Chapter 9: You Can Relax Now
It rains right before dawn, and Claire wakes to the slap of water hitting the tarp. The rain bathes everything in a clean, green fragrance, but the spell is broken when Shannon starts to wheeze.
Hurley's sleeping on his stomach, snoring. Claire wants nothing more than to cuddle his soft side, but she can't ignore the gasping noises coming from Shannon and Boone's shelter.
Sleep-fogged, Hurley raises himself on one arm. "Dude, what's that sound?"
"It's Shannon. Something's wrong."
Claire leaves Hurley's warmth for Boone's shelter, where Boone is frantically dumping bags onto the sand. "Are you sure you didn't take them out, Shan?"
Shannon ignores him. She dashes her face with water from their water trap and says in between wheezes, "You know what I'd pay for a rainwater scrub in LA?"
Claire dabs her own face. "Boone's worried about you."
Shannon brushes Claire aside. "I'll be fine."
Dismissed, Claire stands at the shoreline and gazes out over a sun-kissed ocean whose waves invite her in. Down the beach, Kate carries a large bunch of green bananas while off-shore, Sawyer's taking a morning dip. He breaks through the water like a seal and strides towards Kate, bare-assed. She stops to chat with him, and doesn't look away.
Although Claire's no stranger to nudity, the scene leaves her empty and haunted. She hasn't seen a man naked since the day Thomas threw her out. He got out of their bed that morning, flopping limp in the breeze, saying what did she expect with that enormous stomach and swollen breasts?
She was four months pregnant at the time.
*:*:*:*:*
Blazing tropical sun burns off every last delicate breath of rain. Beached on the sea-side, blinded by mid-morning glare, Claire gives up trying to read. She screens her eyes with her hand and watches Hurley instead as he stands in the surf, sweeping a net back and forth.
Sun has made dip-nets out of cordage salvaged from the plane, and she's given one to Hurley. She doesn't need English to tell him that he's to catch fish for Claire. It's what a man does.
Charlie skips over to Claire with a bag of water bottles and hands her one. "Special delivery." He's still buried inside that hoodie, tied tightly at the neck. He's less pale, though he still looks to be fighting off shivers.
"You sure you should be doing a water run, with your flu?"
"Flu, shmue. I'm recovering remarkably fast. But I wouldn't have to make this run, if you'd see fit to relocate to the caves." He invites himself to sit on her beach towel, and his eager, energetic smile confuses her at first.
Charlie doesn't know. Then she asks herself, Knows what? What is there to know, Claire?
She can smell the dankness of the caves on him. "I like the beach."
Slapping at the bare skin of his hands, Charlie says, "Don't these bloody things ever bite you?"
"They must find you appetizing. They ignore me."
"I can't imagine why. I should think you'd be highly appetizing."
The bon mot lies squirming in the sand, ignored.
Hurley bounces up from the shore, a broad smile on his face. "Hey, Charlie, man. You're looking great."
"Much improved, thanks."
"Fantastic." Hurley extricates three octopuses from the net and hangs them on the clothesline next to a few of Claire's underthings.
Claire says, "Hey, you caught a couple."
"Better than nothing. That spot's kinda fished out. Farther down the beach might be better."
"Sounds like a grand idea," Charlie says. "You should check that out, pronto. Pick up a few red snapper for me, while you're at it."
Instead, Hurley eases his bulk on the sand next to Claire. "Charlie, I been thinking. Since you got your guitar back, why don't you bring it down to the beach, strum a few tunes so we can sing along?"
Coming from someone else, Thomas, say, it would sound like mockery. But Hurley seems entirely sincere.
Charlie, though, looks as if he's just stepped in something unpleasant. "Sing... along? Look, man, my band... I mean, we opened at the Cavern Club."
Hurley has obviously never heard of the Cavern Club. "We could sing those camp songs, the ones everybody knows. You do that in England, right?"
"Umm..." Charlie says, obviously flummoxed.
Before Charlie can answer, Boone's voice rings out across the beach. "Help, somebody, help, she can't breathe!"
Hurley hoists himself to his feet, scattering sand in every direction. "Come on, Charlie."
Like an automaton, Charlie obediently rises and follows Hurley. Shannon clings to Boone's chest, gasping heavily.
"Oh, my God, we've got to get her to Jack!" Boone says.
Shannon's eyes almost bug out of her face in panic. "I... can't make it.. Can't... walk up there..."
Boone lifts his sister, but buckles almost at once, even though she's light and slender. "A fireman's carry, that's what we need."
"Fireman's what?" says Hurley.
Boone forms his arms into a kind of chair. "One man on one side, one on the other. Charlie, grab her bag. The pink one."
