The Keening

by A. LaFaye

  “No more excuses! No more games!” Marl pushed toward the dock.

  Garrett took a seat opposite his brother and grabbed the oars, pulling against him. “You won’t take a hand to that child.”

  The boat began to spin as brother oared against brother. They looked like a toy that’d been wound up, then left to twirl like a top. A laugh welled up inside me. I had to let it out.

  But my uncles didn’t laugh. Marl dropped the oars, then began attacking Uncle Garrett with his fists. Fists that could’ve struck my own flesh. He knocked Garrett to the side of the boat. Dr. Mansfield screamed for them to stop, but Uncle Marl pounded as Garrett struggled to get his bearings. Uncle Garrett had no chance. Marl flipped him over the side, then took to the oars.

  Yanking madly like some crazed fiend, he came for me.

  I held the ice pole like a bat. “Come any closer and I’ll let it fly!” I shouted through the splashing screams of Uncle Garrett, who begged Uncle Marl to stop.

  But the man was bulging-eye mad and set on his course. He tried to row around me, but I jumped to the side of the dock and let that pole fly, smacking him hard upside the head. He flopped into the boat like a caught fish. I’d laid him out cold.

  Dr. Mansfield jumped in surprise. Staring up at me, he said, “And to think I was worried about how I’d defend you.”

  “What have I done?” The pain of my guilt, like a punch to my chest, left me panting for breath.

  Dr. Mansfield hurried to his unexpected patient. Checking him over, he said, “A strong pulse, but you sent his eyes into the back of his head.”

  “Will he be okay?”

  “More than likely.”

  I didn’t like the hidden possibilities in that answer. Uncle Garrett pulled himself onto the dock and rushed toward me. My nerves told me to put the pole at the ready, but he crushed it to me as he hugged me.

  Holding my head, he said, “Oh child. I thought he’d kill you.”

  “He just may when he wakes up.”

  I looked down at Uncle Marl as Dr. Mansfield put a dressing on his head. “We need to get him into bed, Garrett. I’ll have to clean that wound and keep an eye on him.”

  “Good enough.” Garrett nodded, then turned back to me. “And you? Are you all right?”

  “Well kept.” I nodded. “You?” I touched his puffy cheek.

  “It’s nothing.” He pushed my hand away. “Your pater?”

  “The only time he acts out of his mind is when he’s afraid of being locked away. And I’ve brought Mr. Penwarren from Portland. He’ll see that things are set right.”

  “Penwarren? Really? You are as crafty as your mother.”

  “Garrett.” The doctor’s voice had a hurried tone to it.

  “All right.” He nodded. Uncle Garrett gave me another squeeze. “I’ll be back, alone. We’ll talk this out.” Garrett stepped into the boat. Shaking his head, he looked back at me, “We certainly don’t need to be worried about you.”

  I waved, then stood on the dock hugging myself for a second, praying I hadn’t done Uncle Marl serious harm. I only meant to keep him away from me. I didn’t know the force that lay behind my fear.

  Storm clouds rolled in as Uncle Garrett rowed the boat out. I headed into the woods to find Pater, praying Mr. Penwarren would arrive soon.

  Making my way to the pond, I felt the chill of a storm blowing in. The sky turned gray and filled the woods with shadows.

  My mind swam to the ink-dark waves below a weathered gray boat. The oars worn and splintery in my hands, I pull and push, pull and push. I hear the cello’s sweet singing reaching out over the water, see Mater’s skirts blowing in the wind coming off the sea. And I’m coming closer. Rowing to the shore.

  My dream pulled me deeper into the woods of Abner Island. Now and again, I caught the hint of a gray face in the trees. Pater’s silent watchers.

  They raised my nerves like the hairs on my arms. I moved faster, trying to keep my eyes on the path. Then a pale face moved. The eyes blinked. Struck still, I watched. The eyes did blink. But that face didn’t shine out at me from within a tree. No. That misty white face walked out toward me, a slight smile on her lips.

  “Lyza,” Mater said as she floated over the path, only mist where her feet had been.

  “Mater.” I began to cry.

