“No stick-with-it,” was what her father said. Growing up, LaShonda had watched Ronald drop out of school, pass on job opportunities, and blow off jobs he did get. The bosses were always too bossy, the work beneath him in some way. He was a get-rich-quick sort of fellow, always with the big idea.
One summer during high school, her father had forced Ronald to take a job on the shrimp boat. Ronald spent one afternoon picking overcatch out of netting and tossing the undesirable sea animals back into the ocean. By afternoon, Ronald claimed he was seasick. When that got no sympathy from the crew, he said he was afraid since he didn’t know how to swim. The river, he said, was smooth water and the banks were close enough that he could make it out if he fell in, but open water was more than he could take, and wearing a life jacket was little comfort.
This had been just another of Ronald’s excuses to get out of work, but there was some validity to his argument. While many Sandy Island natives made their living from fishing and shrimping, very few of them could swim. It was simply a skill not mastered nor passed down within the community. No family on the island had been spared the loss of a loved one to drowning. Every couple of years a child would wander into the water or someone would fall from a boat. Residents feared the gators that lurked the murky waters, but while dogs and chickens disappeared on a regular basis, people did not appear to be of great interest.
LaShonda couldn’t swim. There had never been an opportunity, no public or school pool where she could learn. The ocean was definitely not the place to practice swimming, so on the rare occasions when she accompanied her father shrimping, he cinched her into a life vest so tightly she could barely draw breath. Even the mighty Abraham Washington was a marginal swimmer, a burden to him to know he would not be able to save anybody who fell over the side of his vessel.
The tang of the ignited grill wafted into the kitchen. The door banged open and Ronald stepped inside.
“Gas’s going. Give me the dogs.”
LaShonda handed him a plate with five wieners rolling back and forth. Ronald stood mesmerized, staring down at the raw tubes of meat.
“What?” LaShonda finally asked.
“I was thinking a hot dog stand at Myrtle Beach might make some good money. Uncle Abe might invest in a hot dog stand with me.”
“Only if you can make hot dogs out of shrimp.”
“Shrimp dogs. That’s just wrong.”
“I tell you what’s wrong. You always trying to squeeze money out of my father.”
Ronald stared at the hot dogs.
“Hell, I’ll give you some money myself if you’ll just go away,” she added.
The microwave beeper went off.
“Why do you hate me?”
LaShonda reached in and extracted a bowl of peas. “I don’t hate you, Ronald, it’s just you wear everybody out. When you come around it’s like you take all the oxygen; you need so much there isn’t any left for anybody else. You’ve always got some agenda. What’s your deal this time? Is it just money or are you in trouble? After everything he’s done for you, I’d think you’d be ashamed to ask for anything else. Why don’t you just take your unskilled labor ass out of here and leave us alone.”
“I got skills,” he said, halfheartedly.
“Skills at bullshit. If you spent half as much energy working as you spend trying to get out of working you’d be a millionaire. You looking for a place to sack out tonight?”
“You couldn’t pay me to stay here. I know when I’m not wanted.”
“Then why’d you show up in the first place?”
He moved as if to walk out, but stopped. “I swear your old man’ll think a hot dog stand’s a great idea. After all, it’s perfect for unskilled labor.”
She was glad her back was to him when a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.
“I bet you,” he continued, “he’d be glad not to haul stinky shrimp all day. He’d get to hang out at the beach, watch girls in bikinis, and get away from your holier-than-thou bitchy little ass.”
“Oh, I know you ain’t talking to me that way!” she snapped, but he was already gone, the door raining its racket over her words.
CHAPTER 4
Preexisting Condition
Emmett had hit his stride, his legs in perfect pace with his heart. The morning sand was hard packed and more responsive than it would be later in the day, after the sun sucked out moisture, and granules crumbled under his steps. He watched his path carefully, always alert to holes where sandcastles were mined. The wind was gentle, and even though he was finishing the seven-mile round-trip from the south end of the island, he had barely broken a sweat. He liked to run on Saturday mornings. He passed friends casting into the ocean. These neighbors usually drove sections of PVC pipe into the beach to hold their rods and reels while they swigged from thermal cups and threw driftwood to their Labs. Occasionally Emmett stopped to check out their coolers of sea bass or pet their dogs, but this morning the beach was empty.
The top of his house came into view ahead. He cut through the dunes on a spongy boardwalk buckled with age and hit the gravel road that ended at home. He ducked under the boom security gate, rounded the crepe myrtles fronting his drive, and sprinted up the two dozen steps to his porch, where he stood panting in front of his wife who was curled up in one of the white rocking chairs sorting mail.
“Hey,” Lauren said without looking up from her task. “Good run?”
He nodded, still catching his breath from his last burst of energy up the stairs. He walked the length of the porch and back, his right knee talking to him. His hands on his hips, he felt his muscles ripple with each exhalation. He had dropped weight the last couple of weeks, as had Lauren. She was looking more like the woman he had married nineteen years ago, her cheekbones becoming more pronounced, her hair growing longer, roots showing through blonde.
Lauren picked through the mail in her lap. She ripped open envelopes, dropping advertisements and solicitations into a sloppy pile at her feet or carefully folding bills into their return envelopes and laying them neatly on the side table. When he had shaken the tension from his legs, Emmett lowered himself into a rocking chair beside her.
She held a slender envelope from Common Good Insurance. Lauren slid the letter opener under the flap, pulled out the contents, and read. Her brow wrinkled and she bit her lower lip.
“Emmett,” she said, handing him the paper. “What does this mean?”
Emmett read.
Dear Mr. Sullivan,
After completing our evaluation of your recent claim number 343345, we regret to inform you there are no benefits payable at the present time for the following reason(s):
Your sickness policy does not provide benefits for preexisting conditions during the first 12 months after the policy’s effective date. Preexisting conditions are diseases or illnesses for which the insured received treatment, advice, or medication within twelve months before the effective date of your policy.
According to our information, your policy was effective 1/15/2008, and your dependent, Ainslie Sullivan, received treatment from Dr. Richard Jessup on 9/9/2007 for stomachache and kidney problems.
We review every claim in a thorough and timely manner because we want our policyholders to receive all the benefits their coverage can provide. You are a valued customer, and we want to ensure you understand your coverage and its benefits.
We hope this letter explains our