On Hurricane Island

by Ellen Meeropol

  “Just a small chunk of carved granite on her little sister’s pillow.”

  “A rock? Why would she do that?”

  “Don’t know. But Margaret was obsessed with Hurricane Island, so it probably has something to do with that place.”

  “Where is that rock now?” Austin asks. “Can I see it?”

  Ray is surprised at her request. He knows the exact location of the piece of rock: on the top shelf of the closet in the sewing room, stitched away in the cloth envelope Nettie sewed for the packet of blue airmail envelopes that his usually sensible wife refuses to talk about. Or throw away.

  “Your Gran has it.” He hesitates and then adds, “And there are some letters her mother left her. Letters sent airmail from Italy with no return address. I’ve always figured they were from Margaret.”

  “So she didn’t die?”

  “Guess not.”

  “What’s in the letters?”

  “All I know is that they made Nettie cry.”

  “Why won’t she talk about them?”

  He shakes his head. He has no answer for that one either.

  “Does this have anything to do with why my mom left?”

  “No,” he whispers. I don’t know, he thinks.

  “I want to read the letters,” Austin says.

  He stands up. “I wish I could give them to you, but they’re not mine to give. Ask your Gran.” Or find them, he thought. “I wish you would read them. Nettie has always blamed Hurricane Island for Margaret’s troubles. The little island spooks her, whether it’s reasonable or not. And now the place is spooking you too, isn’t it?”

  “No.” Austin shakes her head. “The place isn’t the problem. It’s the people running it who scare me.”

  26. GANDALF, 1:15 A.M.

  Cold. Dark. Dank. She has been left alone for hours, at least six or eight and maybe more, tied to her chair and blindfolded. First, the sensation in her hands and feet diminished, then it disappeared entirely, and the feeling in her face too. Her body was cold before, when Ferret came, but now it is different. Now, the icy fingers reach into her brain and attempt to erase her memories. She holds tight onto thoughts of Jess, so the grabbing snow hands cannot take her away. Her mind slips from the grip of the ice and grabs onto the thick fur of Sundance instead.

  The cat was already middle-aged when he and Gandalf moved into Jess’s apartment; he was set in his ways and used to her solitary academic life. Those first years Sundance simply ignored Jess, accepting food but disdaining her overtures of friendship.

  It wasn’t until Gandalf was sick that Sundance finally acknowledged Jess as family.

  During the weeks of chemo nausea, the two women and the cat spent hours in the bathroom; Mozart helped a little and Sundance rubbing against Gandalf as she sat on the black and white tile floor. After her surgery, Gandalf’s chest was always cold, even in summer; only the vibrating heat of the cat draped over her shoulder could warm her. Later, Sundance sometimes curled up against Jess’s feet at night, occasionally crept into her lap as they sat on the sofa before dinner, drinking pinot noir and watching the BBC News. “So this is why people love cats,” Jess said one night, rubbing the tender place under his chin.

  Gandalf’s mind skis away, frozen and fast and gliding out of this place. She embraces them in her mind: Jess is on the sofa, the old cat on Gandalf’s lap. His head rests against the empty place, the gone breast. Her numb fingers circle Jess’s braid and Sundance’s tail. She will not let go.

  27. AUSTIN, 2:34 A.M.

  After Pops goes upstairs, Austin waits until the creaking of his footsteps and the bedsprings fade into the wild storm music outside. Then she tiptoes upstairs to the sewing room. Gran is pretty predictable—she probably hid the letters in the same spot she always used for birthday presents. Austin hesitates a moment before taking the fabric envelope from the top shelf of the closet. But Pops wouldn’t have told her about this if he didn’t want her to find it and read the letters, would he?

  Sitting up in bed, the wind and rain against her window are louder, more raucous and insistent. Austin draws the covers around her shoulders and studies the fabric packet. The faded blue trumpet flowers are delicate, fragile, against a profusion of fernlike greens, as if the cloth holds beloved family treasures rather than hidden artifacts of—what did Pops call it—of shame. Austin can feel the thin letters, just a few of them, and the hard lump that must be the chunk of rock. A long line of stitches weaves through the washed-out blue blooms, sending a strong message of keeping the unwanted past safely tucked away. Message received, Austin thinks. Received and about to be disregarded.

