The Second Mother

by Jenny Milchman

  “Which has its charms, for sure,” Julie said.

  The grandmother shifted on the hard seat. “But nothing lasts forever, does it?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  The grandmother leaned a little closer, her blue eyes blazing. “We’re the last of a dying empire, the Captain and I. Peter’s father is gone. All hopes for our continued survival—no, our resurrection—rest on Peter’s young shoulders.”

  Julie couldn’t come up with a reply at first. She wasn’t sure if the woman had just given her grandson a bequest, or a threat. She tried silence, it had worked with Peter, but the grandmother was a tougher mark and showed no sign of filling in the gap. At last Julie said, “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Of course you don’t. How could you?” The grandmother rose and strode out into the front hall, opening both tall paneled wooden doors, right and left, to the night.

  After a belated pause, Julie stood up too.

  Without turning, the grandmother said, “Why don’t you let me show you?”

  Chapter Fifty

  When the grandmother emerged onto the porch, her regal carriage, her entire bearing, had altered. From elegant, elderly woman to something dragon-like, fierce.

  She closed the doors behind her, then rounded on Julie. “You come from a different world. That’s why you can’t understand. There is no world like ours.”

  She was beginning to sound a bit melodramatic for Julie’s tastes.

  “How does the younger set put it these days? You don’t get it.”

  It was full dark now, and the ghostly fog had fled. The grandmother exited the manor to a front lawn—less sandy than the scrub at Julie’s house; someone had put a lot of effort into making sure that grass took hold—and pointed toward the roof of the house.

  “Do you see that?”

  Julie followed the upward thrust of her finger to a web of wrought-iron fencing.

  “A widow’s walk,” the grandmother said. “Telling term, isn’t it? Many a wife on this island lost her seafaring husband, my daughter included. My son-in-law’s death disrupted the natural order of things and transferred an immutable weight to Peter. He is, quite literally, our last chance.”

  “To go on in the industry,” Julie said. “Lobstering.”

  It was another explanation for the conflict Peter was experiencing, caught in the vise grip between living up to his family’s expectations versus pursuing his own obvious talents.

  “To fulfill a dynastic obligation,” the grandmother corrected. “Peter has a greater claim to this island than any other resident.”

  Melodrama again. The woman should try out for the play.

  “He’s been raised to it by his father, whose family fished nearby waters as my own did the choicest ledges and shoals around Mercy. Tragically, Peter’s education ended prematurely—and I don’t mean the one you are charged with providing.”

  The grandmother reached out and caught Julie’s hand in her own. Her fingers were like talons, cold, with scant flesh upon them, and Julie fought not to flinch.

  “Because it’s not an industry, you see—it’s a way of life. One that needs to be preserved today more than ever. Children don’t care about honoring their roots anymore. But those roots have sustained my family for generations on this island, and I’m not about to let them get pulled up now.”

  But what if she didn’t have a choice? “What happens if Peter doesn’t go into the family business?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Oh, you heard me, Julie thought irritably. There was something about the grandmother’s stance she found particularly irksome, over and above its obvious narcissism and willingness to handcuff her offspring to a legacy.

  “I said, what if Peter chooses another path?” Julie stopped, then decided to forge on. In for a penny and all that. “Acting, for instance. He’s shown real talent in class.”

  The grandmother looked amused. “Well, at least you didn’t suggest something impractical, like being a doctor or a lawyer.”

  This time, when Julie stayed quiet, it worked.

  “Yes, I heard you might be putting on a show.” The grandmother spoke as if Julie had decided to let the kids play dolls. “Not exactly theater, is it, the selection you chose?”

  This time, Julie refused to feel belittled. “My goal is to help the island children discover themselves, who they really are, as they learn. Sometimes it’s easiest to engage kids by speaking their language, appealing to updated tastes.”

  “Fairy stories, not Antigone,” the grandmother said contemptuously.

  “The Brothers Grimm are classics in their own right. Mercy may be as relevant as ever, as you suggest, rather than quaint. But each generation still seeks to put its stamp on things, and this tale has been reinvented enough times that it appeals to the kids.”

  The grandmother hesitated for an uncharacteristic moment before responding. “You fancy yourself a thespian, Ms. Weathers? A teacher of the dramatic arts?”

  “Well, I don’t know about the first one—”

  But the grandmother cut her off with the swift sharpness of a guillotine, and Julie began to suspect a trap had been laid.

  “Why, you don’t even deserve the title of failed actress,” the grandmother said. She eyed Julie haughtily from above, assessing her response as the full impact, the implications of her words descended. “Acting is a pursuit of chances, of risk taking.” One more meticulous pause. “And you never even dared give it a try.”

  * * *

  Cold sea air settled over Julie. She felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her; she couldn’t muster enough breath for reply. How on earth could the grandmother know such a thing about her? Something so small and secret and unspoken, a nascent wish, practically unborn, its feathers still wet?

  The old woman faced her, seemingly satisfied. “There isn’t much call for actors on Mercy Island. And I think you will agree as teacher that children should be prepared for more sensible paths.”

  Julie spoke at last. “Such as lobstering.”

