where tabletops strained under trays of conch fritters, sticky buns, and lemonade pitchers. Nearby, a truck dispensed homemade ice cream to a throng of children with their hands outstretched. Carlos heard their laughter as he parked his van on a side road near the cliffs.

“Lock your door please,” he reminded Mambo as they exited. She snorted and left the door unlocked. 

Carlos heard a loud bark. Looking over, he saw Salty, a scruffy Labrador and official mascot of Salty’s, the Spot Bay tavern. This flea hound often accompanied him on fishing trips to Bamboo Bay. Salty could smell Yellowfin a mile off. If it weren’t for Mambo, the two of them would be out there right now. 

“Hey there, boy. How’s my fishing partner?” But Salty wasn’t wagging his tail in welcome. He’d tucked it defensively between his legs. The dog’s eyes narrowed and locked on a nearby patch of sea grapes. He started to growl.

“What is it? What do you see?” 

Nothing moved in the leaves. The dog barked again sharply and then looked up at Carlos as if urging him on to the church. 

“Dogs have a keener sense than you or me.” Mambo squinted into the surrounding foliage. 

“He’s getting jumpy in his old age. You need to relax, Salty.” Carlos scratched the dog behind his ears and then followed the scampering mutt across the main road and into the churchyard.

“Don’t let Salty in here,” came the sardonic voice Carlos knew so well. “He knows we have ribs.” Henry stood alone over the barbecue pit, cooking tongs in hand.

“Yeah. He’s unhappy you’re not sharing…” Carlos slapped hands with his old buddy. “Father McKraggen, sorry I missed the service.” 

“That’s all right,” Henry said straight-faced. “You’ll just be going to Hell.”