Wolfe Island Read online

  That left the two houses on the small spit of land hugging the other side of the docks, the last ones in the street that had once ended with the Barlows’ place – the first house at the north end to be eaten by the sea.

  I was the one who found it one stormwrack morning the year I turned seven. The Barlows were away to the main for some celebration and I was out checking for first-light gleanings, as we used to call the things washed up after a storm. The house appeared to have stumbled: knees in the sand and body aslant. I was paralysed at first, watching the waves repeat. Water billowed and slammed and swilled about its ruin. I could feel it in my feet. I ran next door and told them. Word spread like a contagion and a crowd gathered, the adults sombre, the children excitable. It was a kind of death and a portent of more, but declarations of doom or plans were private, for later – the hopeful warmth of a kitchen, or if financial ruin beckoned the dim lit end of a hall. I overheard a few such murmured conversations, as children often do, and learned that day that things could change and we could not stop them. I slept poorly for a long time after, imagining the same happening to our house, until my father told me our house would outlast them all. I believed him.

  I had some hopes of the remaining two houses since their shingles were intact and windows unbroken, though I seldom visited this way. It made me think of Tobe and his nearby shanty and his last days here. The fallen realtor’s sign out front said: Absolute ocean front view. ‘That view got any closer you’d be swimming in it,’ I said, an old island joke, and they smiled politely.

  The front yards of the houses facing the dock weren’t so bad, being merely scattered with salt-damaged shrubs, but looking down the side of the first house, all I could see of the ‘oriental-style’ gazebo and neat dock of memory was a stretch of water, a ruined boathouse and a line of stranded timbers on which five black gannets hunched against the wind. The second house ran along the shoreline’s fingernail rise with its windows keeping lookout in all directions. Stiff grasses bent and straightened with the wind in endless repetition at water’s edge. It had got worse since the last time I came this way, whenever that was, which I didn’t want to think. Water was stealthily approaching the back of that house too, and I hadn’t noticed a thing.

  Alejandra skipped the mossy oyster shell path from road to porch of the second house – white like every other place on the island. ‘Will this be our house, Luis?’

  When he didn’t answer I told her maybe, and that seemed to satisfy.

  I poked at the weedy path. ‘A few barrows of rock and shell. A nice couple used to live here. They kept it up. Shipleys.’ Up on the porch, I rummaged for the key. ‘Here you go.’ A turn of the key and a shoulder to the door and we were in. There was more disarray – furniture and boxes abandoned in the entrance hall. People seemed to leave in such a rush at the end, as if fearing they’d be marooned. We proceeded gingerly, feeling our way and sniffing, throwing shutters and windows open to let in the cold air. The stairs were spongy beneath their red-flowered runner, but – I bounced on the bottom stair and shook its rails – were still connected to landing and ground floor. And it smelled dry. It was cold and bleak – that was the truth – but it wasn’t hopeless and that made it seem almost hopeful.

  ‘Seems like the one,’ I said. ‘There’ll be three rooms up there, maybe four. Screens are shot, but that doesn’t matter at this time of year. Summer now . . . never mind. You won’t be here. I’ll leave you with this, just in case.’ I handed Cat the key box. ‘There might be things you want in other houses. Linens and such, maybe up at Stillwater. There were a few good housekeepers up there. Careful where you put your feet. Get the fire going first is my advice, and sort out your wood.’

  The kitchen, overlooking the water, wasn’t too bad. Its long bench had a phone and several flyers, saucepans left behind, and an old takeout menu, as if the Shipleys had been on the point of ordering and departed the island instead.

  I began to read it. ‘How about that? A Patty’s menu. That was a diner. Corn custard. I haven’t had corn custard in years. I’ll make you one.’ I folded it in two and tucked it in my pocket.

  Alejandra picked her way across things like a little cat, peering into any cupboards she could open. Luis cleared rough pathways to each window, which he peered through, and opened every door on the ground floor until he found one leading to the storage area and the back door. Only then did his manner calm.

  ‘You can see even more from upstairs,’ I said. He gave me a swift look, as if he’d revealed himself in some way that he regretted. ‘If you’re wondering.’ I spoke lightly to set him at ease, but he didn’t say anything or go upstairs, just set to clearing more floor space, stacking things neatly against the wall. Josh disappeared upstairs. His heavy footfall moved about as he opened doors. He returned to the landing and called down: ‘All good up here.’ And then came a whipping ‘Woo!’ which Luis ignored. Cat went outside and returned with some wood. There was a box of matches on the living room mantel and she began a fire, and soon its living heat and sound and flickering light brought the room to life.

  A walk around the house discovered the solar system panel at the back door. I turned it on and a green light lit up. With any luck it would still work. Orderly folk like the Shipleys would have emergency lighting somewhere. Alejandra made a game of the hunt and finally called out, ‘Kitty, Kitty, come see.’ She had found three lamps and a can of fuel in the utility room off the back porch.

  ‘Well done you,’ I said. I filled them and adjusted the wicks and lit them.

