by Molly Tanzer
Aaron ambled up just as she was hauling the final crate down the slight hill. He had his shirt slung over his arm, and Ellie blushed to see his bare chest.
“Pardon me,” he said, shrugging back into his shirt.
“It’s a warm day for woodworking.”
“A warm day for anything. I was sweating like a pig looking over your lover-boy’s finances.”
“I bet.”
“Don’t know why he can calculate how to build a house but needs me to balance his checkbook. Maybe he just likes my company.”
Ellie grinned. “I know for a fact he likes it, but ledgers do make him nervous.”
“How about you?” He eyed the final crate of booze. “You need any help?”
“Thanks, but this is the last of it. I better get going . . . SJ ran me off like a dog.”
“Nah, she likes dogs.”
Usually Ellie was fine with teasing, especially from Aaron. But today, after SJ’s inexplicable surliness, his jibe made her unhappy. It must have shown on her face.
“SJ likes you fine, Ellie. She wouldn’t sell to you, otherwise.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Aaron sighed and shook his head. “My little Sally Jane. It’s hard for her. I just try to stay out of her way.”
“Me too, but . . .” Aaron was peering at her, and Ellie decided to come clean. “I said something, I don’t even know what, and . . .” She trailed off, realizing how childish she sounded.
“SJ whet her tongue on you? That doesn’t mean she doesn’t like you.” Aaron punched Ellie in the arm. “I thought you were supposed to be some kind of tough girl.”
Ellie snorted derisively, but when Aaron gave her a meaningful look she shrugged and looked away. Talking about her troubles wouldn’t help. It would only waste everyone’s time.
Aaron shook his head. “Boy. I don’t know why I ever even try to say anything nice to either of you.”
Ellie finally relented. “I hope you’ll both come over for dinner once the house has a finished kitchen, and I’m not running around like a chicken with its head cut off.”
“Maybe so,” he said.
Ellie didn’t comment on his obvious skepticism; she’d show him later that she meant it.
Aided by the fine weather, Ellie sped through her deliveries that evening. She really wanted to get home and add all that money to the wallet in her mother’s desk. It felt strange, casually carrying around the solution to all her problems in her pocket.
She made it home just as the last of the daylight was fading. Her family would have had their supper, but hopefully there would be something in the icebox. Usually, her mother kept back a morsel or two, just in case.
“Ma!” Ellie bounded into the house. “Ma! Guess what—I . . . Ma?”
The scent of dinner lingered in the air, but Ellie’s mother was not in the kitchen finishing the dishes, nor did she answer Ellie’s summons.
“Ma?”
Ellie poked her head into the living room, but there was no one there either. It was her father who appeared, startling her when he emerged from the parlor.
“Ellie. You will keep your voice down in this house.”
The annoyance Ellie felt must have shown on her face, for her father’s frown deepened as he stared her down.
“Unless it is a matter of life and death there’s no need for you to holler like a wild Indian.”
“But—”
“No buts! Go upstairs and make yourself presentable. We have company.”
“Who—”
“Do as I say!”
Ellie was confused enough to obey. After shoving all that money into her mother’s desk with none of the fanfare she’d hoped for, she washed herself as best she could in her room with some cold water from the jug and yanked a comb through her hair. After drying herself off, she reached for her newer cotton dress . . . and then paused before selecting a clean pair of slacks and a button-down shirt.
They were perfectly respectable clothes, and looked well on her—at least she thought so. Ellie rolled up the cuffs of the shirt above her elbows. She was an engaged woman. She did her part for the family, and she was who she was.
Both she and her father could stand to remember that.
She checked herself out in the mirror. Her hair was dark from being damp, but at least it was combed nicely. The bob had grown a bit shaggy—she ought to have it trimmed. She was flushed under her tan from her hustle; it made the remains of her black eye and the other bruising from that night a bit more noticeable, but there was nothing she could do about that.
As she approached the parlor Ellie heard a strange man’s voice. Deep and soothing, it had an almost mesmeric quality to it. She paused to listen.
