“What’s your name?”

“George. George Harris, Jr.”

Sunday forced her concentration back to her job. “Sure, you can help. That bucket of potatoes needs peelin’. Here, use this little knife, and wash each one ’fore you peel it.”

With a smile that shook her again to her toes, the boy took the knife and went to work. Not a word more of conversation passed between them until after supper, when he approached her again and said, “As usual, it was all delicious, Sunday. May I walk you back to the Station?”

“Walk? I take the horse and wagon. You know that.”

“Then I’ll ride back with you, that is if you don’t mind.”

“What about Mister Kingsley’s rules? Don’t you have to go to your tent?”

“Curfew isn’t until ten. I can be back before then.”

“Well, then it’s all right, I reckon.”

George helped Sunday climb up to the wagon seat, then slid over beside her. Sunday clicked at the old mare, and they drove out of the camp, not noticing that at least two dozen pairs of eyes were watching them leave.

They hadn’t covered more than two hundred yards before Sunday stopped. She jumped down, George right behind her. She pulled the reins over the mare’s head and began slowly walking, leading the animal behind her. They walked in silence for a few minutes before George said, “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”

“Yep.” Sunday looked at him. “You don’t talk like the other black boys. Where you from, George Harris, Jr.?”

“My home is in Washington, D.C. My father’s a doctor there.”

“That so? You mean a real doctor doctor?”

“Yes. A physician. Eye, ear, nose, and throat.”

“Imagine that! Then, what you doin’ down here with this bunch of no-goods and white trash?”

George laughed. “That’s a fair enough question. I was supposed to start college at Fisk University last fall, but I wanted to work a year first. It’s hard to explain, but I wanted to see for myself what really hard work was like, and do some studying at the same time. I plan to do a premed major, and eventually I want to be a psychiatrist.”

“What’s that?”

“A doctor who works with the human mind.”

“I get it. You’re studyin’ these no-account boys to see what makes them tick?”

“Something like that. It has been quite an experience, too. I’ve learned a lot.”

“They pay you same as the others?”

“No, I wouldn’t qualify.”

Sunday stopped dead in her tracks, cocked her head at a severe angle, and exclaimed, in obvious disbelief, “You mean you’re doin’ all that hard work for free? Are you crazy?”

George laughed again. “No, Sunday, but I’m certainly finding out a lot about what makes people go crazy. What about you?”

“Me? What about me?”

“Were you born here? On Pea Island?”

The mare, wanting her oats, nudged Sunday, who stroked her velvet nose. “Patience, Missy, we’re goin’.”

She resumed her slow walk, and answered George.

“Here? No, I was born over to Elizabeth City, but I’ve lived here all my life with the Life-Saving crew.”

“And how old are you now?”

“Sixteen. How old are you? You talk like you’re a hundred.”

“I’m eighteen and a half.”

They continued down the beach for a while in self-conscious silence. Sunday didn’t think there was any need to tell George about her parents. This walk under the moon was a dream anyway. She’d probably wake up any minute. Had to be a dream, didn’t it? She couldn’t remember ever feeling this lightheaded. Light-footed, too. It was like she could walk with him like this all the way to New Inlet. Maybe even walk right across it all the way down to the Hatteras lighthouse! After a few more paces, she willed herself to stop.

“This is halfway home, George. You’d best turn around and go on back or you’ll get in trouble with Mister Kingsley’s curfew.”

“You’re right. May I walk with you again tomorrow night?”

“Why? So you can study me?”

“No, Sunday. Because I like your company. The days are full of work that’s hard, as you know, and most of the time with unpleasant men. Like I said, these are beautiful nights, and I would enjoy them a lot more with a beautiful girl. It’s just that simple. Good night, Sunday. See you tomorrow.”

Three nights later, after finally coming home, not realizing that a slightly worried Keeper had been waiting up for her, she gushed, “Papa Ben, he’s the purty-est damn thing I ever laid eyes on! He smart, and he’s educated. Talks real fine, like you do. His daddy’s a doctor and he’s gon’ be a doctor, too. A head doctor, and he’s got beautiful manners, and he talks to me like I was a lady. I want to be a lady, too, Papa Ben. You gotta help me.”

“Whoa, Sunday. Slow down. You are a lady. A young woman already and every bit a lady.”

“Oh, you know what I mean. I ain’t refined and all. I sound like a dumb nigger gal when I talk. You gotta help me. Please.”

Ben sighed. “Well, I’ll try. First off, you don’t call a man pretty. Men call women pretty—and that’s ‘pretty,’ not purty, and women call fine-looking men handsome. Next thing you can do is stop saying ain’t all the time. Think a little before you say something—make that something without profanity.”

“Profanity?”

“Curse words. It doesn’t take much effort to do that.”

“I will. I’ll do better. I promise.”

“You might also do more reading. You can read quite well. Your problem is, you simply don’t do enough of it. Never have. But I don’t see how you have time enough now to do anything extra. You’re working day and night, seven days a week. That’s too much, even for a sixteen-year-old, strapping six-footer like you. I think I’ll have a talk with Mr. Kingsley myself about that. You go on to bed. You need to get as much rest as you can. You don’t want to look like the Old Woman of Ocracoke before you’re twenty, do you?”

