Demon Spirit, Devil Sea

by Charlene D'Avanzo

  “I’ll pick some salad greens,” I said. “Be right back.”

  The kitchen garden was next to the house. I closed the door behind me. Why was Ted so distant? His grant proposal had probably kept him up all night. I wished he’d followed me out so I could ask.

  I squatted to pinch off arugula and leafy lettuce, and looked up at Angelo’s so-called cottage. On the end of Seal Point, the rambling cedar-shingled house commanded a sweeping view of Spruce Harbor. Growing up, I learned every room, closet, and bookcase. I’d sat on the stairs with a book while Angelo and my parents talked about exotic-sounding things like “deep sea vents,” “whale bubble feeding,” and “cod collapse.” I wanted to grow up fast so I could do what my parents did.

  We ate outside on the patio. Over a dinner of barbequed fish and salad, Angelo and Connor learned about the iron project, Ninstints and the totem poles, our scuba dive, the hot pools, and William’s death. I described the miracle of hot water in Swampy Point, my close call with hypothermia, and the unexpected trip back to the archipelago. I wanted to skip over the bear attack but figured it’d be better to own up to it. I slid the sleeve up on my injured arm. After a couple of days and Sarah’s arnica salve, it didn’t look too bad.

  Angelo thought otherwise. “My god, Mara! Something big mauled you in that swamp. Must’ve been a bear. Christ almighty.”

  Connor let out a low whistle. “Obviously, it charged. What’d you do?”

  “Swung a piece of cedar at its snout as hard as I possibly could. The bear veered off into the water. Never saw it again.”

  I glanced at Ted. In the hospital, he’d teased me about joining a baseball team, but he didn’t repeat the joke.

  “Sarah—she’s who I stayed with—gave me arnica for the wounds.” I pointed to the ones I’d treated. “I only applied her salve to those two lacerations. Looks like the stuff works.”

  Connor laughed. “Mara, leave it you to experiment on your own arm.”

  Harvey changed the subject. “How did Richard behave at the hearing?”

  “He said Bart and I were liars. But the judge didn’t buy it. Based on my testimony and Bart’s, he called for a trial.”

  “So justice may win in the end.”

  I shrugged. “Sure hope so, but Richard has the money to hire top lawyers.”

  Connor, a former cop, wanted to know more. “Speakin’ of justice, if you, ah, disappeared in that swamp, would he have gotten away with murdering his brother?”

  With Connor’s Maine accent, “disappeared” sounded like “disappeahed.”

  “Could be. Sergeant Knapton said they didn’t have a strong case against him. So, if Richard hadn’t kidnapped me, he’d be thinking about trades instead of jail.”

  “Some crooks,” he said, “think they’re masterminds and too smart to get caught.”

  “Excuse me,” Angelo said. He marched to the cliff’s edge.

  I followed him. “What’s the matter?”

  My godfather frowned at the darkening seascape. In the bay, buoys flashed red and green to mark the channel.

  He turned to face me. “Hearing you and Connor talk about you disappearing in that swamp brought it all back. Not knowing where you were, what happened. That was horrible. Mara, I don’t think you appreciate the toll all this takes on those of us who care about you.”

  Tears in my eyes, I took both his calloused hands in mine.

  Behind us, the threesome on the patio were mum.

  Angelo and I were silent as well, the only sound crashing waves on the rocks below.

  Finally, Harvey rubbed her arms. “Hey, it’s getting chilly out here.”

  Connor leaned over and draped his fleece jacket across her shoulders.

  We carried everything inside. Harvey and Connor murmured a few words to each other as they dished out ice cream and wild blueberries. Angelo made coffee. We pulled chairs around Angelo’s old pine table in the kitchen to eat dessert.

  Connor broke the gloomy mood. He savored a spoonful of ice cream smothered in blueberries. “Nothin’ better than wild Maine berries.”

  Harvey smiled, I guessed because “better” came out “bettah.”

  Across from me, Ted announced he was bushed. Hair disheveled, ashen smudges beneath his eyes, he certainly looked it.

  Desperately wanting to reconnect with the old Ted, I walked him out to the front steps. “You okay?”