“It’s just common sense to acknowledge that people who aren’t from here won’t be interested in preserving what those of us who have deep roots in the community have built with our own hands—what our fathers built with their hands. They’ll naturally be more interested in what they’re owed, rather than what they’ve earned; they’ll be more likely to commit crimes, having no reason not to.”
“I agree with you.” That was her father. To Ellie’s dismay, he sounded more enthusiastic about this speech than he had about anything in years. “But if, as you say, the police aren’t interested in common sense, what do we—”
Not inclined to listen more, Ellie strolled into the parlor. The look on her father’s face told her immediately that he was furious with her. He started in his chair, but then his eyes slid to their visitor, who had stood up respectfully when she entered, and he recovered himself enough to rise with some dignity.
“Elizabeth,” he said through clenched teeth. “Meet Reverend Joseph Hunter. Reverend Hunter, this is my daughter, Elizabeth West.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss West.”
Reverend Hunter was a tall man, lean of face and figure, with short white hair but dark eyebrows. He eagerly shook Ellie’s hand; his grip was firm and dry.
It was warm, too. Very warm, hot almost. Ellie felt the air around her contract and thicken. It felt charged, like that night on the boat, and the memory of what had happened again swelled like the ocean inside her. Certain he would be able to hear the sound of her heart beating too quickly, too hard, she looked up into Hunter’s eyes. They were like lamps, brighter than they ought to be in the dim parlor, and Ellie felt cold rain on her skin; a hand closing around her neck.
She tried to push away the memory, but she could not; wanted him to release her, but he held on. She knew it had only been moments, but it felt like hours. The air in the room was so thick Ellie couldn’t breathe it. It wouldn’t go into her lungs. She gasped as he smiled; when he exhaled, small motes of something like dust came out of his nose and mouth, rainbow-bright and swirling on the eddies of his breath. She watched them, mesmerized.
When she woke up, she was on the floor, looking up at her mother, her father, and Hunter, who were all peering down at her. Hunter’s eyes still shone, but then again her mother’s and her father’s did, too, and she wondered if the light was playing tricks. She was very dizzy.
“Ellie?”
“I’m okay,” she said, though she wasn’t. Her shoulder hurt; she must have come down on it when she fell. Fainted.
“When did you last eat, Ellie?” asked her mother. Her fussing brought Ellie’s attention to her current situation.
“Oh . . . I don’t know,” said Ellie. It was true; she was hungry and exhausted. That must be why she’d gone down so hard, and so unexpectedly. That made a lot more sense than Hunter reminding her of the man she’d killed. She’d been hallucinating, just like the night when Greene had tried to kill her . . . which had absolutely nothing to do with this man in the room with her now.
Real worry took root then, in the pit of her stomach. The possibility that she was going insane loomed larger in her mind than ever.
“Let me get you something,” said her mother.
“She can eat after our guests hav
e left,” said her father.
“Don’t stand on ceremony on my account,” said Hunter, “but no need to rush right out of the room, Ellie, if you’re unsteady on your feet. Have a seat, and rest for a moment, chat with us.”
“Yes, that does make sense,” said Ellie’s mother. Ellie peered at her—Harriet West was not one to put aside an opportunity to care for people by feeding them.
That wasn’t the only strange thing about her. She looked pretty as always, but her hair was coming out of its bun and she was wearing a dress Ellie knew she’d never usually receive company in. Usually, her mother was so attuned to those little touches of respectability that kept her connected to better times, when her father had been working and they had never felt the pinch of needing more money than they had . . . Something very strange was going on. And where was Lester?
Ellie gingerly sat down, rubbing at her shoulder, and an awkward silence descended. Hunter was looking at her keenly, as if searching for something. Ellie felt almost grateful to her father when he spoke.
“You were saying, Reverend Hunter?” he said.
“Oh, the moment’s passed.” In spite of his earlier fiery tone, Hunter was all kindly smiles now. This didn’t make Ellie feel any better; to her, he looked like a shark who’d just eaten his lunch. “I’ll just conclude by saying that if we cannot make the police listen, it will be up to us to defend our island from those who would seek to destroy it.”