  She smiled, warming me as if her love had filled a cup and I’d taken a long drink.

  “Lyza.” Her hand brushed my cheek, as cold as her snowy hands on the mornings she’d wake me to see the first snowfall. “I came to say ‘God be with you.’” She laughed through her tears.

  “Pater?” I asked, hoping he’d seen her, knowing now that he too only wanted the chance to send her on her way with love.

  Looking over her shoulder for an instant, she turned back, smiling. “And to think I believed I was keeping him safe all this time.”

  I smiled back, frustrated that I couldn’t hug her.

  “Now it’s his turn to teach you true. Stay safe, my girl. Find your happiness.”

  “I will, Mater.”

  “Fare thee well, Lyza.”

  “Fare thee well.”

  She passed into the trees, disappearing into the fog that slipped in from the sea. I stood there, staring at the place Mater had been, crying my soul clean of grief.

  From Where They Sit

  I don’t remember Pater coming for me. I don’t recall him wrapping me in a blanket, or taking me to the cabin, or putting me to bed. Yet that’s where I woke the next morning to find him sitting at the table talking to Mr. Penwarren, whose hat was on his knee.

  “Lyza.” Pater saw me sitting up. He came over to sit next to me, rubbing my arms. “Hungry?”

  I wished that Penwarren would step outside so I could talk to Pater about seeing Mater, but I said, “Yes.”

  “I’ll make us pancakes.”

  Mr. Penwarren said, “Morning, Lyza. I’m sorry it took me so long. Didn’t realize the nearest phone was in town.”

  Still wrapped in my damp blanket, I walked over to the table. It was strewn with papers. “What are these?” I shifted them around.

  Pater came to refill Mr. Penwarren’s coffee cup and said, “Safety.”

  “They’re for setting up a guardianship for your father.”

  “Guardianship?” I sat down and inspected them.

  But the legal mishmash made no sense to my tired brain.

  “Yes.” Mr. Penwarren started to stack the papers. “They state that I’m your father’s legal guardian in the event that he is declared incompetent to make his own decisions.” He smiled as if he’d just presented a brilliant solution to all of our problems.

  I didn’t take to his solution at all. “And what if you decide that Pater would be best served in a work farm?”

  Pater frowned at me as if I’d said something hateful.

  “I can’t.” Mr. Penwarren shrugged. “I’ve signed a paper that says I will be legally responsible for his health and well-being and I am forbidden to have him institutionalized under any circumstances.”

  I stared at this man, no older than Pater. Why would he disappear from his own life to pop up in ours and protect Pater from those who would harm him? The sour look on Pater’s face prevented me from asking that question. “Good.”

  Pater smiled. “We’re safe then. All safe. Good for pancakes.” He set to cooking.

  And I kept my tongue still until Mr. Penwarren excused himself to leave. I feigned taking him to the docks so I could speak to him alone. Letting him walk ahead, I waited for him to be more than an arm’s length away. Then I asked, “Why are you doing this?”

  He hugged his satchel as he turned. “Because I promised to.”

  “And why make such a promise to my mother?” I imagined some twisted sense of love and honor long held by a spurned sweetheart.

  He stepped closer. “It wasn’t your mother I made the promise to.” Probably seeing the confusion I felt, he flashed a half-smile, then said, “I made the promise to my brothe
r when our parents were killed. I’d always care for him. Keep him safe, no matter what.”

  The strain of guilt and grief in his voice told me to wait. He’d give me the opening to deliver George’s message.

  Clearing his throat, he added, “He was struck down by a carriage. Left senseless. What did I do? I drank myself into a stupor. Abandoned him to doctors who left him in his own filth. He choked. Choked because I wasn’t there at his bedside to watch over him.” He closed his eyes and clenched the satchel. “Now I can make up for that mistake. Balance things out. Your mother has gone on to take care of my George. I’ll take care of her Evan.”

  In that instant God felt as real as a human being standing in front of me, guiding things along so that no one would ever go too far off course. Mr. Penwarren had his chance to care for another soul, and Mater watched over the soul he loved most of all. God had seen to everyone’s needs.

