She paused before entering Mott’s General Store, surveying the center of the tiny island town. Her tiny island town. She smiled and sighed happily. What a peaceful place it was! Romantic, like something out of a dream.
Here she could live as she wanted to live. She could keep things simple, avoid difficulty, and — for the most part — ignore the world’s unpleasantness.
From where she stood, right next to the gas pump, Nancy could see the town hall, the library, Professor Hathaway’s house, and just a little farther down, her pride and joy, the school.
A one-room schoolhouse! It was ideal, a dream come true. It was part of a vanishing America that reminded her of simpler lives in a simpler time.
She turned slowly and walked up the wooden steps of the general store. Her intention was to check the mail — both her own and the school’s — and pick up some groceries for tomorrow.
Abner Mott, white-haired and as clean-looking as a doctor in his spotless butcher’s apron, smiled at her from across the counter.
“Afternoon, Miss Nancy Wells.”
She liked the way he always addressed her by her first and last names, as if they were one name.
Since she had arrived on the island some three short months ago, Abner Mott had always made her feel welcome. Of course, as a businessman it was only good practice to make his customers feel liked and respected, but Mr. Mott seemed to go a little beyond the call of duty. He always had a smile for her, an observation about the weather, and perhaps a question or two about the state of education on the island. He unfailingly made her proud to be the schoolteacher, and he communicated that, at least here on Friar’s Island — if nowhere else in the country — folks still looked up to educators and still valued learning.
Sure, that was a romantic notion in the late 1980s, but it was romanticism that had attracted her to the island and its school. She had hesitated only slightly before accepting the position.
Even if the job itself hadn’t been enough to convince her, the “teacher’s cottage” that came with it would have been. It was a rustic four-room house made from gray island marble and situated on the eastern coast, the “sunrise shore,” as the islanders called it.
At the library she had read all about the cottage’s role in the island’s educational history. Until 1935, when ferry service to St. Albans had been discontinued, her cottage had been the boatman’s house. Then the town took it over to be rented to the schoolteacher. A twenty-year-old Miss Deborah Swain, from Hyde Park, Vermont, had accepted the teaching post and had rented the cottage for ten dollars a year. The rent had crawled steadily upward to twenty-five dollars a month by the time Miss Deborah died last spring.
Now that teaching post was filled by Miss Nancy Wells, from Albany, New York, and she was charged fifty dollars a month for the teacher’s cottage, utilities included.
“I’m sorry, Miss Nancy Wells, but there’s not a thing for you today.”
No mail. It made her feel a little lonesome, reminding her of how cut off she was from the rest of the world. But then again, what had she expected? Did she really think she’d hear from Eric again? Surely not after the way she’d left him. He probably didn’t even know where she was. And if she did hear from him, what then? She had no intention of seeing him again, that was for sure. The whole thing had lasted too long, had been too crazy; it was a part of an unwholesome past that had nothing to do with her new life on Friar’s Island.
But sometimes she did get lonely…
Nancy felt ashamed of herself. How could she think so self-indulgently while in the pleasant beam of Abner Mott’s smile.
“Guess I’m a miserable failure as postmaster,” Mr. Mott chuckled.
She looked timidly at the storekeeper, feeling a little less than pure. If Mr. Mott were to find out about Eric, what would he think of her then? Would he dismiss her as a woman with a past? A scarlet hussy, perhaps not fit to teach the island’s young?
She shook away the notion with a little toss of her head. “I can’t imagine you failing at anything, Mr. Mott.”
She’d think no more about it. By God, she had better things to do than feel sorry for herself on a Saturday afternoon. Right now she had groceries to buy, and — as usual — it would be fun to take a look around the store.
“Anything I can help you find, miss, just give a holler.”
As with many of the island’s residents. Nancy’s daily stops at the general store were a sort of ritual.
“Thanks, Mr. Mott. I just want to look around.”
“You go right ahead.”