And Ben did have his talk with the CCC gang boss. Both agreed that Sunday should have one day a week off from both jobs, on her name day. In the days that followed, he was more than pleased that when she had two, five, or fifteen minutes to spare, her nose was in one of his books, a newspaper, or in Webster’s dictionary! Better late than never, Ben thought. He painfully remembered how dismal a failure he had been with her before. She didn’t shirk her duties, either, and he and his men were mildly amused at her new, more feminine ways, even though she made no mention of anything so drastic as sewing or wearing a dress! Each of them knew perfectly well the reason for Sunday’s sudden change. That the girl was in love was written all over her face. Ben privately, wisely, cautioned each of them not to tease her or embarrass her about George Harris, though there wasn’t a one of them who thought her infatuation with the doctor’s handsome son would last more than a few weeks. A month at most. Surely not longer than the end of summer, and when the boy went off to school, Sunday would probably forget about him in no time at all.

They should have all known better.

On the fifth night, again about halfway between the camp and the Station House, George casually reached for her hand, and not more than ten minutes later, Sunday stopped, turned to face him and said, “Would you like to kiss me, George Harris Jr.?”

George replied, in a husky voice, “You know I would. More than anything in the world.”

Their first kiss was tentative. Chaste. Only a meeting of closed lips that lasted a mere two seconds, but it was enough to set Sunday’s insides on fire. She somehow sensed to do more would bring her trouble, and him, too, but when she pulled away from his embrace, she said, “That was the nicest thing I ever felt. Did you feel good, too?”

“Yes. It was wonderful, Sunday. And so are you.”

“Can you swim?”

“Yes. Of course I can swim. Why?”

“Ever been sailing?”

“No. I’ve been on boats before, but never on a sailboat.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday, and I don’t have to work, thanks be to Papa Ben and Mister Kingsley. Come on down to the Station House ’bout eight tomorrow morning. I’ll borrow Papa Lonnie’s boat and take you out. There’s something I want you to see.”

They were lucky with the weather. George quickly forgot how badly Lonnie’s boat reeked of fish, just as rapidly forgot his initial nervousness at being so close to the water, and marveled at the way Sunday handled it, expertly racing south and then through the New Inlet into the open Atlantic. It seemed as though the ocean, just for them, was on its best behavior as well, with not so much as a single whitecap as far as the eye could see. The Atlantic was dressed in its Sunday best and minding its manners. It was as if God, resting again on the Sabbath, had commanded the seas to do likewise. The water reflected the gorgeous colors of the sky, and on a sweet breeze of no more than five to eight knots, they were soon a few miles offshore, a little south of Pea Island. Only the hint of the beach could be seen. The Station House and dunes looked like a toy building set among anthills.

A few screaming gulls followed them, hoping Sunday would be fishing, and that they might get the scraps. Sunday was fishing, in a way, but not for frying fish. She kept up a steady stream of conversation with George, keeping one eye on her sail trim and the other one somewhere on the horizon.

They hadn’t been out two hours before she discovered what she wanted George to see.

“There they are! Hold on.”

She tacked, and sailed right into the path of a pod of gamboling dolphins. They instantly changed course, as if they recognized her, and began their joyful antics. They adjusted their lightning-fast speed to the much slower vessel, jumping high out of the water, and performing incredible acrobatics. It was as though they were competing with each other, showing off their individual skills.

Laughing, Sunday seemed to forget about her passenger, and tacked time and time again. Each time she did, the streamlined animals also changed direction, coming so close to the boat George could have reached out and touched them. It was an experience he wouldn’t have thought possible had he not been a part of it.

What happened next was something else he could never have believed. Not in his wildest imagination. Sunday hove to, put the sail aback, and stripped off her clothes. Before George could react at all, she was over the side. He caught his breath, and held it, first in fear for her, then in total awe as she actually swam with the handsome animals, her own brown body almost as supple and sleek as theirs. George watched in near disbelief when she grabbed the dorsal fin of one of them, who took off at an amazing clip, with Sunday holding on for a breathtaking ride. The dolphin took her perhaps a quarter mile away to the south, turned in a wide arc, and brought her back to the boat. It occurred to George that she had done this before. Perhaps many times.

Sunday treaded water two feet away from the boat.

“Come on in, George. These are friends of mine. They won’t hurt you. It’s fun!”

George could see right away that Sunday was breathing quite rapidly, but quickly saw that it was from exhilaration and not exhaustion. Before thinking twice about it, George found himself stripping down to his underwear, and in the next instant, jumped overboard. The following half-hour would be burned forever into his memory: those graceful, sculpted shapes with their sympathetic, nearly human eyes, now almost cuddling, now darting away—never in a threatening way—accepted him into their midst as well! And with them, the absolutely unbelievable form of Sunday Everette, nude, innocent, smiling, and unashamed, and uninhibited as were her sea-cousins swimming around them both. George had no idea when he lost his shorts, but he gave it no thought whatsoever. He knew he was feeling a kind of freedom and happiness not granted by the Almighty to very many of the human race.

Eventually, they climbed back into the boat. Back into reality, and after catching his breath, George realized he was staring at her nakedness with full and complete understanding that what he was looking at was a female body in its most perfect form—a living anatomy class he could never have envisioned, and one he could barely comprehend. The next thing he became aware of was that Sunday was looking at his body as well, her eyes showing something more than mere curiosity. They moved toward each other then, and beneath the caress of the early summer sun, took the first sure steps of the kind of spontaneous, irrevocable courtship God had provided His air-breathing creatures with since time began. Mere words had never been necessary, nor were they needed now, at least not many. Only three were whispered—three of the oldest in any language.

And from the crow’s nest, Ben Searcy slowly dropped his binoculars, tears forming in his eyes. He turned away from the Atlantic and faced the gentle breeze, knowing full well that even if he’d had the right to, he could no more have stopped Sunday’s surrender that fine morning than he could have held back a major hurricane.

Copyright © 2006 by Tom Lewis, All rights reserved.