“He’s not a mutt!” My mother watched the engine room door until the tip of the cigarette burned her finger and she stomped it out on the deck. She took two steps in the direction of the door, stopped, and turned back to help me up. She must have seen the question scribbling itself across my face as I looked back and forth between the cabin and my mother, because as I struggled to free my notepad she stopped me with a sigh. “Her father takes care of Grandma Isabella’s house when we’re not here. That’s all she meant.” And with that, she tottered me into the cabin before heading for the hose.
Closing my eyes once I was in the control cabin, I willed the sea to stop churning. Somewhere behind me a radio station was warbling in and out of range. The announcer was saying something about the Watergate trial, but I couldn’t zero in on what.
“They ought to throw Nixon’s sorry ass in jail,” Remy grumbled, more to herself than me. “Anyone too flipping stupid to burn a few audiotapes shouldn’t be wandering around free society.” She spun the dial, stopping on John Lennon crooning “Sweet Bird of Paradox.”
Prying my eyes open to glance at her, I pulled Luke close, letting him curl into a comma beside me. Taped to the metal ribs of the cabin, a tall pretty woman with red hair looked down at me from a yellowing photograph. Cradling an armful of puffy pink flowers, she appeared to be laughing at the lumberjack of a man standing beside her who was planting an exaggerated kiss on her cheek as she tousled his hair with her free hand. Remy glanced at me, then back through the window.
“Pretty, isn’t she? That’s my mom.”
I nodded, staring at the woman, understanding clearly from what fire the blaze in Remy’s eyes had been lit.
“There must’ve been a thousand peonies in my garden that year. Your grandmother and father knew her. They used to come to Tillings every year.” There was a slight catch in the statement, like the needle of a record player hopping over a scratch. An untrained ear might have missed it, but I didn’t.
I spent my summers on a sandbar, my father used to joke about the island. One good wave and we all would have been swept out to sea.
“But that was a long time ago.” It was barely a wisp of air, as though Remy had wholly forgotten I was in the cabin and was speaking to herself. “Before everything.”
I waited for her to go on, but she didn’t say another word until the boat’s radio squelched to life and she started barking orders into it, leaving me staring at the photo and wondering over her choice of words. Before everything. A chill began to move over me, and the more I wondered, the colder that chill became until I was frozen right up solid with a desperate desire to turn the boat around and go home—with or without a voice.
The Mirabel wobbled into dock just before five o’clock. The effects of the ginger were wearing thin and the sharp aroma of vomit clinging to my clothes only made matters worse. On shore, bicycles belonging to another century with huge metal rims and woven baskets strapped to the handlebars littered the wharf. Women wearing floppy-brimmed hats tied to their heads with satin scarves waited on the dock waving at visitors as they shuffled off. The only hint that the 1970s had made it across the bay to Tillings Island came in the form of a young couple snuggled close together on the break wall dipping their toes in the surf so that the cuffs of their bell-bottoms boasted dark rings from the water. The collar of the girl’s paisley shirt, cut too low for fall and tied in a knot around her waist so that she showed an inch of belly, whipped in the breeze.
At the base of the Mirabel’s ramp, a rickety sign weathering in the salt air read: COME ALL YE FAR AND WIDE TO THE FESTIVAL OF YEMAYA OUR LADY OF TILLINGS. And then I saw her standing there, tall and lovely, gazing over the ocean with soft gray eyes the color of a perfect storm. A dolphin swam at her side, where the sea foam and her thighs tangled into one wave. Carved from a slab of mahogany, she looked a thousand years old, with one hand cupped in the air. Beads of water dripped from her fingers into a pile of pearls at her waist like the pearls of water my father had sent skipping over Potter’s Creek. Beneath a seaweed shawl, tiny rivulets snaked down her naked breast. A halo of cowry shells pushed the hair from her eyes, which appeared to be studying the horizon thoughtfully.
If you are very, very lucky you will see her. My father’s words rolled across an ocean and nine years. Closing my eyes, I felt them tinkle into the hollow space he’d left behind. I grasped to hold on to the sound of him, but as always, it slipped away.