  She rummages in the top drawer of the bedside table for her nail scissors. Snipping the running stitch at both ends, she pulls out the thread and a walnut-sized chunk of granite tumbles onto her lap. She holds it closer to the lamplight. Silvery-pink stars sparkle on the leaf shape carved into the light gray stone. Tucking the rock back in its fabric home, she removes the bundle of letters—just a half dozen of them—the blue paper crinkly with age.

  There is no return address, but the postmarks are from Italy, and the envelopes are arranged by posted date. The narrow flaps have been sliced open. Austin takes the onionskin pages from the top envelope—May 15, 1931—and smooths the paper flat against her knees. She holds the first page closer to the light. The ink is faded, and the tiny handwriting is hard to read.

  Carissima Angelina,

  Happy Birthday, little sister. It’s hard to believe you’re sixteen!

  Actually, it is not hard at all, because I have thought of you every day of the eleven years since I left you and Storm Harbor. I have only one photograph of you, as an infant in my arms. Every single day, I kiss your face and pray that you don’t hate me. All these years, I promised myself that when you turn sixteen, I would write you a letter and tell you the truth.

  Today I’m keeping that promise. I will start at the beginning, so that you’ll understand the choices I made. Perhaps you will never be able to forgive me, but now that you are a woman, perhaps you can imagine things like this happening. I pray that you can.

  If this letter is to be about truth-telling, I must begin by correcting the lie in the first paragraph: You are not my sister. You are my daughter.

  Huh? Austin looks up from the page. She tries to recall the details of the photographs in the living room, the ages of the children. Is that Nettie’s big deal, the shameful secret that lasted a century? Teenaged Margaret got knocked up and had a baby? Easily a quarter of the girls in Austin’s school had kids before graduation, or else got married and had premature babies weighing eight pounds and change. None of them pretended the kid was her sister. But then, maybe things were different back then.

  Your papa is Angelo. When we met, he was an Italian stone carver working at the quarry. He played the mandolin in the dance band at our Saturday night socials. It was his hands I noticed first, all the way across the room of spinning, whirling dancers. His fingers blazed along the strings, and his eyes never left my face. That first night we walked together in the moonlight. We took the path to the quarry and sat on a stone slab. I was careful to keep a foot of space between our bodies on the rock, but nothing—not even our different languages—separated our feelings.

  Before I met Angelo, I avoided the quarry as much as possible. If I had no choice, if Mother sent me to deliver a message to father or his forgotten lunch pail, I turned my eyes away from that vast open hole. I covered my ears to the blasting, thumping, banging noises that filled it and boiled up into the sky. I held my handkerchief over my face against the light-colored dust that covered everything and clogged my throat.

  But the quarry was a different place with Angelo. We lay with each other in a hidden cave on the eastern border of the pit, where the men had finished carving out the giant pieces of granite. Sometimes we explored the wild parts of Hurricane Island, had picnics in wonderfully private and romantic places. His favorite was the tiny cove at the base of the cliff near our cave
. No one ever came there. It was our secret place. With Angelo Fabrizio, everything was secret and special and different.

  Austin’s breath catches in her throat. MEC and AF: Margaret Elizabeth Carter and Angelo Fabrizio. She brings the page closer to the light.

  Angelina darling, I remember every detail about the morning he showed me the initials. We had been seeing each other for about a month. Four weeks of slipping away from my chores at home, from school. The hardest part was lying to Carrie. We were the closest of sisters. But Angelo was worth every single, worrying second.

  How fresh and clean the world looked that day! I skipped along the dirt path to the quarry, hopping over tree roots and shadows. I wore my favorite yellow skirt, embroidered with black-eyed Susans around the hem. The flower centers were the same color as his eyes, deep brown with honey-colored flecks.