  “Just tired.” He walked down the stairs, toward his truck.

  I called out, “Good night, Ted.”

  “Good night,” he said over his shoulder.

  The chill wind scattered dead leaves on the driveway. I hugged myself and stared into the gloom until last the bits of red rear lights died out.

  Harvey left a few minutes later. In the kitchen, Connor pulled his jacket off Harvey’s chair.

  “Looks like things are good with you two,” I said.

  “Well, you know the Irish sayin’ about men.”

  “Bet you’re going to tell me.”

  “Women like men like they want their coffee. Hot, strong, and Irish.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  Connor and Angelo set a time for the next day’s fishing trip. Angelo and I quickly cleaned up.

  “Would you like some decaf?”

  “Only if you have biscotti.”

  It was supposed to be a joke. Angelo didn’t laugh.

  My godfather poured hot water into the coffee press. He carried the press to the table, slowly pushed the top down, and poured black, steaming brew into little white cups.

  I placed a plate of biscotti between us. “Thanks for dinner. It’s great to be home.”

  He sipped his coffee.

  “I really am sorry it all happened, but it wasn’t my fault.”

  He sighed and slowly slid the cup onto its saucer. “Trouble seems to follow you around, Mara.”

  “Can we talk about something else?”

  He tapped his cup with his finger. “Our phone call?”

  “From Sandspit?”

  “That one.”

  “Strange, we talked so soon before I was kidnapped.” I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. My disappearance was still too painful to talk about.

  “You seemed awfully tense about the, um, unusual things that happened, Mara.”

  “I feel calmer about all that now. Like I was worrying about something not so important.” I described the exhibit at the airport.

  “Teilhard de Chardin. There’s a name I haven’t heard in a very long time. Your mother read a lot of his books and essays.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that.” Any new tidbit about my mother was a treat.

  “It was back in the sixties, when Catholicism went through big changes. Folk music and all. As I recall, she saw him as a radical thinker and respected how he talked about science and religion.”

  “Who’d ever think there’d be a connection between Bridget Tusconi and Teilhard de Cardin via a British Columbia museum?” I said.

  “Sometimes it’s as if coincidences like that are meant to happen. The right thing comes along if you open your heart to it.”

  During the drive home, I considered Angelo’s proclamation about coincidences. He had returned to his usual thoughtful self and, for the second time that night, I blinked back tears. This time, though, they were tears of gratitude.

  Early the next morning, I pulled into the Maine Oceanographic Institute. It was Saturday, and I easily found a parking spot behind my building. The day promised to be warm and muggy. I took advantage of the cool breeze and strolled over to the water. It felt like I’d been gone a month, but Spruce Harbor was exactly as I’d left it. MOI’s research vessel Intrepid was tied to the institute’s pier. Most of the moorings in the harbor were empty because lobstermen had left at dawn, as usual, and a couple of gulls picked at dried fish skeletons stuck to the tarmac.

  I walked into my office and groaned. My “to-do” list on the whiteboard reminded me of all the work I’d left behind. T
here were grad students’ research papers to read, two of my own to revise, a grant proposal to review, and people I needed to e-mail or call. Most pressing was the Haida Gwaii UN report.

  I’d only managed to go through half my e-mails before Harvey knocked on my door. Given the backlog she was trying to catch up on, it wasn’t surprising Harvey was at work on the weekend. “Hey. You free to meet with Ted and me this afternoon at two? We can put together the report from the drafts we’ve written and add the sonde data. If you have a chance to look at the satellite photos, that would be great.”

  “I’ll add it to my list.”

  “Know what you mean.”

  At one fifty-five, Harvey and Ted had already commandeered the easy chairs in our tiny third floor lounge. The view of the harbor and relative quiet made it a popular place for scientists to meet.

  I fell into the empty chair. “How you doin’?”

  “Not too bad,” Harvey said. “Ted and I had a couple of days on you.”

  “How’d the thesis defense go?”

  “Kathy’s a star. She’s got two post-doc offers already. I imagine she’ll take the Scripps one. Maybe she’ll end up back here to take my place if Seymour steps down in a couple of years, and I’m Chair.”

