Shiver Hitch

by Linda Greenlaw

  I grabbed the note that had been taped to the outside of my door, and set it on the table without reading it while I unbundled. The hot shower felt great. I had never appreciated hot water this much when I lived in Miami. I turned the knob to the scald position and closed my eyes, enjoying the solitude. I breathed in the moist, steamy air and felt all tension melt from my body. Relaxing, really relaxing was not in my repertoire. I would have to work on that, I thought as I wrapped myself in a bath towel and hesitantly opened the bathroom door, allowing the relatively cold air to barge in. I picked up the note from the table and read. Of course it was a reminder from the Vickersons. They liked to communicate in writing. Too old for texting, they said. And my cell phone was unreliable, they complained. I recognized the neat and bold printing on the paper as that of Mr. V; Alice wrote in an elegant cursive. The single page explained that Alice and Henry had gone on a road trip to Boston, and would “bring back a surprise.” I laughed at my landlord’s choice of words. The promise of a treat upon their return made me feel like a little kid.

  I recalled the only other time I had been told something similar, the very first stage of my life that I remembered anything. My mother had jarred me from a sound sleep and placed me in her lap with my brother while someone drove us to a dock where we boarded a boat. The next thing I knew I woke up in our family’s mainland car, a station wagon. We were going on a little adventure. My mother promised treats and surprises for well-behaved, non-whining children. And she delivered in the form of penny candy at every gas stop we made from Maine to Miami. As it turned out, the real surprise was that we never went back. I stopped asking after a while.

  Now, as I pulled on sweatpants and a wool shirt, I wondered if the Vickersons would bring me a bag of Atomic Fire Balls, Squirrel Nuts, Mary Janes, and Smarties (my mother never allowed bubble gum). More likely, they would bring me some samples of whatever new merchandise they would be selling at the Lobster Trappe when they reopened this season, I thought as I stood staring into the open refrigerator.

  The only other time the Vickersons had traveled to Boston, they brought back goodies from an Italian bakery. My mouth watered with the memory of cannoli and bruttiboni. The Italian pastry chefs had nothing on the Spanish, I thought as I hankered for pastelitos from my old neighborhood in Miami. How long had it been since I had been to the grocery store?

  Not much for dinner, I thought as I closed the refrigerator door in defeat. Maybe a can of soup? Yup! And scoring a ten in the lazy factor, I popped open the lid and shoved the plastic can into the microwave. Two minutes later, dinner was served. I slurped the soup with a plastic spoon, using a paper towel as a place mat, enabling me to toss the entire place setting, dinnerware, and cooking utensils into the trash. No crackers meant no crumbs to sweep off the table. I yawned and glanced at my wristwatch. I couldn’t possibly go to bed at seven p.m., could I? Even in kindergarten, I stayed up to watch reruns of Perry Mason and Ironside, which may have influenced my career path. Either that or I had a crush on Raymond Burr. I needed to force myself to stay awake until nine, I thought as I put on the teakettle and gathered all of my sheets of notes that I had shoved into various pockets of clothing in the past couple of days.

  I always slept best when I tucked in feeling organized for the following day. I would jump on the early boat to Acadia Island with a plan and procedure. And I would not return without making an arrest, I vowed as I sipped mint tea and shuffled through my notes and printed sheets from Deloris, looking for anything I may have missed. At eight I was ready to give in to sleepiness, when headlights lit up my kitchen. Oh, good, I thought. Mr. and Mrs. V were home. Now I could go to bed and not worry about them driving at night. Maybe I should greet them and help with whatever they had to carry from the car. And maybe I would enjoy one small treat before bed, I thought as I threw on my coat and slippers. One cannoli, as long as it didn’t contain chocolate, would not keep me awake, I thought. And I would have fresh biscotti for breakfast.

  By the time I got down my stairs and through the shop to their front door, they were already inside. I could hear voices from within the house. I knocked and waited. I opened the door a bit and called out. “Hi. Anybody home? I haven’t seen the two of you in days!”