  Angelo stood waiting at the cave entrance. He put one hand over my eyes. He placed my hand on the rock face just inside the gap. Feel it, he said.

  My fingers read the letters and numbers growing from granite, with maple branches entwined in a circle and studded with leaves like a crown of nature. My heart swelled open to breaking.

  MEC + AF. 1914. Our initials. Our year.

  La pietra è per sempre, he told me. Stone is forever.

  Austin wipes her cheeks. What’s wrong with her, getting soppy over a silly letter written from one long-dead woman to another? And what does any of it have to do with the mess her own life is in? She glances at the clock. Her alarm will ring in three hours and she’ll have to face Gandalf again, face Tobias.

  She’ll just finish this one letter and read the rest in the morning.

  I wanted to tell Carrie about Angelo, but I was scared she would tell our parents. So I put everything out of my mind except my lover. When I wrapped my arms around him and breathed in the smell of his arms and chest and mouth, worries of my mother’s pursed lips and my father’s union troubles and the disapproval of the neat row of white houses along the road below all disappeared.

  Austin closes her eyes. She feels the touch of Angelo’s rough hands on Margaret’s face and her shoulders and her breasts. The world outside their little cave is gone, and so is hers—the battery of wind and rain, images of Gandalf and the freezing room on Hurricane Island. There is only skin and tongues and arms and legs entwined like the circle of carved branches keeping watch on the stone wall outside. Austin closes her eyes, and imagines.

  28. HENRY, 5:00 A.M.

  Henry is already awake when the alarm rings. He folds the blanket over the back of the sofa and props the throw pillows perfectly in the corners the way Cat likes them. The bedroom door is unlocked, and she’s sleeping way on her side of their bed. The quilt, the one he bought her on their honeymoon in Amish country, is pulled up to her chin. The pattern is called Forever Love. The irony makes his throat ache.

  He slides between the cool sheets and turns towards her, across a queen-sized chasm. She opens her eyes but doesn’t look at him.

  “Cat.” He doesn’t know how to continue. He follows her gaze across the room, to the window plastered with dark leaves. He tries to imagine what she is thinking.

  He tries again. “Listen.”

  She bites her lower lip, and his lip hurts. He wants to touch her but he understands that would be a mistake.

  “Just because I like to dress up,” he says, his voice breaking a little on the word dress, “doesn’t mean I’m … sick.” He doesn’t use the word pervert, but he knows that’s what she’s thinking. Is it sick for a man to like the caress of raw silk, the rustle of taffeta and the electric charge of satin against skin? “I know I should have told you years ago. I shouldn’t have just …”

  Just what? Just showed up in his marriage bed wearing his best teal gown? So. Damn. Stupid. He leans back on the pillow.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

  She sniffles, and he offers her a tissue, but she doesn’t take it. He says her name, but she won’t look at him. He gets out of bed and goes to the bathroom to shower.

  It’s a short walk from their house to the harbor, but he gets drenched. His rubber boots skid like a tourist’s on the rocky path. He slips twice, and falls onto his knees. The rain slices horizontally into his slicker, driven by wind gusts stronger than any force he has ever felt. The earth is unfamiliar, transformed into a foreign country rather than the landscape his feet have known for decades.

  Bert idles his boat at the dock, rocking furiously with the windy swells. Henry raises his hand in greeting and climbs into the cabin. Gripping the metal railing, he sits next to the window, resting his forehead against the glass. His body feels battered. His bruised knees sting under his rain pants and trousers.

  He looks around the steamy cabin; only two of the usual dozen employees have shown up for the ride to work. Cat’s cousin Cyrus, the one with all the freckles, and a woman who works in the kitchen. Where are the rest of them? Come to think of it, where’s Tobias? He usually comes over on the early boat.

  “How bad is it?” he asks when Bert comes inside.

  The boatman shrugs. “Not awful, yet.”

  “But you’re sure this is safe?”

  “Should be. Protected waters, less than half a mile.”

  “What are we waiting for?” Henry asks.

