“You should know that beach is polluted,” the man said, and although Dom knew he meant to be helpful, his advice felt pushy. How long had this guy lived here anyway?
“I’ve been swimming in that water my whole life.”
“My wife,” the man looked toward the massive marble house, “she said the runoff from the factory pools down there. By the cliffs. That’s where you got your warrior face paint, yeah?” He smiled like he was teasing and it made Dom want to hurt him.
“It’s against the law to cut down trees on the island,” Dom said in the know-it-all voice Maddie used to boss him around. He pointed at the fresh stumps oozing sap.
The man looked up at the Castle’s tall windows. The Colonel had been right, Dom thought. Fear was power.
“For real?” the man asked. He was back to joking.
“For real,” Dom said. “You’ve got to, like, submit a request. Do all this paperwork and stuff. It’s a megabig fine.”
The man sighed and Dom regretted saying anything.
“Don’t worry,” Dom said. “I won’t tell.” He lifted his hand and wiggled a pinky streaked with the clay. “Pinky swear.”
“What’s your name, son?” he said, reminding Dom of the fathers he’d seen on TV shows. The kind that give advice.
“Dominic?” It came out like a question. “Dom for short. I live over there.” He pointed to the leaf-laid path lit by the falling sun.
“Well, Dominic Dom for Short, I’m Jules.”
The man offered his hand, the palm of which, Dom saw, was the same shade as his own skin. They shook hands and Dom felt the callused ridges of hard work. Even rougher than his father’s hands. The very opposite of the Colonel’s silk-smooth palms. His dad had told Dom about the Colonel’s monthly manicures at the beauty parlor, shaking his head and calling him “one manicure away from turning into a faggot.”
“Glad to finally meet my new neighbors,” the man named Jules said. “You live in that big house on the other side of the woods?”
“Yeah,” Dom said. “Well, it’s my grandfather’s house. It’s called White Eagle.”
“White Eagle.” He nodded. As if impressed.
“Your house is much bigger,” Dom said, pointing to the Castle, and both he and the man shielded their eyes so they could look all the way up to the bell tower. “Is there a real bell up there? I mean, like, does it work?”
“You should come back for another visit and we’ll try it out.”
Dom wondered if this guy was one of those pervs with the white vans the school health teacher, Mrs. Whitehead, had warned them about that spring in the “Knowing Your Body” seminar.
“It’s not really my house,” Jules sighed. “I’m just trying to save the garden.”
Dom and Maddie had tried to play Gods versus Mortals in the Castle garden last summer. A perfect setting for the myth of the golden apple, handsome Paris falling so hard for Helen that he didn’t care one shit about inciting the Trojan War. But the garden had gone wild and not even their father’s sharpened machete had been able to clear a path through the tangle. Now it was transformed. The hedges, once uneven and choked with ivy, were sculpted into perfect spheres and other whimsical shapes that reminded Dom of Christmas ornaments; the rows of rosebushes were cut back and no longer looked like Sleeping Beauty’s thorn-ravaged kingdom. The garden was still wild around the edges, but Dom could see that Jules was working from the center out.
“Holy shit!” Dom said. “It looks awesome.” His hand flew to his mouth but it was too late. “Sorry, mister, I didn’t mean to curse.”
“Well, if there’s one thing I think A-O-K to curse about, it’s plants. Thanks, man. I’m glad you like it.” Jules was beaming, but then he dragged his fingers through his short dark hair. Like he wanted to tear it out. “But these goddamn caterpillars.”
He leaned over a rosebush and plucked off a fat, bristled gypsy.
“Don’t touch it!” Dom yelled as Jules let the caterpillar scuttle across his palm, turning his hand slowly until it was inching its way up his wrist. “Some kid at school said they’re poisonous.”
“Can’t be as bad as the clay though, right?”
“Yeah,” Dom said. “That was dumb.”
Jules squeezed the caterpillar between his fingers and yellow gunk oozed from its crushed body.
“Kind of looks like boogers,” Dom said.
“The kind of boogers that eat a tree’s worth of leaves a day,” Jules said. “It might be a fantasy. Saving the garden. But I got to try. My wife thinks I’m nuts. I’m hoping cutting the trees back helps some.”
“But the webs,” Dom said, then wished he’d kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to be the one to kill this guy’s hope.
“What do you mean?”
“They sort of, like, swing from tree to tree,” Dom explained. “My grandfather says”—his voice cracked—“he says it’s hopeless. They’re sure to eat half the island’s trees before it’s over. They’ve done it before.”
“That’s crazy talk,” Jules said. “There must be something we can do.” He turned in a slow circle, his long arms open at his sides. Like, Dom thought, he wished he could hug his gardens close.
“What about those sprays?” Dom said hopefully, wanting to ease the man’s worries. “My grandfather said that, last time, they sent up a few old planes. Doused the whole island in chemicals to kill the gypsies.”
“They named ’em right,” Jules said. “The critters set up their tents wherever they like.”
“He—my grandfather—he said the last big plague was summer of ’84. They ate the whole island naked. Not a leaf left.” He felt his face burn hotter at the thought of anything naked. “I was only two years old, but I…”
“Your granddad got all his marbles?” He cut Dom off with a sarcastic laugh. “’Cause that sounds like some fairy tale he told to keep you out of the woods.”
Dom’s mouth went dry. He remembered his promise to Veronica. The oath he’d sworn to protect the Colonel. This guy, as nice as he seemed, could be one of those people she said was gunning for the Colonel.
“My grandfather is the Colonel,” Dom said solemnly. He thought of Zeus, Poseidon, Hades, all the big dogs in the Greek myths with their long white beards and weapons—lightning bolts, tridents, and deadly staffs.
“Oh, the Colonel? You don’t say.” Jules winked. “I met your Colonel last night at the dinner party. Your grandma too.”
The man was mocking him again, and when he mentioned Veronica, Dom’s stomach flip-flopped and some of the vodka and OJ launched back up his throat. He swallowed, let his hand wander to his father’s machete, and imagined he was about to unleash his wrath like Indiana Jones’s long leather whip, when the man spoke.