  ‘Oh, pretty,’ Alejandra said. I agreed. Their light softened everything and held things together.

  There were a few candles and plenty of matches but no torches.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it. You’re welcome to come up for lunch,’ I said.

  From the porch I looked over the water to my place, stark and forlorn in the pale winter light, but tidy enough. New growth and a few pots of flowers would make it more cheerful come spring. Towards the mouth of the gut was the Shipleys’ old oyster shanty (later Tobe’s), stranded since its long walkway went years back.

  Cat came out, holding the edge of the screen door and swinging it lightly, watching it, glancing at me, as if the door was more interesting than anything either of us might say. ‘We won’t bother you, don’t worry about that.’

  ‘You’re no bother.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Well.’ Maybe she meant it and maybe she didn’t. She spoke lightly, but her words weren’t light. I would have to wait to find out. ‘You haven’t asked for much.’ Not the right thing to say. No one likes having to feel grateful. ‘You go ahead and bother me. I don’t mind.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve got your work to do.’ There was an edge there. Something had changed in her.

  ‘You’re my girl’s girl. I’m glad to have you here.’

  They’d been around twelve years old, those girls, some of them quiet, others as bounding and high-spirited as half-grown pups, excited to be away on camp. Their teacher was a young woman, small and pretty, with a long braid of fair hair and a high colour in her cheeks. She wore old jeans and a worn brown jacket, everything washed out and not suiting her at all, yet the girls looked to her as if she was the sun and they were flowers and could not help turning towards her. She lit them up. ‘Fly on your angel wings and make me some art to remember,’ she told them. And they didn’t laugh. It was something to watch.

  She’d shown them a film made not long before about my work and my solitary life on the island. They visited my makings room and I probably said a few things. Then they roamed outside taking photographs.

  It was Cat I remember. I was on the porch drawing, Girl at my feet, when she sidled up.

  ‘Have you always lived here?’ she said.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘I don’t think about it like that. I belong
here. I can live here. And I keep living here. That might tell you something.’

  ‘You don’t miss people?’

  ‘Some people. But I have Girl here.’ I stroked her idly with one foot and she blinked at me.

  ‘She’s a wolfdog, right?’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘My mother says they’re good dogs.’

  ‘They can be for the right person.’

  ‘We have a Maltese.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘It’s my dad’s.’

  ‘Nice dog?’

  ‘He’s a little shit.’

  I laughed and she laughed too. Her eyes were bright as a house sparrow’s.

  ‘He’s not really a family dog. My dad says it’s irresponsible to have a wolfdog.’

  ‘Probably is for some people. They’re not for everyone.’

  ‘I wish I had a dog like that.’

  ‘Maybe when you’re older.’

  ‘Yeah.’ The thought seemed to please her.

  Written down it might seem like a fast conversation, but it stretched out. She would ask something and I would think before replying and she would think some more, poke around among the dahlias growing below the porch, or sit on the steps, and come back and ask something new. She had something I liked.

  ‘Anyway . . . I better get going.’ She seemed reluctant and looked through the open doorway of the house. I like looking through doorways myself. You can tell a lot from them. It was pleasant with my grandmother’s rag rug, the old hall table, a bowl of pomegranates, and the small making I kept there. The light fell in a particular way, as if it was visiting from the past. ‘We’re supposed to take some pictures.’ She paused and corrected herself in a sort of mocking tone. ‘Capture some images.’

  ‘You do that. Cake later.’

  ‘Cool. See you, Girl.’ Then, ‘See you,’ she said to me.

  Even though she didn’t look like Claudie, she reminded me. (That could be the backward-looking eye; maybe all I mean is that finding out who she was these years later wasn’t altogether a surprise.) I should have known. She was the one who was curious; she was the one who bothered to talk.

  Now, standing on the porch, her porch, I said, ‘That time.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You were checking me out.’

  ‘In a way. I was checking my mother out too.’

  ‘I thought it was a nice day.’

  ‘Did you?’ She moved her head very slightly as if it was up to me to decide whether she was agreeing, she didn’t mind.

  ‘You’re different.’

  She shrugged. ‘Just older. My mother used to talk about living out here on the island. I should have told you who I was.’

  ‘I imagine you had reasons.’

  ‘Not very good ones. I wanted to see for myself what you were like. I wanted to piss my mother off. Not as much as I did.’

  ‘She didn’t like it here. My sister Bette was the same. Claudie and Tobe were the last babies born here. Did she tell you that?’

  ‘About a hundred times.’

  ‘That was his shanty out on the gut.’ I nodded across the water, which washed about the shanty’s pilings, all grey and weathered.

  ‘Uncle Tobe’s?’

  ‘When he came back from the war.’

  ‘She never told me. What’s a gut?’

  ‘Just a creek. They’re mostly called guts around here. Anyway, I’m glad I didn’t scare you away.’

  ‘You might have now.’ She permitted a half-smile. ‘No, I don’t think you would. Alejandra likes you.’ That seemed to weigh with her, but she didn’t say more and I was about to leave when she said, ‘Wait, Kitty,’ and took hold of my arm. ‘I have to say this. It’s important. You must remember.’ The next part she recited like a list or a poem she’d memorised.