  Whispered voices and scurrying sounds were followed by “Just a minute, Jane.” I waited with the door cocked open and imagined that Alice and Henry were arranging the pastries for the best effect when unveiled. The couple opened the door the rest of the way and greeted me with hugs. “Come in,” said Mr. V. “We have missed you!”

  “Oh, I know,” I replied with a smile. “I have missed both of you, too. I’ve been working too much. Nothing unusual there,” I said, knowing that they would reprimand me for not communicating once the warm greeting was over.

  “All work and no play…” Mrs. V started her usual lecture.

  “Makes Jane a dull girl,” came a familiar voice from the kitchen.

  Before I could ask who was with them, Mr. V swung open the kitchen door with a flourish and said, “Surprise!”

  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. My eyes welled up with tears as I embraced my brother Wally.

  ELEVEN

  Neither Wally nor I was willing to release the hug we shared. How long had it been? Although we had spoken on the phone weekly since my move north, I hadn’t seen my baby brother in over eight months. I should have been ashamed of myself for that. But I was so taken with the happy emotions that his presence always brought that I ignored the nagging twinges of guilt. Wally possessed nothing that would chide or castigate. He was one hundred percent pure joy. When I finally held him at arm’s length, I felt a renewed sense of hope on all levels. Life is indeed good, I thought.

  The scene took on a dreamlike quality as the Vickersons explained how and why they drove to Boston to pick up Wally at South Station. Wally had boarded a Greyhound bus in Miami, and somehow managed a thirty-seven-hour trip with three transfers. He called the adventure “fun.” And that is only one small example of how my brother and I differ. I could never endure that, I thought as I noticed how great Wally looked. The Vickersons had taken him to a barber shop where he and Henry got cleaned up while Alice shopped for pastries. His poker-straight, sandy-colored hair had been styled in a way that complimented his youthful, rosy face. Everyone always mistook Wally for a much younger guy then he was, which usually resulted in his reciting of birth date, place, and certain details of various birthday parties he had been given along the way.

  While Wally marveled about seeing snow for the first time, Mr. and Mrs. V elaborated on what I knew of the status of the home where Wally had lived for most of his adult life. Loss of federal funding finally caused them to close their doors—for good. They did what they could to help relocate all of the residents. In Wally’s case, as I am the only known next of kin, they notified me (or tried, and got Mrs. V on the phone instead). Mr. and Mrs. V had agreed to pay the bus fare (which they were quick to note I could reimburse them for), and were able to collect Wally on my behalf and deliver him to me (where he could live in their spare bedroom temporarily).

  It took a minute for all of this to sink in. Perhaps my head was swimming from lack of sleep. More likely, this unexpected event in combination with my fatigue made this situation more surreal than it really was. So my brother was moving in. No big deal. It felt right. The biggest adjustment would be for Wally. He would have to switch his loyalty to New England sports teams. That might be an issue, I knew. Wally was an avid and enthusiastic follower of professional football. His entire interior décor had consisted of banners, flags, and posters of the Miami Dolphins. Most of his wardrobe was aqua and white. Knowing how the Vickersons felt about the New England Patriots, the Miami swag would have to be retired. And Wally’s closet would be filled with shirts bearing the number twelve and the name Brady. I knew that Wally would learn to love the Minutemen, who were the NFL’s most interesting mascots, in my opinion. I wondered how long it would take for Wally to ask for a musket and
a tri-corner hat.

  Henry and Alice invited us to sit down and enjoy some of the baked goods Alice scored from a variety of Italian bakeshops from Boston’s North End while the guys “got handsome.” Wally was quick to dig in. Within two bites, the front of his black sweater was dusted with fine, powdered sugar and tiny crumbs from the delicate-looking pastry he devoured as he murmured what I grew up knowing as “the yummy tummy hummy.” Like a contented cat, Wally purred the monotoned, multisyllabic, little ditty, keeping the beat with each chew. When it looked obvious that Wally would polish off the entire box of goodies, I suggested that Mrs. V put them away until morning. I was surprisingly calm, and not annoyed with the landlords’ minding of my business. I might even find it in myself to thank them, I thought as I devoured a light, flaky pastry that melted on my tongue like butter. Alice cleared the table and instructed Wally to say good night as she showed him his room. Wally explained that he was afraid of the dark and asked that the door be left open, to which Alice agreed.

