The Cottage at Glass Beach

by Heather Barbieri

  “But she thought we did.” Annie cupped the water, marveling how it went clear when she held it in her hands, divided from the larger body.

  “She thought we did—in her mind. It was never spoken of, and therefore, it doesn’t count.”

  “We’d still be breaking the rules. We’d still be lying, indirectly. She’s been sad enough already lately.”

  “Sad and mad are two different things.”

  “She’s both, isn’t she? I don’t want her to be mad at me.”

  “Suit yourself. I don’t care if she is, when it comes to me.”

  The seals appeared in the cove, observing them from the rocks. “They want us to play,” Annie said. She missed Ronan. She hadn’t seen him in days. Did the seals know where he was? They weren’t saying. “They like hide-and-seek.”

  “I wonder if they’d come closer, if we went out in the coracle,” Ella said.

  “Maybe if we sit here, they’ll come ashore,” Annie said. “They like the rocks on sunny days. They leave their babies there, while they fish.” It was pupping season. Reilly had warned them to keep their distance.

  Ella flopped down on the sand. The clouds moved across the sky in a steady line, a processional, heading south, to Boston—to their father. She pointed her finger at the tip, as if she could catch hold of the plume and ride it all the way home.

  Patch barked from the point. Reilly was nearby, casting a line, a slope-shouldered silhouette, eyes fixed on the waves that would not give up their catch easily that day, neither side willing to admit defeat. He must have been staying away, thanks to their mother.

  “Let’s go.” Ella grabbed Annie’s hand and set out to join him.

  “But Mama said—”

  “She didn’t say we couldn’t talk to him. There’s no harm in talking, is there?”

  “No,” she admitted. She’d missed Reilly, Patch too.

  As they drew closer, Patch dashed down the path and perched on a slab of granite, woofing a greeting. Reilly patted the space next to him, large enough to accommodate two slender girls under the age of thirteen.

  “Where have you been?” Annie asked.

  “I might have asked the same of you.”

  “Under house arrest,” Ella said.

  “And now you’re on parole, eh?” Seabirds spiraled above the pinnacles, up into the clouds. “When I was a boy, I used to want to fly like that, above everything. Be able to dive in, catch all the fish in the world, their silver scales turning into coins. Such an imagination I had.”

  “Have you caught anything today?” Annie asked. The earth fell away beneath their feet—Reilly’s booted, the girls’ laced in red and black Converses—dangling above the thrashing surf.

  “Not much of consequence. The big fish like deep water. Here, I only hook the little ones. They aren’t as tasty. Not enough fat stored in the tissues, you see. I miss being at sea.”

  “So do we.”

  “Give it time. You’ll earn your stripes—and your mother’s support.”

  The line went taut. So did he. Then it slackened, his body too, before he set his shoulders again. “Patience,” he told himself.

  “My mother’s always telling me what to do—and not do,” Ella said.

  “She’s keeping you safe.”

  “From what?”

  “All that might harm you.”

  Ella contemplated the ocean. “Since we’re confined to shore,” she said, “would you teach us to navigate?”

  “We’re already on probation,” Reilly said. “Don’t want your mother to have my head. A formidable woman, she is.”

  “She just doesn’t want us on the water. It doesn’t matter if we learn skills on land. You have a compass, don’t you?”

  “I do. I keep it in my pocket. It was handed down through the family. Something of an island tradition, you could say.”

  “Please, show us,” Annie said.

  “The points of the compass rose,” he began with a verse his great grandfather had taught him, “hold more wisdom than you suppose. . . .”

  Polly Clennon came by that afternoon, announcing her arrival with a beep of the mail van. Her hair was now deep purple. “Do not, under any circumstances, go to Merry Manes to get your hair colored. I should have known better. Merry is my friend, but she’s never been the best with dye, and what with her sight getting worse—she needs to up her eyeglass prescription, if you ask me, but she’d have to go to the mainland for that, and, well, that’s a hassle—she can’t make out the labels. At least I didn’t end up puce, like Maura O’Donnell.”