  “Austin Coombs.” With the heel of his hand, Bert rubs a clear spot in the condensation on the window. “I think that’s her coming now.”

  Henry peers out. “Have you seen Tobias this morning?”

  Bert shakes his head.

  Henry opens his mouth to ask more, then changes his mind.

  Bert helps Austin into the swaying boat and on the bench next to Henry. “Hold tight, everyone,” Bert says as he engages the gears and maneuvers the boat away from the dock.

  “Chances are we won’t be able to get home tonight,” Henry says to Austin. “Did you bring a change of clothes and a toothbrush?”

  Austin toes the small duffle at her feet. “Gran packed me a bag. Even my flannel PJs.” She crosses her arms across her chest and shivers. She turns her face away from him. Henry wonders if she’s thinking how much a pair of flannel pajamas would mean to the Cohen woman.

  The boat lurches roughly to the side, throwing Henry off balance and against Austin.

  “Sorry.” He feels himself blushing and turns back to the window. “It looks bad out there.”

  “My Pops says it’s going to get worse all day today. Do we have back-up power? Like a generator?”

  “Of course. We’ll be fine.” Tobias is the one who oversees the physical plant, who knows the details of the emergency systems. Suddenly that makes Henry nervous. Where is Tobias, anyway? He has never missed a day’s work.

  “I’m surprised Tobias isn’t here,” he says. “He usually takes the early boat.”

  Austin rubs her eyes, which are red and swollen. “After he questioned the new detainee last night he said he was staying overnight, to keep an eye on things.”

  Damn. Henry rubs his sternum and considers her statement. Double damn. Tobias knows better than questioning a detainee without his supervisor’s knowledge. Would he really disobey a direct order like that? Henry really has to talk seriously to the guy, first thing this morning when he gets to work. If he ever gets there, he amends, as another wave slams into the small boat.

  Austin is still looking at him. Staring, actually.

  “What?” he asks her.

  “You okay? Your face is green, and you’re rubbing your chest.”

  “I’m fine.” He shoves his hand in his pocket. “You don’t look so good yourself.”

  “Not much sleep last night.” Austin looks down at her lap. She hesitates and then asks, “You wouldn’t really use the guys with the new detainee, would you?”

  “How do you know about them?”

  “The staff talks. You know.”

  “And why is this your concern?”

  “Because with Gandalf? I mean, because of her … You know, the oper
ation she had?”

  Gandalf? Geez, since when has this green-as-grass guard developed a first-name relationship with a high-interest detainee? That is not a good thing; it stinks of fraternization and who knows what else. He presses the heel of his hand into the center of his chest, remembers that she’s watching, and drops it to his lap. Right, like he should lecture anyone about breaking protocol. And what surgery? Why is he out of the loop on this?

  “Dr. Cohen is not your concern,” he says sternly.

  Austin tosses him a look that’s not exactly subordinate, the kind of disdainful expression Melissa wore when she thinks he was being particularly dense or offensive. Then Austin grabs her duffle bag and slides down to the other end of the bench. A few moments later she pulls some blue pages from her pocket and begins to read, ignoring him entirely.

  That’s not his problem now; he’s got plenty of his own. When this damn boat gets to the island, first he will take something for his heartburn. Then it’s time to have a major talk with Tobias and set him straight. This insubordination must stop. Right now.

  29. AUSTIN, 6:20 A.M.

  He says that Dr. Cohen isn’t her concern? What bullshit. Guarding Gandalf is her job. Austin glances at Henry Ames and wonders if he worries about what happens to the woman, to Norah, to the other people he’s supposed to extract information from. He seemed to care yesterday, but maybe he was just worried Gandalf would die before he got his precious intelligence. Does he mind if they’re harmed because of the actions his staff takes, carrying out his orders? What kind of man could he be? She looks down at her uniform. What kind of person does that make her, being part of this place?

  She can’t think about that, not now, on her way to work. Instead, she pulls the folded envelopes from her pocket. Tucking the granite chunk in the palm of her hand, she finds the second letter. This one is thicker, dated two weeks after the first.