  “When you’re a Hempstead, yes,” the grandmother snapped. She gestured out to sea, a broad, black sheet dotted with shark fins of whitecaps. “Do you have any idea how much of that is ours?”

  “You can’t own the ocean,” Julie said, astounded. Were there no limits to this woman’s grandiosity? She made Uncle Vern, who’d rewritten the rules to suit his personal law of the land without so much as a check or a balance, seem humble.

  “No, but you can own the rights to drop traps in it,” the grandmother stated.

  Julie wouldn’t have said those two were anything like the same thing, but dispute wouldn’t have mattered; the grandmother was a cold, hard empress now, informing Julie of the extent of her reign.

  “Whether lawfully or by unstated agreement between gangs. And a Hempstead doesn’t just belong to the top gang—he runs it. Peter will make a lush living for himself and the family he will one day have. The boy’s had his recreational license since he was six years old. Now he’s permitted to haul ten traps. By the time he’s grown, with a boat of his own, he’ll have all this to come home to.” The grandmother thrust out her arm. Even in the dark, it was apparent that her face had regained a touch of its youthful glow.

  Julie looked in the direction the grandmother was pointing.

  “You can hardly imagine this place during a time of abundant hauls,” she said. “We’ve had to put off a new paint job, and restoring our boathouse and dock. Even been forced to sell a few precious heirlooms. Why, we used to employ a staff of seven, now two girls come weekly, and the groundskeeper less frequently than that. But all that can be regained. More even. You’re our teacher—picture one of those electronic boards for use in the schoolhouse! Tablets for each student! Why, who knows what will be invented once we are able to purchase it?”

 
The grandmother’s feelings about technology had clearly evolved since the school board’s decision not to outfit the schoolhouse with Wi-Fi. The whole tenor of school life could be changed at her discretion. She spoke as if new devices would be introduced to the market just to suit her whims and budget.

  The old woman paused to peer at Julie. “Do you hear what I’m saying, Ms. Weathers? All that Peter can do, for himself, and for us, and for future generations on this island? Not just for our family, mind. For all of Mercy.”

  She thought she was painting a picture of promise, but Julie had never felt so chilled in her life. What a burden Peter carried on his young, thin shoulders.

  Seemingly overcome, the grandmother spun around, surprisingly agile for her age as she marched back toward the mansion. She mounted the porch steps, flinging open the twin doors so that she could enter at full stride with both arms spread wide.

  She paused to call out from the hall. “I think we’ve spoken enough for one evening. Thank you for stopping by. I’m grateful Peter has such a dedicated teacher.”

  And Julie was dismissed.

  * * *

  Julie headed back across the lawn, head clamped by a pain only scotch would touch, brought on by newfound awareness of the grandmother’s reach, the bounds—or lack thereof—of the dowager’s feverish power. In her interview, Julie had been taken aback by how much Laura Hutchins knew of her background. Now, recalling the younger woman’s adoration of the grandmother, she wondered at whose behest that research had been done.

  But Laura Hutchins couldn’t have known that Julie once dreamed of being an actress. No one knew that besides her parents, both long dead, and David, who probably wouldn’t even remember.

  Peter caught up to Julie as she reached the lane that spanned the distance between both houses. He held something aloft; in the dark it was impossible to tell what it was.

  “My grandmother’s helping Cap now,” Peter said. “Giving him his medicines. For his heart and blood and head. It takes a real long time. He doesn’t like to swallow pills.”

  Julie offered an empathic nod. “That must be very upsetting for you.”

  Peter shook his head impatiently. “I just mean that I was able to get this. There are others, but they’re super old, like falling apart. I think this one will be the best.” He lifted his hands, on which rested a thick bound book.

  Julie looked down.

  “I need it back, okay?” Peter said. “Leave it at my hideout. My grandmother collects rent on Saturdays. I could maybe say Cap got confused and took it, but she doesn’t let him look at them anymore, so that wouldn’t be too good.”

  “Peter,” Julie said. The boy had never spoken to her with such elaboration, and she didn’t want to rebuff him. But nor did she wish to jeopardize her already tenuous standing with his family. If they shut down on her, she’d never be able to help Peter. “I don’t want to do something that could get you in trouble.”

  “You have to!” Peter shrieked. The sound slit the silence of the night, and the boy lowered his voice. “She’s a liar,” he hissed. “I hate my mom. She doesn’t even act like a real mom. I just want my dad back. I want my dad.” Tears wobbled on the blue surface of his eyes.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” Julie said. “Of course you do—”

  A resounding cry carried across the lawn. “Peter Hempstead Meyers! This sort of wandering may be tolerated at your mother’s, but it will not be here!”

  Peter hurled himself forward, throwing his arms around Julie, and she stooped down, surprised. She thought he was giving her a hug, an indication of their growing bond. But as he turned and raced off, she realized that the boy had in fact left the book in her hold.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  At the house, Depot paced back and forth by his favorite spot in front of the windows, his bowls licked and lapped so clean you couldn’t tell they’d been filled. Julie sent mental thanks Ellie’s way for the dog-sitting. Another source of worry tonight would’ve broken her. Depot ran forward at a pace that made Julie back away in self-defense, laughing, which she hadn’t expected to do after the events of this night. The dog let out his hungry bark, so Julie served him a second portion. Everybody, even people who knew dogs, underestimated Depot’s appetite.