"Sure, on it."
Hurley and Boone support Shannon in the scoop of their interlaced arms, while Charlie hovers around anxiously. Before they leave for the caves, Hurley gives Claire a long, parting look.
*:*:*:*:*
The noon sun is bright, so Claire shelters under a feather-branched tree at the jungle's edge. Ethan's nowhere to be seen, but she doesn't take any chances, and stays within shouting distance of Brian and a few other guys. They bash shiny black stones with heavy grey rocks, breaking them into glassy shards. They're making knives.
She's tired of her blue diary, full of nothing but old grievances. Instead, she sketches the gulls as they hover over the waves.
Claire stops when Kate approaches, hair in disarray, her face red.
"Hey, Kate, thought you were up at the caves with Jack."
She won't look Claire in the eye. "We were. Jack had to run an... errand down here." The air around Kate seethes with tension.
"Is Hurley with you?"
"He's still back at the caves, with Shannon and Boone."
There's something so not-right here. "How is Shannon?"
"Jack got her fixed up this morning, and she's way better. Claire, I have to talk to you."
"What's up?"
"You were here all yesterday afternoon, weren't you?"
"Where else would I go?" Claire gives a little laugh, but Kate doesn't smile back.
"So when you were here at the beach, Sawyer was too, right?"
"Sawyer's like a cat, Kate. When he finds a comfortable spot, he barely moves. He sat reading that book about the rabbits till sunset. Then he plunked himself in front of his fire and smoked. Everybody could smell it."
"Claire, this is really important. So, you saw him all through the late afternoon and evening?"
"What on earth is this about?"
"Could you tell Jack and Sayid what you told me? Please?"
"Well, sure. But—"
Kate won't let her finish. Pulling Claire to her feet, she drags her to Sayid's shelter, where Jack and Sayid are talking quietly, their foreheads almost touching. If their auras were visible, they'd flicker red with anger.
Marching right up to the two men, Kate announces, "Sawyer didn't do it."
Claire takes in the blood-stains on Sayid's t-shirt, his clotted head wound. "Sayid, what happened?"
He doesn't answer, but her warm tone softens his stony expression.
"Claire, tell them what you told me," Kate says in a rush. "About seeing Sawyer."
So Claire does. She finishes with, "Jack, half a dozen people were around, too."
Jack's weary, and brown blood specks dot his blue jeans. "We've talked to people, Claire. Nobody seems to know anything."
As Sayid spins a bone-handled knife, sunlight flashes on the blade.
"What'd Sawyer do?" Claire asks.
Some of Sayid's anger has boiled off, although his eyes still gleam with ferocity. "Just as I was about to triangulate the radio signal, I was struck from behind."
Something about that knife repels Claire. It's irrational, but she can't help it. "Where did you get that?"
Sayid rotates the knife as he passes it from hand to hand. "I thought we were the ones asking the questions."
"He got it from Locke," Kate says.
"Oh, right, Mr. Locke of the four hundred knives."
Sayid's eyes soften at that. "The very same."
Claire steps up for one more swing. "Sawyer couldn't have hit you while you were up on the mountain, Sayid. It would take hours to hike up there, then return."
Jack uses the tone reserved for stubborn children. "Claire, no one else would have a reason to—"
"Why don't you believe her, Jack?" Kate interrupts, impatient and clearly irritated.
"Why are you defending him?" Jack snaps back.
"This is immaterial," Sayid says. "Claire has no reason to defend Sawyer, even if Kate might."
Now both men are staring at Kate, hard and critical.
Tears start to gather in Kate's eyes. "I swear to God, if you think—"
"Look, Sayid," Claire breaks in. "You, too, Jack. I wasn't always just some preggo who sits around. I went on walkabouts, wilderness camps. I know how hard it is to move through the bush. There simply wasn't time."
"You've made your point," Sayid says. "But there is another matter. Shannon's medication."
Claire looks directly at Sayid. "Kate said she was better."
Jack sighs. "We managed to get her stabilized, and when I left her, she was resting. Sun found this botanical that's helping, at least temporarily. But we need to find her inhalers, and no one but Sawyer—"
"You don't know that." Kate practically bites on the words.
If only Hurley were here. He could cut through all this suspicion and anger. But there are no mobile phones on this Island, no way to ring him up. Claire's on her own. She blurts out, "I'll talk to Sawyer."
"What makes you think he'll tell you anything?" Sayid says, barely disguising the scoff in his tone.
"Because I'm the only one here he hasn't fought with."