  “You wear it well.” Nora smiled.

  “My husband’s taken to calling me Violet. Or Aubergine. He’s quite the cutup, believe me. Ah, well, it will grow out; it will fade, as things do, given time.” She paused. “Here’s your mail.”

  Two letters; no legal documents, as Nora supposed. One had no return address. The other was a note from her friend Miriam, probably in the vein of her last. “Please know I’m thinking of you,” she’d written, her effort to find the right words apparent in the brevity of the message, one that sounded like a sympathy card, for that’s what it was. Nora was far from the world of 16 Oak Street and the neighbors like Miriam who’d appeared with dinners of lasagna or enchilada casserole in the days after the scandal broke, as if she’d lost the ability to cook, as if someone had died (not someone, though something, yes). Like those who’d peered from behind their Venetian blinds, noting the media trucks with avid curiosity, those who’d hovered by their mailboxes, hoping to be interviewed, taking their turn in the spotlight, to talk about her, Malcolm, the girls, suggesting a deeper acquaintance, a knowledge, than they actually possessed.

  On this part of the island, there was only the shell road, with little or no traffic. A road that glowed on clear nights, when the shadows fell between the broken cockles, and the moon lit the nacred edges to brilliance. A road that disappeared into the mist on foggy evenings. A road few others had taken. Nora hadn’t been followed, except by the past.

  “News from home?” Polly asked as the van idled, the engine rumbling as if clearing its throat. She had the window rolled down, her freckled arm resting on the door. A single mailbag sat on the seat beside her. Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” played on an antiquated stereo system, the cassette tape tinny, hissing.

  Nora gave a dismissive wave of her hand. The wind snatched at the envelope. “A note from a friend,” she said.

  “Will they visit?”

  “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “Not much room for guests, is there?”

  “No, there isn’t.” Nora knew she was fishing for details about Malcolm and what had transpired during his stay.

  “Houseguests can be wearing. Not that I mind, myself. I like company,” she paused. “And where might the girls be?”

  “Down on the beach. They found a coracle.”

  “Maeve’s coracle? We could put it in the museum, if you ever get tired of it,” she said, clearly turning over the possibilities in her mind. “Some said your ancestors made a deal with the sea,” she added, “so that they might always travel its waters safely. Didn’t work for Maire’s husband, poor man. But then, he wasn’t a McGann.”

  “Or my mother.” Though she was.

  “So many stories.” She gave Nora a considering look. “We all have our histories, our mythologies, don’t we? The historians think they’re being impartial, relying on facts, but even the facts can be mighty unreliable, depending upon who’s doing the telling.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, you know how I go on. They called me Babs, short for Babbling Brook, when I was a girl. My family started it. Nicknames. The perfect thing to call them, eh? A little cut, a little jab, in the saying of them? Not that I minded. Rise above has always been my modus operandi. It’s gotten me far enough in life, if not off this island. Anyway, it’s the old-timers who might be able to tell you more about Maeve. They—along with a host of others—gather at C
is McClure’s on Wednesday nights.”

  “My mother seems to stir up strong feelings in people.”

  “She was memorable, that’s for certain.”

  “I’ve lived most of my life not knowing whether she left or disappeared. I told myself it didn’t matter—” The words tumbled out before Nora could stop them.

  “But it does. It cuts to the very heart of you, of course it would,” Polly said. “Go into town later. Most everyone should be there, or at least the usual suspects. I’ll introduce you.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “I’m sure Maire will watch the girls. She doesn’t go in for that sort of thing, not since Joe died. He was a fiddler, you see. Performed regularly at McClure’s. Brings back too many memories for her to even consider setting foot in the place. She still feels the loss keenly. I think there’s a part of her that expects he’ll come sailing home one evening, from wherever he’s been. Some things are too hard to get over, no matter how much time passes.”

  They fell quiet and turned toward the ocean, that magician, whose greatest trick, it seemed, was making people disappear.

