Moonpenny Island

by Tricia Springstubb

  People should be careful what they wish for.

  The three of them are staring glumly at their meatballs, which to tell the truth taste of freezer burn. Thomas puts one on the floor for his dog, and Dad doesn’t even notice. When the phone rings, Flor races to answer.

  “Tell him I’m studying with Lauren Long.” Click. Cecilia’s gone.

  “Cele’s studying with Lauren Long.”

  “See?” Dad gets up to clear the table. “Nothing to worry about. Not with our Saint Cele.”

  Could he be more aggravating? Doesn’t he notice who cooked the spaghetti? Who, when Cecilia still doesn’t appear, forces Thomas to peel off his clothes, only to discover that he’s wearing three sets of underpants on top of each other, his translation of “put on clean underwear”? Who makes him get in a tub that immediately turns the color of ditch water? Does their father have eyes in his head? If he isn’t careful, Flor will begin to yell at him, just like Mama did.

  Does.

  It’s raining, but when Cecilia finally comes home, she’s dry as dry can be. Beyond dry—she’s a pile of kindling that will burst into flame at the hint of a match. Studying with Lauren must have been very stimulating. Dad asks if she’s hungry, further proof he has no clue, because when was the last time he saw Cecilia eat, really eat? He actually looks sympathetic when she groans that she still has a ton of homework, heads for her closet, and shuts the door.

  Only Flor seems to notice that it’s Friday night. Or that her backpack full of books still sits on the kitchen floor.

  The rain is mean. Mean like cruel and mean like this means change is coming. Flor’s still awake, listening to it throw itself against the windows, when Dad climbs the stairs. Within minutes, the ffft ffft of his snoring blends with the sound of the rain.

  For once Thomas is in his own bed, and her room’s so lonesome it’s like even she isn’t there. Dragging her pillow and covers out onto the landing, she opens her book. Anne Shirley’s having trouble with one of her boy students, but it breaks her heart to discipline him. Anne makes so many mistakes herself! She’s always rushing headlong, and feeling things with trembling intensity, and letting her imagination run completely, insanely wild. She reads her students fairy tales and takes them rambling through the woods. Mrs. Defoe could take a lesson here.

  “De foe,” Joe called her today. “De opposite of de friend.”

  The rain is on a mission to soak every inch of the island. Flor thinks of Joe and Jocelyn and the many Hawkinses crammed into their falling-down house. She thinks of Mrs. Defoe, asleep between brown sheets. Thinks of Jasper and Dr. Fife in their room with the slanted roof, their beds like islands in a sea of fossils. She thinks of Jasper’s mother, camped out in some remote forest, and of Charles Darwin, sailing from one exotic, rocky island to another. Finches. What did Jasper say about finches?

  She won’t think about Mama. Won’t.

  Huddled in her pile of covers, Flor’s an island herself. The rain is the sea, slapping her shores, washing over her rocks. Is that a boat on the horizon, sails rustling, a woman peering at her through a telescope? The woman waves. She murmurs Flor’s name.

  “Flor.”

  When Flor opens her eyes, her sister’s face is an inch away.

  “Aren’t you starving?” Cele whispers. “Come on.”

  They tiptoe down the stairs. Cecilia snaps on the kitchen light and starts pulling things out of the fridge. Plops a chunk of butter in a skillet. Cracks four eggs, whisks them with cream. As the eggs sizzle, she throws in cheese and shakes on the hot sauce they both love. Her wrist is a perfect golden hinge. After days of unrelenting tomato sauce, the smell is so delicious Flor can hardly stand it. You’d think they’d wake their father, but nothing ever does. “That’s the sleep of a man with a clean conscience,” Mama says.

  Toast. More butter. The delectable rose-hip jelly Two Sisters sells at the end of summer. They don’t even bother with plates but eat right out of the skillet. Cecilia shovels it in like a girl who hasn’t eaten in forever. The two of them together. It feels nice. It feels so snug and nice. Cecilia smiles at Flor.

  “Thanks for covering for me.”

  Mouth gluey with toast, Flor shakes her head. Cecilia sets down her fork.

  “You didn’t?”

  “I just told him what you said.”

  The wet, black window reflects two close-together heads. One—the pretty one—draws back.