  “Thank you.” I tried to give him George’s message, but the sadness of Carlton’s story weighed me down.

  “There’s no need.” He shook his head.

  And as he stepped down the slope toward the dock, George’s voice drifted over my shoulder, “Tell him, please.”

  Spinning around, I saw a faint image, like a pencil sketch on gray paper, of a young man in a blue suit. George.

  Stunned, I couldn’t speak, only nod. Drawing in enough salty air to give me a little lift, I pushed it all back out in a shout, “He forgives you!”

  About to step into the boat, Mr. Penwarren turned, startled, even a little confused. “Pardon me?”

  “He forgives you, Mr. Penwarren. It’s like Mater always said, ‘Grieving and regret are only for fools who believe the dead don’t know better from where they sit.’”

  He stared at me a moment, his eyes misty with thought. Nodding uncertainly, he said, “I suppose that’s true.”

  “It is,” George whispered.

  Mr. Penwarren got into the boat and rowed off, still nodding.

  “Thank you, Lyza,” George said, fading into the air.

  “I’ll do my best”

  I stood on the shore for the longest time, so stunned I couldn’t move, just staring out to sea and trying to fit my mind around the idea that I lived in a world where the dead moved among the living, but taking in the expanse of such an idea was like swallowing the sea.

  I struggled so hard with this newfound truth, I didn’t even hear a boat had approached until Uncle Garrett stepped onto the dock.

  “I won’t tell you what my mother says about day-dreaming, Lyza.”

  I laughed, knowing the truth in that little saying Mater shared with me. “How’s Uncle Marl?”

  Uncle Garrett sighed, “Dizzy, but good. Mad enough to have you arrested.”

  “Really?” A flash of panic had me gripping my elbows.

  Uncle Garret gave me a squeeze. “Don’t fret. He’s not about to go through with it.” He took a step toward the cabin. I dashed in front of him.

  “Pater’s not going to the farm.”

  “I know.” Garrett nodded. With a pot of may-flowers, he pointed to Penwarren’s distant boat. “I met old Carlton on the way over.” He showed the pot to me. “I’m here to pay my respects.”

  I ran my hand over the blossoms. “Mater will like them.” Not that such things mattered to her now, but Uncle Garrett would feel better.

  Uncle Garrett bowed his head, then asked, “She next to Father?”

  “Yes.”

  He headed up the hill to pay his respects. I went in to find Pater packing up.

  “Where to next, Pater?”

  “Home,” he said.

  “Right.” I helped him pack. Leaving a note on the cabin door for Uncle Garrett, we took the longboat back to shore. Heading up the cliff steps, I confessed what I’d done to Uncle Marl.

  Pater stopped short, dropping the crate he carried onto the step. Turning, he said, “You did what?”

  “I thought he’d kill me.”

  “A hurt for a hurt. Where’s the good in that?”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

  Pater rolled his eyes up, then stared at me. “What else would an ice pole against the head do?”

  “I didn’t think.” Guilt coated me inside and out.

  “Then take the time to do it now. Make it right.” He picked up the crate, then headed to the house.

  The walk to town seemed long enough to sort out what I should do to set things right with Uncle Marl. As I traveled, I heard a rustling in the trees beside the road.

  Keeping half an ear on the sounds, I walked on, waiting to see what might show itself. Odd. I’d lived so long apart from others that I’d marveled when I saw a group passing on the road. Now my world was quickly filling, but with souls, not the living. While the idea of it felt sharp, even cold in my chest, it rested easy, as if it were simply a new fit.

  When I reached the bridge over Kelso Creek, I heard a “Pst!”

  Turning, I saw Jake’s pale face peeking around a tree. “You headed in to tell my mother about the locket?”

  I stepped to the edge of the road. Feeling twittery inside and out, I knew I had to face up to that confession sooner rather than later, even if it meant saying good-bye to Jake. “Yes.”

  “Tell her it’s under the floorboards beside my bed,” he said. He looked as pale and wispy as Mater had. Jake was losing his grip on this world. “She only wanted to keep me safe.” He bit his lip. “I should’ve listened.”