*:*:*:*:*
Stupid. Rash. Idiot. That's what Claire tells herself on the way to Sawyer's tent. She carries a coconut shell of octopus-and-breadfruit stew, her and Hurley's evening meal. It took over an hour to make, but Claire knows her mythology. If you want to get past Cerberus, you have to toss him a honey-cake first.
Claire's never had a honey-cake, but one sounds pretty good right now.
Sawyer's taking the same mid-afternoon siesta everyone else does, as there's no point in running around in the hottest part of the day. Claire dreads waking him up, but it can't be helped, so she taps on the metal tent frame like it was a front door. "Excuse me? Sawyer?"
Sleep and heat have blurred his hard expression. When his eyes open, it takes them a few seconds to focus. "Well, if it ain't Mamacita. What can I do you for?"
His face crinkles into a smirk full of mischief. No wonder Kate stares at him when she thinks he isn't looking. And sometimes, like this morning, when she knows he is. Three of the four tarp walls are lowered, leaving the air inside stuffy and a bit gamey.
"Can I come in?"
"Be my guest." He scoots over, giving her a bit of first-class seat to perch upon. "What you got there?"
"Just a little something I whipped up. Had some extra, and I thought you'd like to try it."
"You makin' Fat Albert his supper now? You got your work cut out for you, sweetheart. This a gift, or a trade?"
Everything depends on her answer. "A gift. There is something I want, but you don't have to give it to me." As she hands him the coconut shell, her stomach rumbles. Maybe she can catch more octopus, or dig for clams. Or something. "Please, take it."
"Why" forms behind Sawyer's eyes, but doesn't reach his lips. Instead, he breathes deeply of the fragrant stew. "Ain't had a home-cooked meal since we crashed on this damned rock. I thank you."
"You're welcome." She starts to get up, but he places a gentle hand on her arm.
"You're gonna let me eat all by my lonesome?" He spoons the gloppy mixture into two metal cups, then hands one to her.
He practically inhales his own portion while Claire makes mental notes. She used to fry fish at the restaurant, then cooked for Thomas. Everyone always acted like it was nothing, just slap fish in the fryer, grill rashers of bacon. Any idiot can do it, right? But on this Island, cooking is worth something in trade. Confidence flickers through her as she eats.
"You want the shell back?" Sawyer says.
"Keep it. There are lots more where that came from." It's true. Coconut groves line the coastline, and where there are coconuts, crabs and sea-birds follow. The pressure to find food is easing a bit. But someone still has to cook.
"So." Sawyer cleans out the shell with his fingers, licks them.
"So, now I won't bother you anymore."
"You ain't bothering me at-all. I'm just wonderin' why you'd wanna share fish stew with the likes of me."
Late-afternoon sun coats Sawyer with liquid gold, making his hair shine like a tawny mane. Claire swallows hard, nerves twitching. She's walked into the lion's den, and now she's about to stick her head into his jaws. "Look, you have a lot of stuff you don't even use."
Claire already knows the speech by heart: it's his stash, he came by it fair and square, free trade and all that. Before he can get it out, she cuts him off. "I'm not giving you a hard time about it. But Shannon's sick. She needs her medicine, those things you breathe through."
"Inhalers."
"That's right. Please."
His nostrils flare, sniffing for a trap. "Jack put you up to this?"
"He didn't want me to talk to you."
"I bet him and Iraqi Pete sent you in here all sweet as pie, afore they charge in to kick the shit out of me."
"Glad you liked the stew, Sawyer. That tells me Hurley's going to love it for sure." As she struggles to get up, he gracefully takes her arm, the conditioned reflex of a man who rises whenever a lady enters or leaves the room.
It hits her with a little shock. Sawyer sees her as a lady.
He shuffles a bit, looking more like a boy and less the bane of the survivors' camp. "I ain't got her medicine."
It comes out so softly and unexpected that Claire blurts out, "What?"
"I said, I don't—"
"No, I heard." Committing herself to something irreversible, Claire says, "I believe you."
It's Sawyer's turn to look astonished. Before he can answer, she pivots her ungainly belly around, letting its momentum carry her out of Sawyer's tent.
Now what? she thinks. Oh, sweet relief, there's Hurley huddled by the signal fire with Sayid, Jack and Kate. Claire can make out snatches of, "I say we just—" and "Jack, don't you dare," along with Sayid's "Are you willing to trade Shannon's life for—" followed by Hurley's, "Chill, dude, when I left the caves she was fine—"
Claire uses her best stage voice. "He doesn't have her medicine."
Kate's mouth falls into a confounded "O." Jack shakes his head, as if he's never heard anything so foolish. Hurley doesn't say anything, just stares at Claire like she's ice cream on a hot day and he'd like to eat her up, feet first.
"He's lying," Sayid says in a flat voice.
