by Kristy Tate
An explosion filled the air with billowing black smoke and the acrid smell of burning fuel. Even without my glasses, I knew the yacht had exploded. Dina, Dean and Artie each jumped away, life preservers in hand. James stood on the deck and disappeared in a purple black sky. A wave tinged with fuel washed over me. I sputtered, then holding Ryan as high as I could, pushed away.
Ryan’s heavy weight lifted off my body. I grabbed at him, fought to keep him pressed against my chest.
“Emma,” a finger trailed across my cheek, brushing hair away from my face and eyes. I blinked. Sand gritted beneath my eyelids, the sun’s white light blinded me, and salt stung my cracked lips.
Crouching beside me, someone gathered me up into his arms and began to cry. I felt his shuddering body and tears. I recognized his smell. I closed my eyes and opened them again. “Dad?” I asked, my face pressed against his shirt. My voice sounded small and raspy. It hurt to talk and breathe. “Why are you on Otter’s Play Yard?”
He crushed me against him so hard that I heard his heart beating. He rocked me gently, crying quietly, and murmuring, “Thank you, God, thank you.”
Beside me Ryan began to cough. He propped up on his elbow and vomited a belly full of water.
Harold knelt on the other side of me, his golf shoes inches from my face, so close I could smell his green and pink argyle socks. “Swallowing the Sound is infinitely better than the other way around,” Harold assured him.
On the rocks, Grammy Hailey picked her way toward us. Concentration and concern were written on her face has she carefully found toeholds on the slippery, black rocks. Two people, one on each side, accompanied her. Henry and Nelly. I closed my eyes against the sun’s glare, unsure of what I really saw.
Henry and Nelly had a sixty-year love. I’d only lived for twenty-eight years, and yet, lying there in my dad’s arms, I knew that I’d been blessed with a lifelong love, a love that would always remain, as constant and steady as Lister Island. The topography and accompaniment could change, but my dad and my gram, they would always love me, never forget me, or leave me alone.
I looked at Ryan beside me. He leaned toward me, so close I could smell the Sound and gasoline that clung to him. My dad tightened his grip.
“She’s okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“She saved your sorry ass,” Gram chirped from a distance, not quite there, yet unwilling to be left out.
Ryan smiled. “I know you,” he said, looking at Gram. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”
“Thanks for calling us,” Harold said.
“I wasn’t sure, you know,” Ryan said. “It was all a guess.”
Footsteps ran toward us and panic set in. My heart beat rapidly. “It’s James,” I told my dad, struggling to sit upright, but he wisely didn’t release his grip. The world turned dark when the sun disappeared into a vibrant cascade of rioting colors behind my eyes.
I smiled, not because every tissue, nerve cell, and follicle in my body hurt. I smiled because through all that pain I saw something to paint that the art critic and I could finally agree upon.
#
I sat curled in the club chair by the window of the Dunsmuir home, overlooking the Sound. Jeff had stolen the chair from the library and hauled it into violet bedroom, the room that had become my recovery room. My dad had brought me sketchpads, graphite pencils, and pastels that I kept on the broad window sill. Moment to moment the scene outside my window changed and as my strength increased. My drawings gained confidence. I’d finally made peace with my inner critic. I’d handed her the pencil, accepted her as a friend, and promised not to embarrass her. As I learned to trust her and her whispered advice, a sense of fun, wonder, and discovery returned to my work. And I did consider it work. In the weeks following the accident, even drawing breath had become a chore, and lifting, and pushing a pencil was an onerous task. But worth it.
Old Dr. Malloy, who lived just south of the village, told me the infection in my lungs would soon clear completely. The racking fevers had already burned their course. He often listened to my lungs with a cold stethoscope. “Breathe,” he’d say, “like you were going to belt out an aria.” I disliked operas and cold stethoscopes, but under his care my health improved, and my breathing became less labored. Dr. Malloy had been my mother’s doctor. He told me stories of her childhood accidents.