  After Polly left, Nora opened Miriam’s letter:

  How are you doing? You’ve been on my mind. Will you really be staying on the island for the summer? It’s strange not having you here. The house is so quiet. I have to stop myself from going over and knocking on the door. I keep forgetting you’re not there. I miss you—

  She should write back. She knew she should, but she didn’t know what to say. She’d sat down before, pen poised over paper. The words wouldn’t come. She’d try again soon. She’d ask Miriam about her life, rather than speaking of her own. Maybe that would make it easier.

  She went inside and turned to the other letter. “McGann,” read the name in labored print. It must have been a mistake—Maire’s married name was Flanagan, Nora’s Cunningham. The address matched the number for the cottage, not Cliff House. Odd.

  She tore open the envelope, nicking her index finger in the process. There was only a scrap of lined yellow paper inside. She pulled it out. “Why are you here?” it read. No signature. The writer appeared to have pressed the pencil so hard into the paper that it punctured it in places.

  The girls came into the house, faces flushed, hungry for a snack.

  “What’s that?” Ella asked. “A letter from Dad?”

  “No.” She crumpled it up and threw it in the garbage. “Just junk mail.”

  Night had fallen by the time Nora drove into town, the stars and occasional streetlamp dotting the velvet darkness with pinpricks of light. Moths fluttered before the headlights, cream-colored, fragile. Hers the only vehicle on the road, making its way to the center of things, Cis McClure’s, where people drank and sang and danced their troubles away. The spots outside the bar were taken. She had to park up the street and around the corner, down a deserted alley. Her boots clattered on the cobblestones, conspicuously loud in the quiet. Even at that distance, she felt the throb of the music, as if it came from the earth itself. She passed Scanlon’s, closed now after hours, the bakery, the shoe repair, no sign of life within, the windows dark.

  The entire population of the island, or close to it, seemed to have crammed into the pub that night. Every seat taken, every space to stand occupied. Girls in short skirts and low-cut tops, chests pale, freckled, young men in knit hats and flannel shirts, hair black or blazing red, the old men in tweeds and patch-elbowed jackets, either hanging off shoulders or straining across bellies. Nora stood on tiptoe, hoping to spot Polly Clennon, but the loquacious postmistress was nowhere in sight. The drone of voices filled the space, a hive of gossip, conviviality, and intrigue. Patrons sat, head-to-head, in tense or jocular debate; others clustered around tables, chiming in. Some danced. Some sang, to themselves or in small groups. A band tuned up in the corner, preparing to play.

  A seat opened at the bar, and she took it. The stool was wooden, offering little comfort. She caught the bartender’s eye. Cis himself poured the drinks—Cisco being his full name, she gathered. Broad-shouldered and spade-faced, he was an imposing presence amid the greater chaos around him, the only suggestion of gentleness in his hands as they swiftly, neatly poured the drinks, not spilling a single drop. “New, are you?” he asked.

  “As a penny,” she replied.

  “Worth a sight more than that, aren’t you?” he said. “Though that’s what I’ll charge you.”

  “The going rate?”

  “Newcomer’s special.”

  She ordered the house ale, the foam poised perfectly on the lip of the glass. She would have preferred a glass of white wine, but had the feeling such a request would have been verboten. Cis set the drink in front of her with a nod.

  The local priest, Father Ray, tapped her shoulder. Nora had seen—or rather heard—him tearing around the island on his motorcycle, though she’d never actually met him. She felt some embarrassment over having not been to mass (Maire asked if she’d like to join her those first weeks, but then let her be), but clearly he wasn’t the sort who went in for guilt trips. “Joining the congregation tonight, are we?” he asked.

  “They don’t look very holy,” she said with a smile.

  “This is their second church. Some worship here more regularly than others.” He wore a collar and blacks, which made him stand out in the crowd. His stocky build hinted at a youth spent on the football field.

  “They do seem devoted.”

  “It is a sort of religion.”

  “Maybe you should talk to the Vatican about introducing a communion ale.”