The deep mournful bawl of the ferry’s horn snapped me back to the present.
“Move along, please!” bellowed a deckhand.
Beside me, my mother wrangled the canvas bag and Luke’s crate, rendered all the slipperier from having been hosed down. Before I could gather my ground, a fat woman with tangerine lips tottering on clunky green sandals, dyed to match the ribbon of her sombrero, knocked me forward and I was swept into the rapids of windbreakers, sweaters, and L.L. Bean tennis shoes. When I came to rest at the bottom of the ramp, it was just me, the cobblestones, and Yemaya.
The crowd was just starting to disperse when Remy whisked my arm up in an iron grip, hurrying me toward the statue. As we got closer, I could see three sea stones in Yemaya’s outstretched hand. Instinctively, I ran my hand over the lump in my pocket. Behind Yemaya’s tiny waist, the hood of a purple Ford Thunderbird poked into the day with TAXI scrawled across it in a bow of red cursive. A fat white gull had settled on its roof and was screeching at the boat.
“Come on. They’ll be driving the autos off any moment and the way these blokes drive they’ll make a flapjack out of ya. Where’s yer mum?” Remy looked at me, prodding. An old familiar wave of guilt sprang up in my chest from my inability to answer her. “I see. Well, I can’t say I blame you. If it’d taken me this long to lose her, I wouldn’t want someone traipsing behind me undoing all my hard work either.”
I tossed her a grin, chewing a tuft of skin hanging tight to the inside of my cheek by one corner.
“Still and all, the law says she’s got to feed you and keep you warm. So, I guess we should track her down.” Remy glanced up, letting her eyes rest on a huge man with white wavy hair and a round belly leaning easily against the statue. She led me over to his side while he tapped a pipe out on the heel of his shoe before stuffing it with fresh tobacco. Behind him, the purple taxi sat with its passenger door open. He had only begun to suck the flame of the match upside down into the bowl, making the tobacco glow orange, when Remy Mandolin turned me by the shoulders so she could look at me squarely.
“I know just what you’re going through. You see this old giant with a shipwreck for lungs?”
I nodded.
“He’s my father, and I’ve been trying to rid myself of him my whole damn life; just keeps coming back to stink up my life like that dog of yours.” The grin on my face deepened, touching one off on Mr. O’Malley’s face, too. He swatted his daughter on the backside with a rolled-up copy of the Island Beacon, shaking his head in the same manner Remy had done onboard. “And that,” she pointed at the car, “is the Great Purple Monster of Millbury. Now I’m going to go find your mother and your mutt; I’m sad to say you’re stuck with her.”
I nodded again.
“It looks like we’re going to be neighbors. Way back when the Booth property belonged to an old sea captain, he built two small houses that used to belong to caretakers. Those houses got sold off after he died. I live in one and this old goat lives in the other. I can damn near spit out my window into yours.” She laughed, sending the curls along her nape bouncing gently. “I bet your mum is real happy about that.”
Curiosity, and a grain of respect, sprouted in my eyes as I tried to make sense of this renegade of a woman that had just come crashing into our lives. She was either awesomely cool or awesomely crazy; it was difficult to tell. Clearly, she threw my mother entirely off kilter for some reason. But there was something else. She had said something on the boat. She knew about my father, and I wanted to know how.
“Okay, then. I’ll b
e back. Since there doesn’t seem to be an adult anywhere in the vicinity, I’ll leave you in charge. Don’t you let him smoke another pipe, you hear? Or his chest is going to collapse right where he stands. Then we will have to roll his big black lungs over to the edge of the dock and dump him, and I just haven’t the time nor inclination for that today.” Then Remy disappeared, leaving me shifting awkwardly from foot to foot studying the statue Mr. O’Malley was leaning on.
I had never dumped a parent off the side of a dock, but after my father left, I had been plagued by a recurring dream in which I tossed my mother off the edge of the earth.