I was still waiting for my dad to tell me their love story.
A gentle rapping on the door stopped my pencil. Gram poked her head into the room. “Harold’s here, Cabbage. He’s come to discuss the estate.”
I laid my work down on the windowsill and uncurled from the chair. I felt slightly woozy when I stood and my legs wobbled, but I could walk to the library, and Grammy knew better than to offer assistance.
Harold shuffled his papers and looked at me over his bifocals. He had a lot to say, but what he said at the last was the most important. “And, so you see, my dear, since you are the only remaining relative of Helen and Henry Dunsmuir, this side of Lister Island is yours.”
The room swam slightly at the news. My father, sitting beside me on the silk sofa, squeezed my hand. I closed my eyes and inhaled as deeply as I could to keep the room still.
Lucy had been cleaning, and the smell of vinegar and lemon nearly choked me. I looked out the window at Jeff balanced on a ladder, squeegee in one hand, and a spray bottle in the other. I knew he couldn’t hear us, but that he was reading everyone’s lips. In my crazed state at first, I thought he was Spiderman, and then an intruder, but now I recognized him for what he was—a friend who wanted me to stay and save the island. I looked around at the shiny house. The old wood furniture glistened, the curtains were no longer dingy, and the wood floor was slick with polish.
I leaned my head back against the chair, relishing the softness of the down cushion. I rolled my head over to look at my dad. “Dad?”
He shook his head at me. “Not now, chicken. Let Harold finish.”
I refocused on Harold. He sat stiffly in the chair behind the desk. He wore a dark wool suit, burgundy tie, and a crisp shirt. “No golf today?” I asked.
He didn’t smile, but riffled through his papers, as if he had lost something. I flicked my attention over to Grammy. She stood by the fireplace, fiddling with a porcelain figurine of a Cocker Spaniel. She looked as nervous as Harold. There was something, maybe many things, that they weren’t telling me.
I turned back to my dad. He lounged on the sofa, one ankle crossed over the over, a drink in one hand. He, as always, looked relaxed and comfortable, but that didn’t mean anything. I’d never seen my dad flustered. He could probably remain jovial during a house fire or even a boating accident.
“I thought the house had been sold to the Jensons.”
Harold cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. Well, that sale has hit a snafu.” He continued to poke through his papers, a pink flush creeping up his neck.
Snafu? Harold didn’t use words like snafu. He used words like probate, mediation, and statutes. “I suppose they’re still interested in buying,” I said.
Harold ran a finger around his collar and then tugged on his tie. “Actually, no. Since the accident Dean has been running Dina’s show, and he wants to slow down the company’s growth. Should you decide to sell, however, Mr. Everett, the previous broker, would happily relist the property.”
“You’ve spoken to Ryan?”
“Yes.” Harold nodded. “He’s been quite anxious to talk to you, but your grandmother, father and I felt it prudent to speak with you first so that you could truly understand your financial position before he presented you with another offer.”
I squirmed on the sofa. Ryan was anxious to speak to me for business. I absently looked out the window. Crows, big and black, sat in a maple tree. I imagined them waiting for something to die so that they could feed. “He has another buyer?”
“So it would seem.”
I watched the flush spread to Harold’s ears. He wouldn’t look me in the eye. I looked over at Grammy a
nd she studied a still life, a fruit and dead pheasant affair that hung above the mantle. I thought about replacing the art, but I caught myself. I couldn’t keep this place. “I assume the property is mortgaged.”
“Quite.” Harold finally looked up at me, and then quickly looked away. “Although, with your, hum,” he cleared his throat with a loud rattle, “James’ insurance policy you could secure the property with very little debt.”
I blinked rapidly. The crows outside the window started and then flew away, a diminishing curtain of black. “James had an insurance policy?”
Harold nodded and cleared his throat again. “As his closest living relative, you are the beneficiary.”
I looked at my dad, and he made a pretense of studying his shoes. I sighed. Someday soon my dad and I would have to have a conversation where he actually answered, rather than avoided, questions. “Why would a young, healthy man without a family have an insurance policy?”