  “There’s a thought.” He laughed. “Might like that better myself. They send the most awful wine.” He paused. “You’re Maire’s niece, aren’t you? I can see the family resemblance. How are you getting on?”

  She took a sip of ale, considering. She decided to go with the simple answer. “Well enough.”

  “I hear you’re quite the swimmer.”

  She wondered what else he’d heard. “I like the ocean.”

  “It’s special here, isn’t it? A unique convergence of currents, they say.”

  “Yes. And you?”

  “I’m better on land. I tend to get seasick. Don’t tell anyone. I don’t want to ruin my credibility.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  He paused for a moment, as if she might be compelled to share a confidence.

  One of the men called to him from across the room.

  “Someone needing to confess?” Nora asked.

  “Or, hopefully, wanting to buy me a drink.” Father Ray winked. “Well, I’m off to minister to the flock. Drop by St. Mary’s for a visit anytime. The door is always open.”

  Alison breezed past with an empty tray. Nora had forgotten she waitressed there.

  “Busy girl,” Nora said. She considered mentioning the disturbing letter, but then thought the better of it.

  “Keeps me out of trouble.” Alison balanced the order with ease. “And pads the bank account. My travel fund.”

  “Any thoughts about where you’ll go?”

  “A vacation someplace hot and sunny—Thailand, Brazil.”

  “I might have to join you,” Nora said. “Have you seen Polly? She was supposed to meet me.”

  Alison shook her head. “Not yet. Maybe the van broke down again. She doesn’t have much luck with cars. Or she stopped to chat too long. The woman’s a talker, if you haven’t noticed.”

  She was indeed.

  “But here’s her father, Gerry.” Alison nodded to the red-faced man who’d taken the seat beside Nora. He appeared to have had a good start on the evening, judging by the shine in his eyes. “The next best thing.”

  “Next best thing, am I?” He grinned. “I’ll do better than that.” He must have been in his eighties. He was spry, a touch of arthritis, perhaps, giving him the jerky movements of a marionette. Before Nora knew what was happening, he’d hopped off his stool and taken her by the elbow, jigging her through the crowd near the door. Th
e pubgoers parted to let them through, some laughing and clapping indulgently, others scarcely registering them. Nora sensed Gerry made a regular habit of such displays. “Good for the heart,” he said, as he deposited her in her seat, with a gentlemanly tip of his cap. “Thank you for the dance.”

  “You’re welcome.” He was quite the character.

  He leaned closer. “I’m looking to get laid tonight.” He wasn’t necessarily propositioning her, merely announcing his general intentions, in an almost wistful fashion.

  “Happy fishing.” She took a demure sip of her ale, suppressing a laugh. She imagined he’d never say such things when sober. She wouldn’t drink much that night herself. She needed to have a clear head, the roads and the people of Burke’s Island being challenging, at times, to navigate.

  Gerry skipped off for a solo and returned a short time later, leaning on the bar for support. “Out of breath, I am.” He panted. “Gone are the days when I could close the place down.”

  “It’s the dancing.”

  “And the age. More’s the pity.” He paused.

  “You don’t look a day over—”

  “A hundred?” He cackled. “Soon to be. Ninety-five, this last January.”

  “That can’t be.”

  “Oh, but it is. How the time does pass. I was in the world war. The first one. Saw a lot of action, especially in France.” He gave her a playful jab in the ribs.

  “You’re quite the flirt, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t tell my wife.”

  “Is she here too?”

  “Lord, no. She’s up at St. Mary’s.”

  “Praying?”

  “In the cemetery, God rest her soul.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”

  “Years ago, it was. Still miss her.” His gaze clouded, before he fixed on her face again. “You remind me of someone.”

  “I have one of those faces.”

  He snapped his fingers, after a couple of unsuccessful goes. “That McGann girl. A fine one, she was. Maeve.”

  “My mother.”

  “That explains it. Sure. You’re the child, all grown up. The spitting image.”

  “So I hear. Did you know her?”