“What is it you want?”
Behind her, the man speaks. “What anyone wants: To be useful. To serve a purpose.”
Dawn turns her gaze to him. Trying to keep his partner visible in her peripheral vision, but the moment she loses sight of her...
“We can help you, dear. If you let us.”
“What sort of help? Like, travel tips?” Dawn rises from her crouch. Turns away. “Can you tell me the top island hotspots every tourist should see before they leave?”
“There’s no need to be insulting.”
“Our offer of assistance is genuine, but if you’re--“
“No, no. I’m sorry.” Dawn wants to face them. Wants the old couple to see her apologetic face. But that’s not how this works. Instead, she seats herself on the top step. Looks out on the Talbot inn property: The pleasant little cottages. The pond. The cattails.
“I’m working on a Family Tree. We’re from here. My father’s side is. Once I finish unpacking, I’m heading to the library. To look through old newspapers. Island records, if they have them. Does that seem like a good place to begin?”
“That depends. How much do you want to know about your family?”
“Births. Marriages. Deaths. The basics, I guess.”
“Statistics.” The man practically spits the word.
“The library should be adequate. For your purposes.” There’s something dismissive in the woman’s voice. Dawn can’t help but feel she’s failed some unspoken test.
“But that’s... Just to start. It’s not all I want.” She struggles to come up the rest. “I want to know... Who they were.”
“Why?”
Dawn smiles. She’s on the right track. She thinks a moment before continuing.
“When I was little, my grandma - this is my mom’s mom, not the one from my island side - she lived with us and looked after me every day. Even though we spent so much time together, she didn’t really talk about her life and I never thought to ask.
“When she died it was the first time I realized how much things can change. How quickly. That nothing I thought was stable or permanent really is. It was pretty scary. So my mom told me a story. About my grandma.
“When she was young, her village was captured by bad men who wanted to kill everyone in it. My grandma hid. Inside a wall, where there was only enough room for her to stand. She saw when they came. Watched as they... They killed her family. She stood there and stayed quiet until they were gone and she could escape without them seeing. She was younger then than I am now, but she was smart and strong and brave, and she lived through all that and got away all by herself.
“When my mom told me that story, it made me feel strong. Knowing someone in my family could survive all that... Somehow it meant maybe I could too. That’s what I want to know: Who I’m made from. What they could do.”
Until this moment, Dawn hadn’t realized what first set her on her quest. Didn’t fully understand her own reasons for starting her Family Tree. She’d certainly never articulated it to anyone else.
“You will find your family everywhere you look.” The man’s voice rumbles behind her. She’d almost forgotten they were there. “The Lesguettes have been a part of the island from the very beginning.”
Dawn’s surprised to hear him speak her surname. “How did you--”
“You’ll soon discover there’s no corner of this island that your predecessors have not touched.”
“The lighthouse,” says the woman.
“Agreed.”
Dawn “I should visit a lighthouse?”
“Lesguettes Lighthouse. Where your roots originate.”
“It’s in walking distance, dear. The fresh sea air will do you good. Better than some musty library.”
Dawn laughs. “You guys sound like my mom.” She glances back with a smile.
The porch is empty. She’s alone.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“What I can’t wrap my head around is... Why exactly you would think the attack on Paula Fields could possibly justify postponing construction on the Cumberland Channel Bridge.”
With every blind drawn, the Oceanus Conference Hall is lit by green-shaded desklamps growing from the center of the mahogany boardroom table and the digital projector shining an artist’s rendering of the bridge-when-finished onto Ren and the white wall behind him.
“Because, from where I stand? You appear to be using an unrelated private tragedy as an excuse to interrupt a massive federally-funded project necessary to the economic success and continued survival of your backwards little island.”
Angry. Holding himself mostly in check. Ren stands before the Old Men: Eighteen elderly men and women seated around the boardroom table. Those with any hair at all have hair of purest white. Most are smiling. Bemused. Unconcerned.
At the far end of the table, Mrs. Rutherford leans into the light. Easily in her eighties, with a gleam in her eye and the general vitality of a teenager.
“Please understand, René... Coming from away as she has? Forcing the bridge on our fair populace? Paula Fields has become something of a symbol in our community.”
The Old Men nod. Murmur. In complete agreement.
“An action such as this... It’s an expression of dissatisfaction with the process. One deranged loner’s misguided attempt to make themselves heard.”
“No, Mrs. Rutherford. Paula is not a symbol. Nobody was sending any message. What we’re talking about is nothing more or less than an assault on a human being, and what I need for you to explain is how it led you to halt construction on the Bridge.”
“Our only concern is the safety of our citizens. So, of course, with someone so clearly targeting those involved in building the bridge--”
“Saying clearly does not--” Ren attempts to break in. Fails.
“--how could we possibly continue to risk the welfare of our workers?”
“Mrs. Rutherford! Saying clearly does not make a false statement true.”
The other Old Men steamroll him. Chiming in with gusto:
“She’s right! We’d be putting good men in the crosshairs!” says Mr. Pincolm.
“Wouldn’t want that on my conscience,” says Mrs. Brass.
“The next victim could just as easily be an Islander!” says Ms. Spinx.