  Julie had placed the book Peter had given her on the table when she came in; now she went and retrieved it. Depot walked over, nudging Julie till she sat down on the floor. Then he dropped into the well between her legs as if he were a lapdog, hind haunches and big head overflowing the space. Julie let out an oof as she took his weight.

  “Yes, okay,” she told him distractedly. “But we have work to do, all right?”

  She looked down at Peter’s offering.

  The book was heavy and rectangular and black, a ledger with a hard, pebbly cover and pages printed with rows of horizontal lines. Roughly the first half of the book had been filled in by a sharp, elegant hand: pointy, peaked letters, written in ink that changed from the start of the book to the middle, shiny black liquid evolving to ballpoint.

  The content appeared largely numeric, lists of sums owed, paid, and sometimes negotiated or settled by barter. Properties identified by the methods used on Mercy, no street addresses, but lots referred to by location and size, houses described as stone two story or little cedar shake. These must be rentals owned by the Hempsteads, a record of income earned. The entries extended back years, even decades, the first names an archaeological study of nomenclature, from Mary’s and Linda’s, William’s and Richard’s, to Christopher’s and Joshua’s, Ashley’s and Jennifer’s.

  Peter had said there were older versions too. How old? If Julie had been handed one of those, would she have seen a Cornelius or Hezekiah, an Elspeth or Verity listed on fragile pages of foolscap? And why was Peter so intent on Julie reading such bloodless records?

  Perhaps because they weren’t as bloodless as they appeared.

  She really needed a drink for this. Julie realized she’d been nibbling her lips again, wearing away the skin till she tasted blood, sharp and metallic. She got up and made her way to the kitchen where she put on a pot of coffee. She and Callum hadn’t traded numbers yet—on the island, it didn’t seem like something you did the same way you would in other places, even ones like Wedeskyull—which was too bad. Julie could’ve used some advice right now, a little guidance, especially once she spotted the vodka bottle, left in the place where she’d hurriedly stowed it, on a corner of counter, with a few swallows left.

  She’d never even put the cap back on.

  Julie bit her lip.

  The saltiness from the cut she’d opened provoked a desertlike thirst.

  A tipple in a cup of coffee? Barely detectable; it’d provide just the slightest smoothing over of whatever she was about to read, find out about the grandmother.

  A little balm on her rubbed raw lips.

  Julie filled a mug from the coffeepot, then reached for the bottle.

  It fell over, knocked by her sweat-slick hand.

  She could’ve rescued it, a sip at least, but instead Julie watched the clear liquid snake its way across the counter, almost invisible, only an acrid odor to give it away.

  Julie sponged up the spill, then, for good measure, tossed the sponge in the garbage. She took a deep drink from her mug, a bracing jolt of caffeine and heat. A second later, confusion wrapped a web around her, sticky and opaque. Had she somehow imbibed some vodka after all? For the little red light on the coffee machine had gone suddenly dull, without her even touching it, as if the pot had turned itself off.

  As if it were conspiring to get her to take a drink of something besides now rapidly cooling coffee. Julie stamped down on the thought, paranoid and irrational.

  The lights in the rest of the house flickered, and then everything went dark.

  Julie swallowed her mouthful of coffee, setting the cup on the counter by feel. She made
her way into the big, open room, patting her hand against the wall for switches.

  None of the lights worked.

  This house was so isolated, sitting alone on its hump of cliff, that Julie couldn’t tell whether anyone else had lost power, if the outage was island-wide, or limited to this spot.

  She began to walk slowly, in what she hoped was the direction of the dining room table, feeling for obstacles before her. She nearly tripped over one of Depot’s paws; power losses always sent him into the most restful of slumbers. His outline oriented her, though. She was right near the wall of windows, the table only a few feet away.

  When she reached it, shuffling forward, Julie placed both hands upon the wooden surface, situating herself. First things first: a flashlight.

  Julie was used to outages. In Wedeskyull, they happened during winter storms and summer ones, or for no reason at all. She knew the cycle they inflicted: at first a not-unwelcome feeling of being cast into an earlier, arguably better age; then a dawning awareness of how spoiled and cosseted everyone had gotten in this one; increasing discomfort and irritability; before relief descended once power was restored seemingly in the last seconds before true madness ensued. But Julie wasn’t going to let an inconvenience interfere with the job Peter had begged her to take on—even if deep down it did feel as if something or someone was trying to do exactly that.

  Interfere.

  Her laptop had plenty of battery charge, although she couldn’t get onto the Wi-Fi, feel even as distantly connected to another human being as Facebook allowed. No matter, she didn’t need connection right now. Using the light from the computer screen, Julie made her way over to the flight of stairs, then headed up to the second floor to locate a flashlight.

  * * *

  The darkness seemed to have substance, thick and gluey as paste. Oppressive. Although the laptop provided a ghostly glow, the way it cast everything outside its penumbra into shadow wound up making Julie feel more vulnerable, as if a spotlight shone upon her.