"No, he's not." Claire hopes she's correct, because Sayid's look scares her more than Sawyer ever did.
Jack's fighting to stay reasonable. "Claire, Sawyer has Boone's novel. He must have gotten it from Boone's bags."
"Why? Shannon told me right after the crash that Boone's suitcase burst open. His things were strewn all over the beach. The tide could have washed it away."
The gentleness in Sayid's voice is worse than his earlier sharpness. "Claire, I know he can be very charming with women—"
Claire directs her words to Sayid, but her eyes are fixed on Hurley. "Sawyer's not my type."
He's someone's type, though. Claire can't miss how Jack's glance jerks straight over to Kate.
Kate says, "I believe her. Hurley, back me up here."
Hurley's words tumble out as if on cue. "Sayid, dude, I know you're, like, Mr. Communications Officer. But if Claire says Sawyer doesn't have Shannon's meds, he doesn't. Besides, Jack fixed Shannon up real good. She looked great when I left. Boone was with her, and they were talking. No wheezy-breath, nothing."
At Boone's name, Sayid steps back, his face shuttered once more. "I still don't trust Sawyer. And he should not be allowed to control vital medications."
Kate throws her hands up in the air, plainly frustrated. "Nobody's saying he should, Sayid. But you and Jack can't just beat it out of him—"
"I can't?" Jack says, his voice breaking with frustration. "Really? The only thing holding me back is that somebody has to keep up a vestige of civilization."
A crowd forms, but they keep their distance. Jack throws his hands up and stalks off, with Kate following close behind.
Sayid rubs his head, as if in sudden pain.
"Dude, what's wrong?" Hurley says.
"Just the small matter that someone struck me in the head, that I was unconscious half the night, my equipment has been destroyed, we're no closer to finding the source of that radio transmission, a young girl is sick on account of that selfish, bigoted creature for whom dog is too good a word, and we are still on this bloody Island!"
Speech delivered, Sayid sweeps away towards the shoreline and hunkers down, face covered.
Hurley stares at the space where Sayid was. "So, Claire, how'd you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Get Sawyer to tell you the truth."
"I, uh, fed him our supper."
"Oh."
"Maybe we could go dig for clams?"
In the shallow intertidal waters live the big clams called "gooey ducks," with their obscenely long but delicious siphons. Claire isn't fond of sticking her arms in muddy water up to the shoulders, but a few of those clams make a full meal.
When Hurley smiles, his entire face lights up. It's hard to tell if his eyes are brown or dark olive green, and she's not sure she could get to the bottom of them either way. When he says, "Awesome," she doesn't even hear him at first.
Full to the brim with sliced clams smothered in chopped lemon-grass, Hurley and Claire sit in front of their small fire while their muddy clothes soak. She's wearing a bikini top which she scavenged, hoping that Hurley isn't grossed out by her stomach.
He must not be, because he gives her that look again, like Venus had risen out of the waves and joined him on the damp, sandy beach towel. The night hovers above, clear and cool, and when she starts to shiver, he wraps a blanket around her shoulders. It would be so easy to take hold of his hand, draw his arm around her, snuggle into his plush side.
She doesn't, though. She remembers another shore, another continent, where another man once looked at her as if she were the most beautiful creature on the planet, until he didn't any more. On an Australian beach he made love to her, his naked flesh silvery beneath the moon.
Now the consequences swell out before her, fish-belly pale and laced with dark pink stripes. She pulls the blanket over her stomach.
Hurley mistakes the gesture. "You cold?"
"A little."
"We could turn in." Like her, he must be thinking of the two of them wrapped together, snug.
"In awhile. So, what 'botanical' was Jack talking about earlier?"
He scrunches his face, as if trying to remember. "That stuff koalas eat."
"Eucalyptus, right."
"Sun boiled it up in a stew, got Shannon to breathe it. She rubbed it all over Shannon's chest, too."
"So Shannon was okay when you left?"
"You should of seen Jack talk her down. It was awesome, like Obi-Wan scooby-doo-ing the stormtroopers."
She hasn't a clue what he means, but it doesn't matter, as long as she can listen to the cadence of his voice. Then the unspoken question tumbles out. "Hurley, who do you think hit Sayid?"
When he frowns, the furry caterpillars of his dark brows meet right at the bridge of his nose. It seems quaint that only a fortnight ago they worried about dinosaurs and mastodons.
The boar, the white bears: those aren't the most dangerous creatures in the jungle, are they?
When Hurley and Claire bed down, he tucks the two of them into a blanket burrito. Their middles squash together, and she helps herself to the pillow of his arm. As she sinks into sleep, whatever is out there seems very far away. For now, at least.
(continued)