Mrs. Rutherford nods graciously. Empowered by the support. “So you see? There was really no choice. Not a one of us would have been able to forgive ourselves, had our inaction led to needless suffering.”
Ren purses his lips. Forces himself to remain detached. Professional. “I’ve spoken to the Sheriff. She’s found no indication this isolated attack bears any relationship to the bridge-building effort.”
“To the people of the Island, René, Ms. Fields is the bridge-building effort.”
“Paula is not a metaphor! She’s a person. She came here to help. The people of the Island should be--” He stops himself, before going too far. “Ms. Fields was abducted. She was gone for four days before suddenly showing up at the hospital. In that time, she’d been beaten. One-by-one, her limbs were methodically broken. Some in multiple places. She was... Penetrated with a... A foreign object. The trauma done to her head was...”
The room is hushed. Waiting.
“If she ever regains consciousness, I’m told there’s very little chance she’ll be anything like the same person she was. A person who I’m not ashamed to say I loved. A person worth ten of any one of you. So, you will have to forgive me, but I will not stand here and listen to you re-interpret this vicious attack as an act of political theater!”
The Old Men remain calm in the face of Ren’s wrath. Mrs. Rutherford leans forward into the light of her desklamp with practiced sympathy.
“René. I think I can speak for all of us when I say how sorry I am for your loss on a personal level.”
The Old Men are all so sorry. So very, sincerely sorry.
“And let’s be clear...” She tents her fingers on the table in front of her. “We want it to be know
n: We absolutely condemn the act itself. In no way are we agreeing with the methodology of the anti-bridge terrorists responsible.”
“The anti-bridge...” Ren is shocked, in spite of himself.
The Old Men, on the other hand, concur wholeheartedly.
“No, indeed!” says Mr. Grist.
“Of course we don’t!” says Dr. Bauer.
Mrs. Rutherford nods. “As much as we may sympathize with the sentiment behind it.”
“Hear, hear!” says Mrs. Donnelly.
The Old Men could not possibly agree more.
Ren could not possibly be more disgusted. He removes a small notebook from his briefcase. Flips to an empty page. As he scribbles a note to himself, the self-congratulatory room quiets down.
“Duly noted.” Ren dots a few ‘i’s. Crosses a few ’t’s. “My report will state that construction on the Cumberland Channel Bridge was halted due to an enormous and irrational error in judgment on the part of the comically incompetent and corrupt local government - and in particular I am here naming you, Mrs. Rutherford - and that construction will recommence immediately.”
The Old Men are taken aback. Confused. No one addresses them this way. They’re uncertain how to take it. Nevertheless, they do their best to maintain their air of superiority and condescension.
“You-- You must be reasonable, René,” says Mr. Donnelly.
“Nothing’s so easy as that,” says Mrs. Brass.
“It’s simply not possible,” says Mrs. Rutherford. “Workers have been dispersed onto other ventures and are no longer available to us. They’re booked. Months in advance.”
“Your local projects are meaningless to this conversation. It was your mistake to launch them with misappropriated personnel and it will be at your own expense that they are now ended.”
“But René, what you’re asking... It’s--”
Ren laughs. Sharp and loud. Mirthless. Somehow, the sound manages to give the Old Men pause. Around the room their smug smiles finally falter.
“Now I see where you’re making your mistake...” Ren lets his gaze slide over them each in turn. “You all think I’m asking.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sylvie re-enters the world in plaid flannel and blue denim. Once again able to move. To breathe.
Dressy clothes crammed away in the laundry hamper - it could be set on fire for all she cares. Nothing will get her back in front of the Old Men anytime soon. The next disturbance in the daily routine - even if Aaron is once again the cause - someone else can do the reporting. For the foreseeable future, Sylvie is officially done.
Her long black hair wags behind her. Back in its customary ponytail. Still wet from the shower when she leaves the bedroom, but she’s content to let it air-dry. As long as she can get food into herself, nothing else matters. She pointedly went without breakfast so as to avoid any of the... More explosive possible outcomes to the almost inevitable panic attack she knew the meeting would elicit, and as a result is now nearly blind with hunger.
She spots her son sitting at the kitchen table as she beelines for the fridge. Can’t help but notice him: Straight-backed and silent. Arms crossed. Waiting, clearly. She even registers what’s sitting on the table in front of the boy, though she momentarily blocks it out in the interest of getting sustenance.
She grabs the MOM container from the refrigerator...
“You eat?”
“Not yet.”
...and the AARON container as well. Pops the lids. Dumps each sandwich onto a plate. Deposits one in front of her son before dropping into the chair across from him and digging in. She’s eaten half her sandwich before addressing the elephant.
“What are they doing out here?”
She points her chin at the leather-bound books piled on the table. All twelve of them. Somehow removed from their rightful place. Without her permission.
“I was reading them.”
Sylvie chews thoughtfully. “You were, huh?”
Aaron nods.
Sylvie counts the transgressions which had to occur in order for her mother’s books to end up on the kitchen table without her involvement. Her keys stolen. Her office entered. Her private cabinets broken into. The books removed. On an ordinary day, her blood would be boiling. After the morning she’s had, it has converted directly into a scalding steam.