  “Right,” says Cele. “Good.”

  “It was the truth, right?”

  Cecilia picks up her fork and fills her mouth with egg.

  “Because,” says Flor, “Mama’s not here, and Lita’s sick, and this family needs to stick together. People shouldn’t be taking advantage of the situation.”

  “Yeah, well.” Cecilia stabs a lump of egg. “Mama doesn’t seem to care a whole lot about sticking together.”

  Flor sits back, shocked. “She had to go! She—”

  “Flor, there are ten million relatives who live right there. Mama could’ve come back by now if she really wanted to.” Cecilia points her fork. “All that food in the freezer? She’s been planning this. She was just waiting for a good excuse.”

  Flor almost falls out of her chair.

  “Planning what? What are you talking about?”

  “Some people just aren’t cut out to live here.” Cecilia pushes the frying pan away. “Some people need a different kind of life.”

  “Not Mama!” An icy, invisible finger taps Flor’s forehead. “Mama likes to cook. She got carried away in the cooking department, that’s all.”

  “Maybe.”

  Tap tap. Cold seeps into Flor’s brain. “Are you saying she really left? Because she would’ve said. She definitely would’ve told us.”

  “Unless she wasn’t sure herself.”

  “You’re making this up! Your hypothesis is not supported.”

  Cecilia takes the pan to the sink, runs hot water. She scrubs hard, just like Mama. Her back to Flor, she says, “When I was little, Moonpenny was the world and the world was Moonpenny. Like playing Town, remember? Remember how fun that game was?”

  Does she forget who she’s talking to? Of course Flor remembers!

  “Like the center of the universe,” Cecilia says. “That’s how home feels, when you’re little.”

  She turns around. A strand of black hair sticks to her glowing cheek. Flor’s gotten used to seeing that face shut to her, but now it’s open, a beautiful flung-open window. Happy and sad mix together there, but mostly happy. Flor shrinks back in her chair.

  “Maybe you’ll turn out like Dad,” her big sister says. “Maybe you’ll live here in perfect contentment your whole life. That’d be nice. That’d be good. But everybody’s not made the same.”

  “I know that,” Flor whispers.

  “Even people who start out from the same place, they can go in different directions. They can change. They can . . . they can discover they want something very different from what they thought.”

  Cecilia reaches for a towel and slowly dries her hands. First one, then the other, then the first one again, like her hands are precious objects. The overhead light makes a halo on her dark hair, but Cecilia’s not a saint. That is a new thought. Flor grips her chair.

  “Cele, please tell me where you were tonight.”

  Her sister folds the dish towel so each corner is perfectly squared, then hangs it up. “Come on. It’s late.”

  This is not an answer. This is like an adult with a dried-up heart saying It’s okay. You’ll get used to it.

  Flor turns her head. She won’t look as Cecilia walks out of the room.

  Alone at the table, Flor’s bare feet are ice cubes. The room’s not cozy anymore. The night on the other side of the window is big and dark. Flor feels it pressing against the glass, trying hard to get in.

  Chapter Sixteen

  All week, Flor tries her best to turn Cecilia into a book so high up on a shelf you can’t reach it. She tries to fold her sister smal
l and flat and put her in the very back of the drawer. If Cecilia wants a sister divorce, fine. Fine with her!

  Friday night, Dad announces he’s going to Toledo tomorrow.

  “Can I come?” says Thomas.

  “Not this time, old buddy.”

  He catches the first ferry. Flor’s up to say good-bye, and when he hugs her, she presses her cheek hard against his broad chest, like he’s a wishing fossil.

  Bring her back.

  That day she does laundry, and scrubs the kitchen floor, and makes Thomas stay in the bath till he’s wrinkled as a little old man. Cecilia actually hangs around, though the way she pouts and moons, Flor almost wishes she’d go.

  “I just hope you’re not counting on her,” says Cecilia.

  “Never mind what I’m counting on,” says Flor, but a second later can’t help adding, “You’ll see.”

  Does Cecilia even care? Whatever she’s up to, she’d never get away with it if Mama was here. Mama is eagle-eyed. She sees enough for two, which must be why Dad sees nothing. No wonder Cecilia hopes Mama stays away.

  That is such a terrible thought, such a treacherous, traitorous thought, Flor has to sit down for a while.