  “I’ll tell her, Jake.”

  “I’ll be right there when you do.” He faded, like early morning fog into the sunlight.

  I cried all the way to the front porch. Standing there, watching the fluttering ribbons on the black wreath hanging from the front door, I tried to think of something to say.

  Jake appeared beside me, putting his hand over mine, a cold reminder of his friendship.

  The door opened. Mrs. Finch stood there, her arms folded over her chest to hold her shawl in place. “Lyza?”

  Mrs. Finch and I stumbled over half-spoken words, trying to apologize to each other—I for not being there for Jake’s funeral, she for not being able to send her condolences after Mater died.

  When we’d stammered into a stiff silence, Jake squeezed my hand as if to say, “Let me tell her.” But he didn’t speak outright. He let me do the talking, yet the words spilled out without my own thoughts stepping in. He’d rehearsed just what he’d wanted me to say and spoke through me.

  “Jake shared a secret with me.”

  “He did?” Her brow furrowed in confusion. She must’ve been wondering why I’d shown up now to tell her this.

  “He told me where he hid the locket.”

  She reached for her throat. “He did?”

  I nodded and told her what Jake had said. She barely took the time to thank me before she rushed inside to find it. Jake stepped to the door, spreading his hand over it—reaching out for the mother he could no longer touch.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, then said, “You’ll look after her for me, won’t you?”

  Guilt stopped up my throat. I’d been powerless to look after my own mother. How could I be called upon to help Jake’s?

  “Won’t you?” he asked.

  “I’ll try, Jake. I’ll do my best.”

  “You always did.” He smiled as he stepped back, disappearing into the door.

  “Go with God, Jake.”

  As the final note falls . . .

  As I wandered away from the Finches’, dazed by loss, organ music pulled me toward St. Gregory’s Church across the meadow. Stepping inside, the shadowy emptiness drew my mind back to that murky spirit lingering on our stoop a few dawns ago—an unheeded warning Mater paid for with her life.

  “Can I help you?” A voice from above spun me around, afraid of what new spirit might be lurking there. But it was only the real, living Pastor Dempsy, who’d been playing the organ in the balcony.

  “No, thank you.” I pointed into a pew. “I’m just her
e to pray.”

  “Very well, Lyza. Call if you need me.” He nodded, then disappeared.

  Sitting in that pew, I gripped the back of the pew in front of me, then dropped my head down to pray. To ask God’s forgiveness for being so blind to the gifts He’d given me. To beg Him to show me how to right the wrong I’d done against Uncle Marl . . . forgive myself for not warning Mater. Tears came before I could even say “Amen.”

  Crying, I felt a warmth next to me. I sat up to face Pater.

  “Death is not a spirit, Lyza. Someone else passed through the house that morning. I saw her walking to the beach. A young woman with red hair that shone in the gray dawn like ribbon coral in the sea.”

  “It wasn’t a warning of Mater’s death?”

  “No, she wasn’t. Just a girl heading on to heaven.” He took a deep breath, held it, then sighed. “I didn’t even see the fever coming for your mater.” His eyes misted with tears.

  We laced our hands together.

  I felt so light. The relief of knowing I didn’t have a hand in Mater’s death emptied me out. I felt like sharing that good feeling with Pater. “You’re not so bad with words once your tongue loosens up a bit,” I said, marveling at the way he’d described the young woman’s hair.

  “All the writing.” He smiled.

  “Any thoughts on Uncle Marl?”

  “That’s your puzzle.” He kissed the top of my head, then stood up.

  As he turned to leave, the true oddity of his coming struck me. I asked, “How’d you get here?”

  “Feet.”

  “Well, I mean, why are you here?” I knew my thoughts had brought him to the church, but he couldn’t have come all the way from home just to comfort me. “I mean, in town.”

  “Shopping.”

  “Shopping?” I went to him and laced my arm over his. In all my years, I’d never seen Pater set foot in town except to board a train for Boston or deliver on a barter he’d made.

  “Yes,” he nodded. “I need an axe.”

  “An axe?”

  “You can’t cut trees without one,” he said, as we headed down the steps.