I could hear my father calling for me from within a dark jungle, could see his hand reaching through the branches, saying, “Don’t let go, Be. Don’t let go!” Each time I tried to run after him, my mother held my wrist until I was kicking and scratching like a bear in a trap. When my father’s hand began to slip away, I used all my strength and shoved her into the mouth of a volcano to free myself of her grip. But I only made it three steps toward the darkness before I saw her pulling herself right back over the edge, yelling, “Jesus, Iz. Don’t do it. Just this once, don’t follow him.” I always woke from the dream pissed as a polecat at my mother for stopping me.
Why are you so angry with your mother? Dr. Boni’s voice flittered on the breeze.
That I wanted her gone was a lie. Once you have a parent plunge off the planet, you live the rest of your days haunted by the knowledge that the one you have left could follow at any time and then you will be alone for the rest of your life. Life becomes a wrestling match between holding on tight so they won’t leave, and shoving them away so your heart won’t dry up like a dandelion and puff into the wind when they do. It isn’t pretty and you won’t find it in any poem, but it’s the truth.
I glanced at Mr. O’Malley, who was now also standing back and tracing the sea witch’s soft curves with his eyes. “This is Yemaya, the Great Mother.” With his toe, he nudged a stack of white sticks on the ground, sending them scattering apart. “Offerings. Fish bones and such. People come from all over to lay their dreams and secrets at her feet, hoping she can help them find whatever’s missing—money, health, love. Those were probably from some sailor going out for a haul.” He pointed with the barrel of his pipe to where several alabaster bones had become caught up in the stained blue and white folds of Yemaya’s skirt. “The festival starts in a week or so and ends with the Great Feast. The whole island turns out. Somethin’ to see.”
When he turned quietly back to his paper, I looked up at Yemaya’s brown face, studying it so intently I never felt my fingers creep up to touch her hand. Her eyes were haunting as they looked out over the ocean. It was as though she, too, were searching for a thing lost. I could not help wondering what it was.
CHAPTER FIVE
I was already in the backseat of the taxi sketching the wooden statue on the inside cover of my notepad when I saw Remy locate my mother at the ramp, taking Luke’s crate from her hand and setting it on the wooden planks. I cannot say how long they were talking out there, or about what. But it was long enough for my mother’s face to grow pale and her mouth to draw into a surprised little O. So I figured Remy had just told her about the three of us being neighbors. Up front, Mr. O’Malley flipped his pipe end over end with his fingers, studying my mother with interest, until they turned for the taxi and he unfolded himself to open the trunk for our bags.
“Mr. O’Malley.” All the bark had gone from my mother’s voice as she took his hand briefly.
“Thomas,” he corrected, taking her gently in his arms, as if he worried he might break her. He gave her a warm hug without letting go of her hand. “It’s been a long time.” I let my eyes ping up from my sketch long enough to trace the hint of sadness in his eyes, wondering what he meant by that. “Welcome back.”
“It has.” My mother nodded, patting his hand. “Too long. How have you been?” A gentleness moved over her tone in a way I hadn’t heard in a very long time, and I believed she really wanted to know.
“Disobedient. Ornery. A generalized pain in the ass,” Remy interjected, dodging Mr. O’Malley’s free hand when it shot out to rumple her hair.
What felt like an awkward hour passed before Mr. O’Malley dropped my mother’s hand. Both of them stood motionless for a moment, and I couldn’t help but wonder at the familiarity that seemed to pass between them. Remy’s back was turned to the cab, but I could make out her hand touching Mr. O’Malley’s right shoulder briefly before she dropped down to pick up Luke’s crate.
“I’ll ride with you,” Remy interjected, tossing a bag in the truck. “I’ve got too much to get done for the festival to sit around waiting for this one to wander back around for me in three hours.” She gave Mr. O’Malley a pointed glance. “You can drop me at home after we get these folks unloaded.”
“Have it your way.” Mr. O’Malley grinned. “But paying passengers sit up front.” He tossed my mother a wink, swinging the passenger door open for her to slip in.