  I couldn’t help but worry about the immediate future. I knew that I had to work as many hours as possible, and put all personal business aside until there was an arrest made in the Kohl case. Before I could verbalize any of this, Mr. V said, “Don’t worry. We have plans with Wally, and are happy to have his company while you fight crime.” I breathed a sigh of relief and smiled, knowing that my landlords were genuinely doing this because they wanted to. “Our family just got a little bigger!” I could hear Mrs. V telling Wally that she would leave the bathroom light on for him, and promising pancakes for breakfast. When she returned to the table and joined us, I patted my heart and mouthed a silent thank you. “Yup, we have a schedule to keep. Must be time to hit the hay,” said Mr. V as he looked at the lobster clock over the mantel. “I have made appointments for interviews for Wally with a couple of the local shopkeepers,” he said. “We will be seeking gainful employment.”

  “I need to pull my own weight,” came the excited voice from the bedroom. We all got a chuckle from this, and it reminded me how much Wally enriched my life. I stood and stretched. I apologized for needing to scoot up to bed, explaining that I would be heading to Acadia Island early in the morning, and with any luck would come back with a cold-blooded killer in my custody.

  “Janey gets the bad guys,” sounded more like a tired campaign slogan now that Wally’s head was on the long-awaited pillow. The Vickersons ached for more information. They begged for a detailed update of what I had been up to, and protested that I needn’t go to bed this early. I promised a full report upon my return tomorrow night, bid them good night, and thanked them both for being so good to Wally.

  My last thoughts as I drifted off to sleep were of family. Odd, I thought, that complete strangers as of last June would treat me like one of their own while I had yet to meet any actual blood relation while on the Bunkers’ home turf. From what I had gathered in my short time in Down East Maine, I must certainly share DNA with many of the people who live on Acadia. And everyone out there would know of my comings and goings. But nobody had surfaced to make my acquaintance. Nobody had invited me in. Nobody had asked Cal or the mail boat captain or mate about me. Nobody had even bothered to peek at me from behind closed curtains as far as I knew. Maybe having true, blood relatives was overrated, I thought as I pulled the blankets under my chin.

  *

  A crease of mango-colored light seeped under the drawn shade of my east-facing bedroom window, waking me with a jolt. I must have overslept, I thought as I sprang from my warm nest and into the cold tiled bathroom. I showered in record time, dressed in layers to insulate myself from what I knew would be a brisk day, and scurried out to scrape ice and brush fresh snow from the Duster. I now dared to look at my watch, and realized that I would just make the seven a.m. boat to Acadia if I left immediately. I drove a bit faster than I normally would; scrunching down behind the wheel so that I could see through the small clear spot I had managed to scrape in the driver’s-side windshield before taking off. Fortunately, Wally was a member of the same sleep pattern as my landlords. He never got up before nine a.m.

  As soon as I get back from Acadia, I thought as I pulled into the mail boat parking area in South Haven, I need to follow up with Marilyn and Marlena. Their place could be ideal for Wally, I thought as I hustled down the ramp and boarded the boat. Year-round rents couldn’t be as expensive as Miami, I reasoned as I took a seat in the cabin. I would figure it out. But for now, I needed to put Wally on a back burner. I had left him in good hands.

  “Good morning, Miss Bunker,” said the mate cheerfully. “Headed out to the island again, I see. Sorry we left you stranded last time. But if there’s freezing spray in the forecast, my uncle won’t leave the dock. It’s a matter of safety.”

  “No problem,” I replied with a smile. “I understand and appreciate that. I had a friend come after me. As it turned out, that was not the wisest decision.”

  “Yeah, so I heard. Cal is one of the best, though. He’s had a lot of water under his keel—passed more sea buoys than most people have telephone poles.” That was a familiar line that I hadn’t heard in years. The captain climbed aboard, nodded acknowledgment of my presence, and asked his nephew to throw the lines from the dock. It was only 6:50, which surprised me.