In spite of her frequent visits, she remained fascinated by the store’s atmosphere and inventory. In her mind, Abner Mott and his general store were the same thing, manifestations of the same personality, one that — like her schoolhouse — was part of an older, better time.
The store’s interior was not large, but it was crowded with shelves and displays. Because of the island’s small population, it was rarely necessary to accommodate crowds of shoppers — a good thing, because some of the aisles were so narrow that two grown people could not pass without bumping into each other.
Abner wrote signs that he placed here and there around the store. Some were on pieces of brown paper bag; others were written on white paper plates. The intent, of course, was to impose a rude order on the crowded chaos. But — Nancy smiled —the intent was often lost because of the signs’ lack of specificity. The one in front of her, for example, was written on the rectangular cover of a shoe box. It said, ODDS ‘N’ ENDS, and was tacked above a section of shelves containing lamp chimneys, rubber seals for canning jars, flashlight batteries, a bag of golf tees, and an open shoe box full of belt buckles.
Nancy remembered the first time she had seen the oldest and most controversial sign in the store. It was thumbtacked right below the countertop where Abner transacted his business at an ornate mechanical cash register. The sign read: NO OUTSIDE PAPERS.
What it meant, of course, was No out-of-state-papers available. This wasn’t quite true, because Abner did carry the Union Leader from Manchester, New Hampshire, and the Weekly World News, but, as Abner explained, he made the rules and they were his to break.
Actually, NO OUTSIDE PAPERS was the storekeeper’s quiet rebellion. He got sick and tired of tourists and summer folks stopping in — especially on Sunday — and asking for those damn New York papers that weighed more than a bale of hay. Who could possibly read all that trash anyway? Abner refused to carry them. What’s more, he got sick and tired of saying no to people who asked for them. His solution was to put up the sign. Now he’d say, “Nope, can’t you see the sign?” And he’d point down to it and tap his finger on the countertop. Nancy had seen it happen more than once; people would read the awkwardly scrawled lettering and walk away looking confused.
Smiling again, Nancy remembered the time she had fallen into the same trap. Abner Mott had explained his rationale, carefully assuring her that the sign wasn’t intended for her or the other islanders.
She wandered past the white, glass-fronted meat counter at the back of the store, through rows of canned goods and cosmetics, nails, ammunition, toys, clothing, rubber boots, cold soft drinks and beer. Abner was even licensed by the state of Vermont to sell alcoholic beverages. Until three years ago one had to drive all the way to the liquor store in Grand Isle to pick up a fifth of Seagram’s or some ginger brandy.
Nancy stopped at the magazine rack. It was positioned at the front of the store, with its back nearly resting against the big display window that looked out on the street. As she scanned the titles, she noticed a silver Saab pull up near the gas pumps. She had been on the island long enough for an unfamiliar vehicle to stand out as dramatically as a fly in a glass of milk.
A tall, handsomely built man got out of the car and stood looking around. Nancy watched him with great interest, automatically falling into the familiar pattern of island natives appraising an outsider. The man had a lost look about him; he was probably stopping to ask d
irections.
She began flipping through a copy of Newsweek as the man entered the store. Peeking over the top of the magazine, she saw him stop short inside the door. Now he looked not only lost, but completely perplexed.
She was amused by the expression on his face, recalling the first time she had set foot in Abner’s establishment.
The man saw Abner. He walked directly over to where the storekeeper stood behind the wooden counter, poised between the cash register and three-quarters of a wheel of white cheddar under a clear plastic cover.
“Hep ya?” inquired Abner Mott.
“Yes, sir, if you’re the postmaster.”
“I believe I am.”
“Then I’ve come to the right place. My name’s Harrison Allen. I’m moving into Mark Chittenden’s place down on the other side of the swamp. Can I pick up my mail here?”
“Hafta. No delivery down that way.”
“Fine. I take it you’re also the storekeeper?”
“Yup. I pump the gas, an’ I do the clean-up work, to boot.”