  I looked over my shoulder. “Better not say that too loud.”

  I looked at Ted. “And the grant proposal?”

  “Got it in.”

  Harvey glanced at both of us. “Right. Mara, did you have time to look at the satellite data?”

  “That NASA ocean color data archive is terrific,” I said. “We might need to look at more images, but there was a pretty obvious phytoplankton bloom in the fertilized area right after the iron was added. We were lucky to have such clear skies.”

  “Something happened in that eddy,” Ted said. “But we can’t jump to conclusions. How long did the iron effect last and how large an area was impacted?”

  The comment irritated me. I knew that.

  Harvey nodded. “Good. We agree the satellite images indicate iron-stimulated phytoplankton growth. I did look at the eddy’s time and spatial scales. The area is quite small and bloom-lifetime short—less than a week. It appears that only a fraction of the iron was taken up by algae in the eddy.”

  “How about the sonde data?” I asked.

  “I don’t see any fertilization effect in that transect,” Ted said.

  I thought he’d offer to e-mail the file so I could see this for myself, but he didn’t.

  “If the effect was that short-lived, maybe we missed it,” Harvey said. “Mara, when will you have a chance to look at the phytoplankton? I’ve got the samples in my lab.”

  “Monday.”

  She stood. “Good. Looks like we’ve got a report that gives everyone something. The Haida will be pleased the iron had an impact, however little. The UN will be able to point to the small spatial and time scales and waste of all that iron. It’s up to them to take it from there.”

  Harvey left to check on an errant machine. Ted and I walked down the stairs to the second floor.

  I asked, “Think there’s a future in geo-engineering?”

  “I wouldn’t buy any stock.”

  30

  Betty Buttz met us at the bottom of the stairs. Even in August, the retired oceanographer wore her usual plaid flannel shirt and army boots.

  Ted offered his hand. “Dr. Buttz. Ted McKnight. So happy to finally meet you.”

  Five-foot-two Betty stepped back to look up at six-foot Ted. She shook his hand and stammered, “Young man, yes, thank you. Good you’ve come to MOI.” Her wind-weathered face turned beet red.

  Grumpy, brilliant, infamous Betty was blushing. I studied my feet so she wouldn’t see my grin.

  “You two see yesterday’s Gazette?”

  “We just got back. Still catching up,” I said

  “There’s a photo of both of you and Harvey on the Intrepid. Caption says, ‘Three MOI Scientists Investigate Iron Controversy in British Columbia Islands.’” Sounds like an interesting trip, the Haida and all.”

  “And challenging.”

  “I bet. You going to the meeting tonight? Penobscot River pollution and the Indians?”

  “I am,” Ted said.

  Betty looked at me.

  “Ah, actually, I’ve got a ton of work to do.”

  Betty’s scowl would’ve scared a barracuda. “So you fly to the Pacific Ocean and work on ecology problems with Indians in Canada but don’t do that here? What would your mother think?”

  Betty didn’t wait for an answer. She marched down the hall to her tiny office and slammed the door.

  I paced around my office like a trapped lobster. While Betty’s decree pissed me off, the comment about my mother stung. Betty and my parents were among Maine Oceanographic’s founding scientists, and she knew them well. My mother was an avid environmentalist who gave talks about whales, overfishing, and the astonishing diversity of ocean life. Before 3-D movies, she helped people experience ninety-seven percent of the world’s water in ways they never forgot.

  There was a sharp knock on my door. Only one person announced his presence like that. I pulled the door open and stepped aside for Seymour Hull, MOI Biology Chair.

  Seymour held up the Spruce Harbor Gazette and pointed his long finger at a photo. “At it again, Mara? A little publicity? How many times do I have to tell you to focus on your research and not distractions like this that get you nowhere? You could’ve written a grant proposal in the time you spent in British Columbia.”

  There was no point in reminding Seymour that the MOI Director, his boss, had recommended the three of us for the UN team. A two-bit scientist, Seymour was hired because he knew how to raise money. The professorship he held as chair honored my parents, and people regularly told him stories about the legendary Tusconis. That, plus his innate nastiness, made him resent me bitterly.