“I think it may have been his grandmother’s idea. James traveled extensively, which probably would have worried her, and without the policy, she wouldn’t have the means to return his body to the states.” Harold cleared his throat. “But that is speculation.”
I opened my mouth to try and ask questions, but there were so many I couldn’t think of which one to focus on. The phone rang, but none of us moved to answer it. After the third ring, it stopped.
“Cabbage, I know this is a lot for you,” Grammy began. She left her position by the fireplace and came to sit by me on the sofa. She covered one of my hands with her own. I stood on my shaking legs and went to look out the window. The late morning had risen to its zenith. That’s as high as it goes. And this is as surprising as life could get. How incredible that I stumbled over my maternal family by chance, and that not only did I have a brother, but I’d been able to meet him.
I turned back to the room. Grammy and Dad looked back at me with blank, uncommunicative faces. Harold’s flush had completely taken over his ears. He gave his papers all his attention.
“Wait, why did James kill his grandmother? Did she have a life insurance policy as well?”
Harold shook his head, Dad’s eyes widened, and Gram stood up beside me. “Darling,” she said to me, “why would you think James killed your grandmother?”
I examined her face. “The Brazil nut oil.”
“What?” Dad asked, the bored expression leaving his face for the first time that morning.
Harold flicked through his papers. “According to the coroner, Helen Dunsmuir died of natural causes.”
“But the Brazil nut oil.”
Artie appeared in the doorway. She looked tired and lifeless since the accident. Her eyes were a perpetual puffy pink, her movements slow and measured. She’d stopped wearing the bandanas and her hair looked lank and colorless. “Excuse me, Mr. Clements, but there’s a call for you. She wouldn’t leave her name, but she said it was important.”
Dad jumped up, brushed off his trousers, and nodded a goodbye in our direction.
Grammy pointed her finger at him. “No, mister. You’re not escaping so easily. There’s still important issues to discuss.”
Dad held his ground. “Your issues.”
Harold had turned the color of beets. Grammy wagged her finger at Dad. “Sit.”
“She seemed upset that your cell phone didn’t work,” Artie offered Dad an escape clause.
Dad looked hopefully at Grammy, but she gave a tiny, yet ferocious head shake. “You can call her back later,” Grammy said.
Artie disappeared to relay the message.
Dad shrugged and leaned back into the sofa. He crossed an ankle over one knee and began to fiddle with a loose yarn from his argyle sock.
I raised my eyebrows at Gram. “You have issues?” I thought back over my life. I’d never known Grammy to have issues. Since she’d mastered the art of correcting everyone else’s issues, I had always just assumed she didn’t have any of her own. Of course, there’d been that brief introspection back at my house, but I had thought that a phase of momentary self-doubt.
“No.” Harold cleared his throat and stood up. He used his courtroom voice. “Not issues. Plans. Your grandmother has finally agreed to marry me.”
I sat down hard on the windowsill. “I’m sorry?” I said, shaking my head, trying to clear it. I turned to her. “Grammy, Harold said…”
She grabbed my hand with both of hers and held it tightly. “It’s true, Cabbage. We were coming to tell you when…” She blinked back tears.
My tears also welled up as I remembered the accident, the smoke, the fuel-infused water…and James and Phil dying in the explosion.
Gram looked over at Harold. “What if we hadn’t come?” she asked him, her emotions naked on her face, her voice soft and quivering.
“I left a message for you,” I said. “You would have gotten it.”
“Yes, but when?” Gram’s voice rose to an unnatural pitch. “We would have been too late. That horrible police-posing pastor—”
“He’s been incarcerated,” Harold said softly. Since his announcement, the flush had receded. His voiced sounded stronger and more assured when he discussed the law, something he knew and understood. Poor Harold, I wondered how long he had loved my grandmother. He’d worked for her for years--for as long as I could remember, actually. “The case against him is very solid.”