  By late afternoon, there’s nothing left to do. Thomas wears clothes fresh from the dryer. Flor won’t let him off the porch, where he sits whispering secret commands to Petey, the invisible dog.

  “Roll over. Paw. Good boy!”

  Mama says prayer isn’t asking for things. That’s wishing, she says. Mama! Put all her opinions together, you’d get a book fatter than the Bible. Real prayer is simply talking to God, Mama says. It’s opening wide your reverent, humble heart.

  Sitting on the porch swing, eyes closed and hands folded, Flor tries. But within three seconds, she’s reverently, humbly begging. Cecilia’s head pokes out the door.

  “Dad texted. He’s on the next ferry.”

  They, he meant.

  Flor takes her little brother’s hand.

  “Let’s go,” she says. “They’re coming.”

  The two of them have gotten as far as the abandoned farmhouse when Cecilia catches up. Not a word out of her. But that’s okay. Possibly even better. She’s here with them. That’s what matters.

  For a person used to galloping everywhere, walking feels strange. Flor likes to ride fast, turning the scenery into a bright ribbon getting wound onto a spool. But today she knows: it’s her moving, not the world. Her moving through the world.

  Thomas runs ahead, waits for them, runs ahead again. Cecilia refuses to speed up or speak. It’s like she thinks she’s in a solemn procession. Flor’s so grateful her sister’s with them, she buttons her own lip.

  The clock tower pokes up against the sky . . . 11:16. Flor jerks her head, refusing to acknowledge the stupid frozen thing.

  The afternoon is golden. The golden leaves, the goldenrod, the golden honeybees, the golden air itself. The sun drops golden doubloons of light in a shimmering line all across to the mainland. Anybody with eyes in her head would fall in love with Moonpenny today. Anyone would step off the ferry and think, I’m so glad I’m home! Why would I ever want to leave this place?

  Mama gets seasick, so she never stands on deck, always stays in the car. When the Patricia Irene draws close enough that they can make out Dad, alone at the rail, it doesn’t mean anything. Not a thing.

  Flor curls her fingers around the dock’s thick iron chain. The last time she was here, Sylvie left. That day is like a fossil. Like something flattened and buried.

  Cecilia comes to stand beside her. Her pinkie hooks Flor’s.

  She cares.

  Thunk. The ferry docks. The gulls on the pilings all lift off at the precise same moment. How do they do that?

  The few cars rolling off are crammed to the roof. Now’s the time the islanders lay in the last supplies for the long winter ahead. Fifty-pound bags of cat food, toilet paper for an army. Big blocks of clay for Delia Blackenberry, the sculptor, extra pens and boxes of paper for Betty Magruder, who spends deep winter nights writing epic poems about tragic shipwrecks.

  Their car’s the last one off. Thomas swings his fat arms up, touchdown style. But a moment later, they flop back to his sides. Dad rolls down the car window and tries for a smile.

  “A welcoming committee! How do you like that. Hop in, chicos.”

  Cecilia flings herself into the empty front passenger seat. Flor and Thomas climb in the back.

  “Where’s Mama?” Thomas glances around like she might be hiding under the seat or in the trunk. Any second she’ll pop out. Surprise!

  “Buddy, she’s still with Lita and Tia Aurora and everybody else. It wasn’t . . . wasn’t time for her to come home yet.” Dad looks at them in the rearview mirror. “She sent you all lots of hugs.”

  “You can keep mine,” says Cecilia.

  “She’s counting on you, Cecilia.” Dad turns in his seat. He lowers his voice. “You most of all.”

  “Where’s Mama?” Thomas still thinks saying something over and over will make it happen.

  Dad stares out the windshield and forgets to drive. Flor rarely views her father from behind, and she sees how wide his shoulders are, how broad his neck. Mama’s barely half his size, but if he ran away and left them, she’d make him come back. She’d see justice done. Anger settles inside Flor. Like she swallowed a hot coal, it burns inside her. He let her go! How could he do that?

  “Everything okay, chief?” Tim the ferry guy leans down to Dad’s window.

  “Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure thing!” Dad’s grin is so artificial, can’t Tim see? Is the man blind? Or does he see and pretend not to, and isn’t that worse? How exactly is that different from lying?