“Fine by me.” Remy slapped the trunk shut. “The smell of that hell pipe gives me a headache anyway.”
We drove through the village of Tillings quietly, Mr. O’Malley’s taxi bumping along over the cobblestones. Outside the car, a frenzy of activity seemed to be exploding along the streets and inside the shops, which were preparing for the festival. Two men curled over a walkway popping cobbles from their bracings and hammering new ones in their place. A tall heavyset woman balanced on a ladder as she stitched up the corner of an awning in front of a sweets shop. Four people with rags and small tins polished the brass trappings of a small white church while the pastor plopped clumps of pink mums along the brick walk. The sign read:
THE BLESSING OF YEMAYA
SUN. 10:00 AM. VISITORS WELCOME.
THE GREAT MOTHER’S CHILDREN’S BLESSING
TO FOLLOW AT 11:00 AM.
“Most summer vacationers leave after Labor Day,” Remy said, eyeing the bustling street. “Then we all go a little crazy preparing for the crowd that comes over for the festival. After the Great Feast is over, Tillings will be dead as a beached whale until next Memorial Day.”
I didn’t know if I would be there to see that. My mother hadn’t said how long we were staying, but I had the feeling that my voice wasn’t the only reason we were on the island. Over the last few years, my mother had worked primarily from home as a consultant for estate liquidators assessing fine art and pricing it for auction. At least, that was what she did when she wasn’t busy scribbling down assignments for me from the room in the back of our house, which she had designated as a home classroom. I was the only kid I knew who had to live with their teacher, and while every kid in the universe got to go out and play for recess, I got to go and make my bed. Over the last three weeks, my mother had packed up her office to work from Tillings and every last pencil from my home-school kit was in my trunk. If she knew how long she intended us to be gone, she didn’t say. It wasn’t like there was really anything to leave behind, or anyone who would miss us.
Other than Grandma Jo, my mother had frozen the world out so thoroughly there were times she didn’t even open the door for the UPS man. A month earlier, I had found her sitting on the living room floor with a bottle of Kendall Jackson, crying in a sea of loose photographs like some sort of rogue planet trying to hold its universe in orbit. Or maybe it was a black hole and she was willing it to swallow her up—I can’t be sure. But this is what I do know . . . sometimes the only place left to hide is in the shadows of your own mind. Mr. O’Malley wove up and down a labyrinth of streets dotted with people repairing pickets and toting rakes. Behind them, small children dragged yard bags and jumped in leaf piles before stuffing them full. Finally, the taxi headed out of town on a road skirting the ocean until only a few homes speckled the fields. We drove past the jetties, where a small boy in rolled-up jeans hopped up and down splashing the water from a tidal pool with bare feet. A starfish dangled between his fingers, its tentacles so orange in the
sunlight that it appeared rusted. The girl behind him scrunched her face up, trying to force a small shovel into the sand beside a clam hole, working it with such force she kicked the tin pail at her toes, toppling it onto its side. Their parents sat on the rocks along the dunes, laughing.
We drove for another five minutes before Mr. O’Malley flicked on his blinker and a small green arrow winked to the left. I had just remembered to add the drips of water cascading into pearls off Yemaya’s arm when the taxi passed a sign marked KNOCKBERRY LANE, which turned out to be about a mile of crushed oyster shells sparkling like pink snow in the dying sun.
The tires of Mr. O’Malley’s Thunderbird crunched past a tidy stone carriage house through whose doors I fully expected seven midget men to whistle their way into view. It was cinnamon-sugar warm; the sort of place where a chimney fills the yard with applewood smoke in the fall, and whose shallow knolls seemed to tremble with children giggling their way through a toboggan race. Autumn roses climbed the chimney bricks and spilled over the roof in huge cotton-candy tufts; wisteria tangled so thickly around the garden its vines had long ago wrestled the chicken wire to the ground. The whole scene shooed away formality in a way Grandma Jo would have adored.
What the Waves Know Page 5