  I can’t recall it exactly, but it went something like this:

  Don’t talk about us to anyone, in any way.

  Even if someone else mentions us, or hints they have heard of us, or has heard from us, or has seen us passing by, do not say anything, do not betray.

  You don’t know until you know.

  Silence is safety. Don’t be the one to break it.

  Don’t betray any secret.

  Remember this: it’s lives we are saving.

  ‘That’s awfully heavy for a sixteen-year-old,’ I said. ‘Say it again?’

  She did this without a pause.

  ‘What is going on? What is it about Luis and Alejandra?’

  ‘He’s a guy we know from school, from this kind of group we’re in. He’s a good friend. Things are bad for them, that’s all.’

  ‘Don’t runners run?’

  ‘There’s more to it with them.’

  ‘And what about Josh and his parents? And school?’

  ‘He’s eighteen.’

  ‘You’re not eighteen.’

  ‘I’m not your responsibility. I’m just here. Please remember what I said, or we’ll have to leave.’

  ‘Why would I not tell your mother?’

  ‘Because we will leave, and Luis and Alejandra will be in . . .’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Something like that.’ Then she seemed to reconsider. ‘It’s dangerous for them. You have to get that. I can’t say more. It’s not my business to.’

  This is how I remember the conversation, trying to keep up. She was setting the rules. She did not seem sixteen. I believed her, but I didn’t understand. I was rattled by her intensity. What kind of world had she come from?

  I took my leave and walked around the edge of the docks, heading home along the marsh’s edge, past the sign for Peachblossom Road stranded in its middle, a boat tethered to it (someone’s idea of a joke), and over the bridge. It was not my usual route. Before I could stop myself, I was looking down the gut. Tobe’s shanty looked worse side on. The ridgepole had bowed and the next stage, its broken back, would be the end. Keeping it up had been a point of pride for Tobe (the waterman in him), even though he grew to hate the dream, the way it wouldn’t let him go. He’d coil and recoil his ropes and clean and stack the crab pots. When I asked him why, he said, ‘I like to be busy.’ He’d head out almost radiant with hope at the beginning of each season, sometimes anchoring on the water overnight to get an early start. He was going to show people there was a future in it. He did that for a couple of years after he finished school, then, his spirit broken by the empty water, he joined up, and later, his spirit broken in a new way, returned to his shanty.

  I would try not to think about all that, just do what needed doing now, try to keep it up for his sake. A small gut along the roadside had broken its banks and water was running across. I’d shore up the spot with stones and shells and rubble: cold work, but it might help save that spit of land for a while longer, and therefore the dock and maybe my house too further down the line. The whole island was like dominoes lined up. I was always eyeing which part might be the next to fall.

  Chapter 4

  There was a cold snap a few days later, or what counted as a cold snap these days – nothing like the year my grandmother died. It was colourless outside but for the hollowed-out skins of two pomegranates still hanging on the tree and the waxy orange hips of my mother’s roses. The cold struck through walls and waterfalled from windows and came through any cracks it found.

  Girl and I went walking. The sky was that faint blue and the sun was as pale and distant as if ice covered it too. The water in the inlet had frozen overnight and was as motionless as a photograph for a while. I took twenty-seven seconds of footage, and nothing moved during that time but an eagle scything across the frame. I watched the still hard water for a long time, stamping my feet intermittently to keep the blood moving. Girl roamed around sniffing at things. The water seemed to have gathered itself mid-breath and stopped – held its
movement and energy within, its peaks and troughs, slight as they were, intact – until with an imperceptible loosening around mid-morning it slumped, the icy rime at land’s edge fell back, the water levelled and the current, a sliver of darkness from around the bend of a hummock, began to merge into the still bay. One or two gulls glided by to inspect, and by late morning a small flock was paddling the melt line. Does a bird like novelty as much as a person? On the way home, grass slipped and crunched under my feet, and I gave a puddle a whack for the pleasure of seeing it shatter. Girl was extra prancy; the weather suited her too.

  Back home, I stoked the fire and Girl and I curled up on the sofa near the old woodstove with its iron doors opened wide. I’d slept there before if the cold didn’t let up. Things were so quiet it was as if the others weren’t even there.

  Later in the morning, Cat and Alejandra came up the road, their hands plunged into their pockets and their chins tucked inside their collars. Girl went to greet them, waving her plumy tail.

  They stood hunched before the fire when they came in. Alejandra’s puffer had a milky stain down the front. It was cold there in the mornings then. She’d been wearing it when she ate her breakfast.

  ‘Warm enough down there?’ I said.

  Cat held her hands over the stove. ‘We ran out of wood last night. They’re getting some more now. Just the nights are a little chilly. Isn’t that so, Alejandra?’

  Alejandra gave a small proud nod. Her hair slithered on her shoulders and she scraped it back from her eyes, like she knew what Cat meant, that they were okay on their own, they didn’t really need me.