A robin flew to the branch the crows had abandoned. “Dad, tell me about Emmaline.”
He squirmed on the sofa and cast appealing glances at Gram and Harold. “Chicken, is right now the best time?”
Grammy set down the porcelain Cocker Spaniel on the mantel with a hard thud. “Reese, this is the perfect time. No, actually the perfect time would have been twenty-eight years ago.” She sighed. “Come, Harold, this is a discussion for my son and his daughter. We can discuss your mother’s dress for the wedding.”
Harold flushed deeply and obediently followed my Gram out of the room.
Dad raised his eyebrows at me. “Harold has a mother?”
I laughed. “Everyone does, including me. Don’t dodge.”
He sighed, stood, and looked out the window. “It’s not a long, complicated, or even very pretty story. Mally, that’s what she went by, and I met in San Francisco during the early eighties. She was an artist working with an interior decorator for the hotel where I worked. Besides being incredibly talented, she was a lot of fun and very into the art scene. You would have liked her. It’s a shame…” his voice trailed away and he turned away from the window.
“They discovered the cancer during the early stages of her pregnancy. Because her mother was deeply religious, and Mally had already had one illegitimate child when she was a teenager, she didn’t want to face that music again. She also didn’t want to undergo a cancer treatment that would endanger our child…you. She didn’t want to endanger you. We took a gamble, thinking that maybe she’d be strong enough after your birth to fight the cancer. Mally lost. Her family didn’t know about you. I, of course, offered to marry her, to ‘make an honest woman of her,’ but it just didn’t happen. She became sick so quickly. We kept thinking she’d get better.”
He came over, sat down beside me, and took my hand. “There really hasn’t been anyone for me since her. I kept her family from you to respect her wishes, and also, I guess, to protect you. I met them at the funeral and brought you with me. I planned on telling them then, but I couldn’t. I still don’t know if it was selfish or not to tell them. You obviously know the choice I made.” He twisted his mouth. “The easy one.”
#
The highest peak of Otter’s Play Yard offered a panoramic view of the Dunsmuir home, my home, to the east, and a long stretch of Sound to the west. Both views seemed symbolic to me. The west appeared wild, open, unmapped, unchartered. The east provided a home and a responsibility. On a distant hill I could see an eagle’s aerie, as big as a queen-size bed, perched in a fork of a pine tree. Year after year eagles return and add to their nests, which can
weigh as much as two tons. I glanced back over the hill at the Dunsmuir home. Thirty years would be a long time to live in one house. But maybe it would take that time to create a home.
Artie sat down in the grass. I looked at her questioningly. She blinked back tears and looked away. I understood. She wasn’t ready yet.
I slumped down beside her. This was my first excursion since the accident. It felt good. I liked taking deep breaths and feeling the air circulate through my lungs. I liked using my legs and enjoyed the feeling of the blood pushing through my body, promising me renewed health. Soon I’d be able to run, maybe swim. I blinked and looked away from the water. Someday, maybe, I could swim again.
Every day, the tide brought a reminder from the accident to the beach: stray pieces of wood, paraphernalia from the yacht, James’ shoe. Eventually the Sound would rid itself of the debris, and the tide would carry in things without pain attached.
“Did you know eagles mate for life?” Artie said, nodding at the eagle aerie. She broke off several blades of grass and began to twist them into a braid. “Totally monogamous.” She pulled up her knees so that she sat hunched into a tight ball. “If I had known my time with James was so short…”
“Sweetie, stop.” I said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “How could you have known?” I hadn’t told her about the Brazil nut oil and my suspicions. I didn’t know if it would help or hurt. “We really can’t know the future, each other, or even ourselves. There’s nothing to say that even if you’d been with James exclusively that you or he would have been happy. It sounds nice, but maybe you would have eventually resented following him around the world on his photo shoots.”
She looked out over the waving gold grass, a tear trailing down her cheek. She leaned her head against her knee. “I wish I had followed him,” she said quietly. “I wish I could follow him now.”