  “I thought this trip left at seven. Or is my watch slow?” I asked out of curiosity, and was genuinely happy to be leaving a few minutes early. I knew I needed every second available to achieve what I intended to do today.

  “Nope, we leave at seven o’clock sharp,” answered the captain. “I’m just swinging around to the freight dock to grab a pallet that’s bound for Acadia. Freight for the general store and the plant are our bread and butter this time of year. Not many tourists,” he commented as he backed the boat under a boom with a hydraulic winch. The mate wrapped a line around a cleat at the stern, and climbed a ladder to operate the winch. Within minutes, two pallets piled high with boxes were lowered into the cockpit and the boom was raised and secured. The mate scampered back aboard, and off we went at seven on the dot. One pallet was clearly marked for the island store with boxes of bread, crates of milk, cases of paper products, and a phenomenal number of thirty-packs of beer. As if reading my mind the captain said, “I’ll bet the residents of Acadia consume more beer per capita than anywhere else on the planet.”

  “You should see the monthly trip we make for returnable bottles and cans!” exclaimed the mate. “The cockpit is rounded right up!”

  The remainder of the forty-minute trip was silent except for a bit of chatter on the VHF radio, giving me an opportunity to digest the fact that Wally was now here, and I would need to make arrangements for the best life possible for him. It is widely known that living independently of relatives is most beneficial to Down syndrome adults. One of the downsides of residing in a remote outpost is that you sacrifice convenience and opportunity, I was now fully realizing. Wally was fairly high functioning, and might enjoy the chance to try out his wings, I thought. He would also need a job, and it seemed that Mr. V was taking care of that. I was positive that there were no sheltered workshop type of employment opportunities in Down East Maine. But there was work that Wally could do within the right establishment.

  Of course Wally would also need a social life; it was lucky that he’d always made friends easily. It would be great to get Wally involved in some physical activity. I knew this would be the biggest challenge. Wally was not competitive—at all. Special Olympics had not been his thing, I recalled with a silent laugh. He fancied himself more cerebral than physical. Wally had armed himself with a camera rather than a ball of any sort at the only Special Olympics he had attended. And he was extremely proud to show off the newspaper clipping with photo credit given to Walter Bunker. Photography was a great hobby, and one that Wally had enjoyed since his sixteenth birthday when he received a disposable camera, until it came time to have the pictures developed, since that required giving up the camera. Wally now had a great digital camera that fit in h
is pocket for ease of recording anything that caught his eye.

  Then there was the possibility of enrolling him in continuing education. I sighed out loud. Nope, not my brother. The first and only adult education class I enrolled him in was culinary arts for single men. Wally assumed he was there in the role of photo-journalist. He refused to participate in the class. But he did get some phenomenal pictures that were later used in the school’s literature. I chuckled out loud now with the realization that Wally would photograph every meal that Mrs. V prepared, and be quite vocal about wanting his “work” used in her cookbook.

  I stood and looked over the bow to see that we were now rounding the headland that would give way to Acadia’s main harbor. Wally had been a good distraction, I thought. But perhaps I should have been thinking about the case. I stretched and turned toward the stern, bouncing on the balls of my feet to wake myself up and energize my sleepy system. Although the second pallet that sat in the cockpit was wrapped in a tarpaulin, one corner flapped in the breeze, exposing a box with red Chinese characters. I figured that this pallet was going to ALP, as I now was quite familiar with the markings and contents, and recognized them as chemical additives for product enhancement.

  “I’ll bet the closing of the plant will have a negative effect on your winter income,” I stated in an attempt to make conversation.

  “Yes. We cart shipping supplies to Acadia weekly, and transport product back to the mainland nearly every day. The plant is our best year-round customer, by far,” answered the captain. “And without any island kids needing us to get them back and forth to high school, we’ll probably cut our schedule to once a day, or even just twice a week once the plant closes. The contract for the mail barely pays for the fuel to get back and forth. Even the store’s freight bill isn’t enough to keep us going on a twice-daily schedule.”