Ellie was plenty curious how they’d like to “defend” Long Island. Sounded like Klan talk to her. Anger pushed her fears aside and she opened her mouth to speak, but then shut it again . . . She got the impression her questions would not be particularly welcome, either by the cloyingly avuncular Hunter or by her father, who currently seemed torn between his desire to act like a stormy, domineering patriarch and the need to use his Sunday manners.
He opted for Sunday manners, and sighed heavily. “I wanted to defend more than just this island, but that didn’t work out so well. I know there aren’t many ways I can help these days”—he laughed bitterly—“but I’m still a man.”
“I’ve no doubt of it,” said Hunter, with a solemnity that was almost comically sincere. “There is still a place in the pack for a wounded wolf.”
Ellie found this pronouncement more ominous than comforting; in fact, it was bizarre that Hunter was here at all, in her mother’s parlor, preaching something that didn’t sound like the gospel. Maybe he was thinking of getting into politics.
Though it gave Ellie quite a fright, it broke the tension in the room when a young woman she hadn’t noticed spoke up. It was one of Hunter’s daughters; she’d been sitting beside him on the couch this whole time.
“Your father said you were working this evening, Miss West, and that we ought not to expect you. I’m glad you could make it. What exactly do you do that keeps you out at such unusual hours?”
She looked just like the girls who had come to their door with that pot roast. In fact, she might have been one of the same. She shared their oddly luminous quality, and their dark hair and eyes. Strange, that Elle couldn’t tell for sure—and strange, too, that the girl hadn’t spoken before that moment . . . or been introduced.
Ellie felt unsure what to say. She didn’t like to admit what she had been doing, not in front of this man. Hunter struck her as someone who would very much disapprove of rum-running.
“I was at my fiancé’s house,” she said; when Hunter looked surprised, she realized that had probably also been the wrong thing to say. “He’s, ah, restoring it right now for us, for when we’re married. It was in quite a state when he first bought it. Maybe you’ve noticed it, if you’ve been out that way? It’s that old saltbox over on Clinton, with the roses out front, on the creek side, right where it starts to narrow . . . Has a dock out back . . .” Neither Hunter nor his daughter seemed to have any idea what Ellie was talking about. “Well, sometimes four hands are better than two—even if two of them are mine.”
“You were alone with him?”
Before Ellie had a chance to reply, her mother stepped in. “Ellie and Gabriel will be married when he finishes it, so all the more reason to get it done quickly,” she said. Her hypocrisy annoyed Ellie—the first time she had stayed over with Gabriel her mother had voiced a token protest about Ellie being “sure” about her choices, but she’d said nothing further.
“I’m sure your daughter’s fiancé is a perfectly upstanding young man,” said Hunter. “But it’s my understanding that you also work, don’t you, Miss West?”
“I do my best to help support my family. We’re lucky that the bay provides for us so well.”
“You don’t go out on your boat alone, do you?” The nameless girl was astonished.
“About every chance I get,” said Ellie.
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“When you’ve been out on the water all your life, it’s safe enough.”
She felt the reverend’s eyes on her bruises as he looked evenly at her. “Of course,” he said, his politeness obviously rooted in disapproval.
“It is a bit unusual,” offered her father, to Ellie’s dismay and outrage. Why, he was the one who’d taught her everything she knew! He’d never thought it unusual before—he’d always said it was good for a woman to know the bay. Why had he changed his mind now, when what he’d taught her was keeping them all afloat?
“These are unusual times, just as we were saying,” said Hunter gently. “The world is changing. The idle profit while the weary starve. The sapling thrives while good oaks with deep roots wither. People mock the idea of what it is to truly be a woman, or a man. It is sad to see. Those who built this world seem to have less and less place in it.” More speech-making, though even a politician ought to be shy about such claptrap. And yet her father seemed incredibly moved—he looked stern, defiant, and proud. Her mother just looked at her hands. “Ah well,” said Hunter, “maybe I’m just old-fashioned, but I like to think that with a little work, we could bring back those good ways. Does not a pruned bush put forth strong new growth?”