  I’d been trying to not let Seymour goad me, so I pasted on a blank face. He threw the paper on the floor and marched out.

  I picked up the Gazette. In the photo, Harvey, Ted, and I were on the aft deck of Intrepid the day before the fatal research trip. The MOI photographer caught us checking buoys we’d deploy to track increasing temperature in Maine’s coastal waters. Of course, we had no way to know that one of them would crush our friend and colleague the next afternoon.

  I dropped the paper on my desk and locked my office door. With Betty’s and Seymour’s dressing-downs, I needed to talk with Homer.

  As usual, the cavernous basement was loud and empty. MOI sold marine animals for research and teaching, and seawater pumped from the harbor raced through tanks that held squid, fish, crabs, and the like. The roar of the cascading water was deafening, air saturated with salt water, and floor covered with brine crust. I loved the place.

  Homer nestled in his bottle at the bottom of his solo fifty-gallon tank. I lightly tapped on the window.

  Homarus americanus, the American lobster, is mainly interested in preying on animals, including other lobster, and protecting themselves from the same. They don’t give a damn about people, except when they’re caught.

  Homer was different. He wiggled out of the bottle, glided up to the window, and touched it with an antenna. I put my finger on the other side. He waved his swimmerets.

  “Hungry, baby?”

  Homer rotated his eyes toward the tank surface.

  I dropped a piece of mussel into the tank. Homer snatched it in a microsecond. After three more large pieces, he appeared sated.

  “I’ve got a problem I need to work out.”

  Homer settled on the bottom, walking legs splayed out, for a good sit.

  I paced back and forth in front of Homer’s tank. “On my trip, I worked with people called Haida. It’s the first time I’ve done anything like that. It was hard, but really interesting. Now I’m back and have a ton of work to do. But there are native people in Maine who have difficult environmental issues to deal with, like the Haida. If I care about the environment an
d these communities, I should apply what I learned in Canada here. But that’s going to take a lot of time. Seymour was just in my office telling me, as usual, that I should focus on my research. He’s a jerk, but not all wrong on that. You remember how hard it was for me to get grant money in the spring.”

  I paused and peered into the tank. Homer was all eyes.

  “Right before Seymour, Betty said my mother would be ashamed of me if I didn’t get involved locally. You see the problem. Not sure what I should do.”

  Homer rotated his eyes up and toward the door.

  “Yeah. Ted’s going. I could ride with him. Won’t hurt to see what this is.”

  Homer spun around. He liked Ted.

  I went back upstairs, tapped on Ted’s door, and stuck my head in. “Can you pick me up tonight for the meeting?”

  The response was clipped. “I’m going with someone else, Mara. Sorry.”

  Back in my office, I fell into my chair. Ted had been standoffish at Angelo’s house, cool when we talked about the satellite data, and cold just now. Come to think of it, he wasn’t overly warm at the hospital. I’d assumed he was tired, but something was obviously wrong. I felt uneasy, but pushed that aside. Ted loved me. I’d explain how Swampy Point changed my feelings toward him. Then he’d be happy. We’d be happy together.

  The meeting about the future of the Penobscot River took place in Spruce Harbor’s town hall. The Penobscot was a big deal in Maine since it drained over a third of the state. I’d read a little about the meeting before I left. A tribal chief would debate someone from the Benoit administration. An attention-grabbing format. Governor Benoit’s people weren’t exactly known for their congeniality.

  By the time I arrived, three-quarters of the metal foldup chairs in the first-floor meeting room were already occupied. Two podiums stood in the front. Nearby, clusters of people were already engaged in heated discussions. You could tell who was who. State officials wore suits and ties, and I didn’t spot a single female. People from the Penobscot Nation and their supporters were more casually dressed, along the line of jeans and short-sleeved shirts. There were several women among them.

  I found a seat in the back. In the third row, Ted chatted with a woman seated next to him. She didn’t look familiar, but I could only see her from behind. Heads close together and gesturing toward the podiums, they seemed to know each other well. The woman apparently said something funny because Ted threw back his head and laughed. Unease pricked at me. I wanted to march down and find out who she was.