  “Bea okay?” Tim says.

  “You bet. Just fine.” Dad pulls out into the road. “Thanks for asking!”

  “Where’s Mama?” Thomas refuses to surrender. “Hey, Dad?”

  “Stop the car.” Cecilia’s voice makes a fist.

  “What?” Dad grips the wheel. He darts Cele a quick look. “You’re upset, sure you are. But you just gotta hold on here, and be patient. You—”

  “I said stop the car!”

  Dad jams on the brake. Cecilia yanks open her door and jumps out.

  “You think pretending makes it better?” she cries.

  “Cele.” Dad suddenly looks way older than when he left this morning. He looks like Dad disguised as an eighty-year-old man. “What are you doing? Get back in the car right now.”

  “You adults! You’re all enormous fakes! You’re a bunch of liars!”

  “Get back in this car. You’re being disrespectful!”

  “Don’t tell me what I am!”

  Slam. Cele’s running. Long legs flashing, black hair streaming. Running, running, running away.

  “What’s she doing?” Dad turns to Flor. “Where’s she going?”

  How’s Flor supposed to know? All she knows is she’d rather look at anything than her father’s stricken, suddenly old face. Throwing open her door, she tumbles out into the road. Cecilia’s got a head start, and who knew she could run that fast in those boots?

  “Cele! Stop!”

  Her sister speeds up. In desperation Flor pumps her arms, lifts her knees.

  “Stop!”

  But Cecilia keeps getting smaller. And now Flor feels herself shrinking too. Something whittles away at her, scraping off bits and more bits, pieces of her flying off, till all that’s left is her heart, exposed to the air and light, nothing at all to protect it. Nothing to shield it from the bitter, biting truth.

  “You were right!” Flor calls. “About Mama! Cele! Come back!”

  Something hooks the toe of her shoe, the road tilts beneath her, and she’s flopping on the ground like a hooked fish. Dirt between her teeth. Elbows and palms scraped raw. A touch on the back of her hand makes her lift her head. A ragged paw pokes through the grass at the side of the road.

  “Owww,” says Flossie Magruder.

  Out on the bay, the Patricia Irene chugs b
ack to the mainland. The first thing Flor ever wanted to be was a ferry-boat captain. She wanted to blow the ship horn and twirl that big wooden wheel. But lying here, she feels sorry for the captain. She feels sorry for the old Patricia Irene itself, chugging back and forth, back and forth, never getting anywhere.

  Cecilia’s disappeared. Right before Flor’s eyes.

  “Owww,” Flossie Magruder says again, and that’s when Flor starts to cry.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fly, Misty! Fly like the western wind!

  Flor slides her feet into the stirrups and swings up into the saddle. She needs to gallop. Needs to move fast, even if she has no idea where she’s going.

  But something happens. No—nothing happens. Flor leans forward, but her bike remains a bike. Its cold metal refuses to warm, to ripple and come alive. Squeaky wheels, not clip-clopping hooves. No long, flowing mane or soft answering neigh.

  Misty? Where are you, girl?

  Flor rides faster, hardly caring where she is going. She races along Lilac Lane, past the Hawkinses’ house, its mountain range of junk gleaming in the Sunday-morning light. Doubles back and swings up onto Shore Road. Doesn’t stop as she passes the turnoff for the neck, the quiet airstrip. The milkweed pods have gone gray and papery. Fallen leaves spatter the road. Misty? Misty! Veers around the front of the island, past the ferry landing. Where are you? The distant mainland lies like a wrinkled old sock. Zooms right past Two Sisters.

  It’s no use. Misty is gone. She headed for the hills when Flor wasn’t looking.

  Flor has to stop. She’s out of breath. A flock of birds, a hundred or more, wings overhead, on their way north toward the open lake. The flock breaks into separate bits, some birds going one way, some another. She keeps watching, waiting for them to get it back together, but the last she sees of them, that flock is still messed up and confused.

  A golf cart’s weaving merrily along the road. It screeches to a stop beside her.

  “Just in time!” Dr. Fife’s face lights up like a scoreboard after a home run. He and Jasper wear their father-daughter tool belts. “We’re on our way to the field and could use a third pair of hands. Hop in, Miss F and F!”