“This a challenge?”
“No, it’s--”
“Why else would you go in my office and steal my books?”
“But that’s just it, Mom: They’re not your--”
Sylvie doesn’t go around the table to get at her son. She heaves the whole thing straight at him. Pins him against the wall in his chair.
Aaron gasps. Tries to regain his breath.
Before he can, she’s on him. Pushing the table to one side. Hauling him to his feet. A ragdoll still struggling for air.
She slams him into the patio door. The glass spiderwebs behind him, but miraculously doesn’t break.
“Those are my mother’s books, Aaron!” Sylvie punctuates her sentences by thumping her son against the glass. “She wanted me to have them!” Further spreading the fractures. “She entrusted them to me!” The glass bowing behind him. Barely holding. “To my safekeeping!!”
“Jesus Christ! Sylvie!” Trevor stands in the doorway. Horrified to find his wife attacking his son. He rushes across the kitchen, aiming to pull her away from Aaron. “Put him down! What on Earth is going--”
“Trevor...” Without releasing Aaron, Sylvie points a finger at her husband. Keeps her voice low. Enunciates as clearly as possible. Four words: “This. Is. Circle. Business.”
Trevor stops. Blinks. “It’s...” is all he manages. His mouth opens. Closes. About to say one thing. Then another. But these are the magic words. They will brook no reply. Briefly, he makes eye-contact with his son. Then looks to the floor. Backs out of the kitchen.
In the kitchen doorway he pauses. Fights with himself. Then, continues down the hallway. Out of sight. After a moment, the front door can be heard opening. Closing. He’s gone.
“Mom.” Aaron attempts to take advantage of the brief time-out. “You’re wrong.”
“I’m...” Sylvie is incredulous. On the verge of apoplexy.
Realizing how little time he has, Aaron continues, “Grams didn’t just want you to keep the books safe and she definitely didn’t want them hidden away. She wanted you to share them.”
Sylvie’s teeth grind. Her jaw clenches. He’s right and she knows it.
“That’s why she wrote the stories down in the first place: She knew the time would come when no one believed anymore. She thought eyewitness testimony might make a difference.”
“It won’t!”
“That doesn’t matter, Mom! It’s what Grams wanted.”
Sylvie growls. “Gah!” She lets Aaron go. Stalks off towards the kitchen counter.
“We need to do something. Nobody believes anymore. Maybe they did once, but now? They’re all just going through the motions. It’s the beginning of the end for the Watch.” Aaron steps away from the fragmented patio door. “That’s why I’m leaving.”
Sylvie works to make sense of this. “You made a vow.”
“I’m not breaking it. People leave.”
“The Watch is what Lesguettes do. What we’ve always done.”
“It’s not what Aunt Wanda does. Not anymore...”
“That’s your role model?”
“..and I’ve never even met Uncle--”
“Don’t!” Not loud, but sharp. As far as Aaron has pushed things on this day, there are lines that remain uncrossable. Mentioning the unmentionable eldest brother is one. “Others may ignore their responsibilities. You’re better than that.”
“Mom. We both know I have no business manning a lighthouse.” Aaron rights his chair. Sits. “I’m too nervous. I’m just a... Useless idiot.”
Sylvie looks stricken. “When I said that, I was... Angry. I didn’t mean--”
“It’s true, though.”
Sylvie grasps straws. Desperate. “You can’t quit, Aaron. I won’t let you. That’s all there is to it.”
Aaron bows his head. “I’m eighteen next March. It’s not going to be up to you much longer.”
“Maybe not. Maybe you’ll come to your senses before then. But for now--”
“For now, you’re going to let me go.” He didn’t want it to come to this. She’s forced his hand. “I know that you broke the Circle.”
Lightning flashes across Sylvie’s eyes. “I what?”
“You shared Circle business with an outsider.”
She storms towards him. Intending serious harm. “Who?!”
“Me.”
She freezes and Aaron knows he’s gotten through. He reaches over. Takes a book from the table: Volume One. He holds it up. “I could almost hear the words speaking to me, when I started reading. It was strange. Familiar. Like I’d heard it before.”
He opens the book. Skims the pages.
“So I skipped ahead... Skimmed through. And holy cow. I recognized the next story, too. And the next.” He sets the book on the table. “Some better than others. Some so well that I could hear them aloud in my head. And the more I read, the more I began to realize: It wasn’t my voice I was hearing... It was yours.”
Sylvie paces. Trapped.
“You used to read them to me, didn’t you? When I was very little. Over and over again. Whenever you wanted me to sleep. And unless I’m very much mistaken, that was long before you got permission from the Old Men to bring me into the Circle.”
Sylvie crosses to the kitchen table. Pulls it back to its proper position. After the rough treatment, it tips to and fro. Listing towards one uneven leg. No longer level. She leans on it. The day has caught up with her. She’s too tired to do anything to fix the problem she’s caused.
“What is it you’re saying to me, Aaron?”
“I’m not going to tell anyone. But I want out, and you have to let me go.”
“Aaron. I’m only trying to look out for you. If you leave the Circle, I--”
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK ONE Page 10