The parlor clock chimed, bonging nine times. “Ah, but we’ve imposed on your time long enough,” said Hunter. He still had not introduced his daughter. “Thank you for the delicious dinner, Mrs. West. Now, let us pray.”
“Yes, let’s,” said Ellie’s mother, who didn’t normally bother saying grace before dinner, except on Sundays.
Some words were said, though Ellie didn’t listen. She could never focus on preaching—it tended to slip out of her mind like a fish from a net. Frankly, the only thing that would inspire her right now was some food in her stomach. She’d been hungry before her fall, but now she was ravenous. She was relieved when at last the reverend finished up and stood, his daughter with him.
Ellie’s mother rose as well, like a woman in a trance, as her husband lurched to his feet. They both looked extraordinarily well, like they’d eaten a feast and then slept for ten hours. The girl, too, looked illuminated from within, like an angel in a stained glass window.
“Thank you for honoring us with a visit, Reverend, and you too, Mercy,” she said. Ellie perked up at the mention of the girl’s name.
“Thank you, Mrs. West—and Robert . . . and Ellie, you too,” said Hunter. “I appreciate you letting me get to know you a bit better.”
Ellie didn’t know what to say, as “likewise,” or “the pleasure was mine” would be lies. Thankfully, Hunter just pressed on.
“I invited your mother and father to come and hear me speak sometime—I hope you will, too,” he said. One of those strange motes, the orange-red of a candle flame, escaped his mouth and swirled away. Ellie followed it with her eyes until he said, “I need no answer now. Just think it over; that’s all I ask.”
She blushed, embarrassed to have been caught staring, but he was peering at her again, as if looking for something. It made Ellie uncomfortable, like she was some sort of specimen in a jar, so she nodded just to get away from him. She was certain she would nev
er, ever willingly listen to Hunter speak, whether she was in a group or they were alone.
Ellie slipped away while the final goodbyes were being said—she couldn’t remember being so hungry, not ever. Horrifyingly, there was nothing in the icebox. Ellie was about to make herself some toast when her mother came in, carrying a tureen with the remains of a fish stew. Ellie tore a hunk of bread off the loaf rather than cutting it and dipped it in the flavorful sea-salty broth the moment her mother set it down.
“This is good, Ma. Thank you.” Ellie chewed, the feel of bread in her mouth sweet relief. “I didn’t know you were having anyone over for dinner.”
“It wasn’t planned,” said her mother serenely. “I saw the reverend out the window as I was dusting, but before I had time to ask your father why he might be calling, and with his daughter, there was a knock at the door.” Ellie was relieved to see a ripple across the surface of her mother’s strange tranquility when she added, “If I’d known they were coming, you don’t think I’d have made fish stew, do you?”
“Everything you cook is good enough to serve the president,” said Ellie. Her mother was so pleased by that she didn’t say anything as Ellie scooped up a piece of flaky flounder with more bread and jammed that into her face, though Mrs. West didn’t usually allow poor manners at her table.
Lester came into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. “Let me get a bit of that,” he said.
His dark hair was standing up in the back. Ellie watched him for a moment, concerned—it was odd that he would sleep through dinner and a social call, unless he was feeling ill, but he seemed all right. He even made a grumpy protest when their mother swatted his hand away from a platter of biscuits.
“Those will keep until tomorrow. Eat the bread.”
“You fall asleep or what?” asked Ellie, as her brother tucked in. He disliked her fussing over his health, so she made it sound like she was annoyed rather than concerned.
“I guess I did,” he said vaguely. “I was studying, Pop came in, and then . . .” He shook his head. “I have been reading a lot. My eyes must have been tired.”
This sounded strange to Ellie. She thought with regret about how she’d been gone a lot of late. If Lester was tired too much it might be time to convince him to make an appointment with more than just his veterinarian mentor. Anyway, the bigger question was why hadn’t their mother or father awakened him for the visit, if they were going to eat in the dining room and then have small talk in the parlor?