“Speaking of clean-up work, that’s the other reason I came in. I need a broom and a bucket. A mop. Stuff to clean the place up with.”
“Bet it could use some cleanin’. You buy the place, did you?”
“Oh, no. I’m a friend of Mark’s. He’s letting me use it for a while.”
“Zat right? Haven’t seen them folks in a month a Sundays. Still teachin’ down there to the college, is he?”
“He’s still at it.”
“I kinda hoped them two would settle in over the house. I liked ’em. Don’t think the wife had much use for the island, though.”
“I guess the drive to Burlington got to be a bit much.”
“A shame the way that ol’ place is goin’ all to sin. Ain’t nothin’ right about that.”
“I’ll try to keep it under control. Maybe I’ll even fix it up a little. But first I’ve got to clean it.”
“You’ll prob’ly find everything you need right over there by that sign that says, ‘Godliness.’ The cleanin’ stuff’s right next to it.”
Abner’s eyes twinkled mischievously. He winked at Nancy. Harrison smiled wanly and moved away, still looking rather puzzled. Nancy tried to stifle a laugh as she stepped up to the counter with a loaf of Fassett’s Oatmeal Bread, a quart of milk, and a box of Nutri-Grain. She had traded the copy of Newsweek for Redbook.
“Your Sat’dee-evenin’ readin’, Miss Nancy Wells?”
“I’m afraid so, Mr. Mott.”
She paid for her groceries and walked out of the store. As she got into her car, she felt a kind of envy for this newcomer, who was lucky enough to live alone in such a fine old house.
She found that she continued to think about him as she drove home.
6
Bill Blood hitched up his trousers, nodded stiffly, and started home for supper, leaving Cliff alone on the steps of the town hall.
Cliff polished off the last of the six-pack, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and butted his Marlboro against the stone slab on which he sat. With the intent stare of a hungry eagle, he watched the schoolteacher as she left the store and drove away. After rolling up the bottoms of his blue jeans, he creased the cuffs neatly. Then he stood up, belched with great authority, and walked down the road toward his place.
7
Cappy Capra and Brigitte Pelletier decided to go home. It was very tempting, the way the guy had left the place wide open. It was unlocked and everything! Very inviting. But it probably meant the man would be coming right back, and Cappy didn’t want to risk getting caught inside. Okay. No problem. There would be another time.
As they skulked along the edge of the marsh, they saw the silver Saab returning. Quickly they moved out of sight.
“See, I told ya he’d be right back,” said Cappy. “You gotta learn to trust your instincts.”
Brigitte nodded.
Two weeks later …
Chapter 4 - Dark Reflections
1
Night on Friar’s Island.
Abner Mott stood by his living room window, looking out at the lake. He could feel the pulse of the water as it throbbed against the cliffs and sands like a great heart beating. Along the rocky shoreline, silhouetted evergreens twitched and shivered in the wind’s arctic breath. In Abner’s dooryard, towering hardwoods, Bible-black and ancient, surrendered the last of their autumn leaves to a passing November wind.
Abner thought of the neglected orchards — once the life’s blood of island economy — where scattered apples blushed like faded rainbows atop the brown and brittle grass. Today the fallen fruit would rot and vanish, forgotten by all but the hungry deer.
He looked up. The November moon was full, snow-cold, and majestic. It hung like a frosted mirror on the ebony wall of the sky.
Nine o’clock.
No traffic moved on the narrow island roads; the general store had been closed for an hour. Faint lights burned in the far-off windows of neighboring homes. Inside each, Abner pictured quiet families sitting before television screens or nodding by warm hearths.
He shuddered.
Somehow he knew that even in the warmest home there was something in the air. A chill, perhaps, or something like a chill. It caused collars to be buttoned and sweaters to be donned. It was more, he knew, than the simple coming of winter, more than the clear, crisp air that seemed to freeze, shatter, then fall to the earth as snow.
No, it was more than temperature. It was tension. It beckoned solitary figures to their windows to watch the lightless streets, or to stare transfixed at the thick and somber shape of the forest where it waited motionless as a sleeping animal on the edge of civilization, just outside their tiny island town.
Abner blinked at the churning, glimmering dance of moonlight on the surface of the lake. With a sigh, he turned from the window to meet the eyes of his wife. Then, furtively, each looked away.
There was something in the air, something foreign yet familiar, something — Abner was sure of it — that all the islanders could feel. It didn’t have a name like “heat” or “cold,” yet it was tangible, sensed in an indefinable and alien way.
Sensed but not recognized.
Sensed but never discussed.
To Abner, it felt as if a balance had been disturbed, as if something fundamental were just a little out of alignment. And there was no one who could say just what it was. And no one who knew how to correct it.
Abner had lived among the people of Friar’s Island for a good many years. He was sure every one of them knew, intuitively, that something irreversible was taking its course.
And everyone, except perhaps the newest among them, had felt this thing before.
2
By ten o’clock only one light burned on Friar’s Island. It was on the table by the window in Harrison Allen’s house. With a fan of yellow lined paper spread out in front of him, Harrison stared past the soft orange glow of the kerosene lamp, eyeing his dark refection in the night-filled windowpane.
Harrison was aware of the early-to-bed tradition of the islanders; he was almost used to it. But still, he thought, sometimes a man likes company.
Especially tonight.
Harrison felt tense, oddly restless, yet he couldn’t put his finger on why.
Maybe he should take a drive up to the general store. There was a pay phone outside; he could call Mark and shoot the shit for a while.
He walked away from the window and sat heavily in the armchair beside the table that held his Jack Daniel’s and water.
Hell no, he thought, I’ve been enough of a burden to Mark and Judy already.
Besides, hadn’t he come here to be alone? Wasn’t that the whole point?
Sipping his drink — too bad there was no ice — he let his mind rove back to his last days in Boston. He had been sitting with some co-workers from the plant. It was an Irish bar near Government Center… Shortly after they’re received word about the bankruptcy…. Shortly after they’re learned there wo
uld be no more jobs.
Across from him, sipping white wine, was Andrea. She was laughing and speaking disparagingly about the Bush Administration. She had the attention of everyone at the table.
Ever since she’d been hired — less than three months before the closing — Harrison had developed a respect for Andrea, a respect tinged with fear. At first her agile mind and verbal precision had made him feel that he was in the company of a fearsome adversary. Perhaps to ensure that those sharp words would never be used as weapons against him, he began to cultivate her friendship.
In time, through casual conversations, she had become very important to him — not as a woman, really, but as a symbol. Harrison had never been a Don Juan; he always approached other people — especially women — with a great deal of caution. And with caution utmost in his mind, he had wanted very much to approach Andrea, elevate their friendship to the level of a relationship. But somehow he always lacked the nerve. He repeatedly told himself that the proper occasion had not yet presented itself.
Then, when Harrison learned their jobs were about to end, he almost panicked. He felt as if his whole life were a fast train speeding toward a derailment. What would he do? Where would he go?
And what would become of Andrea?
Office gossip informed him that she had secured another position in the public relations department of a ski resort in Colorado. He knew she would be leaving soon; he knew she was lost to him.
Harrison sipped his Jack Daniel’s, swirled the liquid in the glass, listened for the nonexistent ice cubes, and remembered. Andrea.
She was so damnably self-sufficient, so independent. She challenged him in ways he could not bear to be challenged. Yet, in those rare blissful moments when they were alone together, by the water cooler or in the cafeteria, she had always seemed so interested, so curious and uninformed about topics he thought were important. So many times he had found himself caught in those wide brown eyes as he prattled on about his plans, aspirations, and his trivial achievements. He even shared with her his secret ambition — at the time little more than a whim — of searching for the Lake Champlain Monster. Her praise for his idea was gratifying enough to make the search itself almost unnecessary. Harrison remembered wondering how many other men’s plans and ambitions had been born, matured, and died in those wonderful brown eyes?
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