

The OWL

By

David M. Seerman

The Owl

Published by David M. Seerman

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 David M. Seerman

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
**Table of Contents**

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Epigraph

Characters

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Acknowledgments

About the Author
To Susan,

with great love,

for everything,

especially our children

and for teaching us what courage means

in the face of adversity

**Characters**

Immediate Family

Raney Louis Tables - Narrator

Charles (Chip) Tables - Raney's Brother

Lucille (Lucy) Tables - Raney's Mother

Harold Tables - Raney's Father

Louis (Lippy) Tables - Raney's Grandpapa, Father's Side

Roberta Tables - Raney's Grandmother, Father's Side

Janssen Family - Mother's Side

Islanders of Consequence

Sassacus - Pequot Sachem (1560-1637)

Livinia Grover - Island Librarian

Maria (Doc) Talbot - Island Doctor

Nathan Ogilvie - Island English Teacher

Tillie Ogilvie - Nathan's Wife

Shepherd (Shep) Barone - Raney's Co-Worker

John (Smiley) Webster - Island Historian and Naturalist

Father Ronald Jacobs - Island Catholic Priest

Julia Beck - Island Purveyor of Gossip

Island Industries

Markham's Golf Club Factory

Hammond's Preparation S Skin Lotion Plant

Islanders of Incidence

Jon James (J.J.) Jameson - Island Produce Store Owner

Roby Edwards - Island Contractor

Corey Blackstone - Island Landscaper

Robert (Bob) Martin - Island Constable

Warren (Barracuda) Barakaday - Island Bartender

Mike Calderone - Raney's Old Schoolmate

Gloria Haynes - Raney's Old Flame

Franklyn Perricone - Island Groundskeeper

Oliver Perez - Island Laborer

Marty Redbone - Island Laborer

Peggy and Rhonda Swift - Bar Crew and Identical Twins

Billy Twiggs - Island Garbage Collector

Harvey Angeli - Wealthy Summer Resident

Mary Angeli - Harvey's Wife

Off Islanders

Lucius Brett - Island's New School Bus Driver

Detective Hugh Smitts - NY State Detective

The Fortune Teller - Tent at Groton Fair

Ferries

Warner Bee

Lily Pusher

Island Places

Alister Airport

Little Carnamount Beach

Rosabella Beach

Bottom's Up Harbor

Deep Harbor

The Long Island Sound/The Race

Barton's Hill

Fort Johnston

Crescent Club

Crescent Club Golf Course (18 Holes)

Meadowlands Golf Club (9 Holes)

Calypso Avenue

Castle Point

Key Locations (on or around Village Green)

Flora's Island Fire Station

Flora's Island Public Library

Flora's Island Doctor's Office

Flora's Island School

Lady of Divine Hope Catholic Church

Flora's Island Police Station

Sinbad's Bar

Other Entities

Flora's Island Technical Corporation (FLITCO)

_The writer should never be ashamed of staring._

There is nothing that doesn't require his attention.

–Flannery O'Connor

#  1

The police say it's the first killing in a killing spree that should be examined with the most rigor. It sets the tone for the other killings and is seeded with all the twisted motives of the perp. The first killing on Flora's Island in the fall of 1983 should have fallen under that dictum. If the detective had been more thorough in his investigation and paid closer attention to Franklyn's death, maybe things would have turned out better. But he didn't, and it didn't. Our first killing could only have unfolded in our imagination as it took place in pitch black with no one else around. From what we figured, it probably went something like this.

....It was so murky, Franklyn Perricone couldn't make out the face in front of his hand. There were only a few lights operating on the village green, so it was easy for Franklyn to think it was a ghost following him from the cemetery as ghosts would do that if their head stones were disturbed even in the least. But he knew better, knew how to mind his manners in a graveyard. In his own mind, he was a considerate greenskeeper if not much else.

The face in front of his hand that held the rake swam about under its hood in gentle undulations and looked fairly familiar. There was no sense of alarm here. Franklyn kept the rake extended and vertically positioned, not in defense but as a conciliatory gesture suggesting this is what he does for a living, this is what he is, for the face seemed business-like as well, as if it, too, had a job to perform.

Franklyn thought ghosts weren't too real, couldn't hurt him in either case, and wouldn't bother, especially if he kept the proper distance from their plots. He'd seen ghosts before while tending to the village green. They kept spilling from the graveyard out behind Our Lady of Divine Mercy on murky nights just like this. What surprised Franklyn and made him wary was that this ghost was one he had seen too recently around town to consider it even a ghost at all. And if it wasn't, why was it here messing with him this late in the evening?

Earlier, Franklyn discovered that the large piles of leaves he had raked together had been undone by some misfit. That's why he came back, to repile the scatterlings so he could stuff them into plastic bags and send them over to the town dump to burn. He didn't want a problem with the big bosses on the Island. They wouldn't understand and never would.

The ghost kept peering at him from under the hood. Its face was the color of dirty water. He wished the ghost or whatever it was would wonder off, leave him alone to work in peace. He was bone tired and could feel the raindrops starting to beat on his unprotected head.

He had no beef with ghosts, real or imaginary, or with living people either. Maybe if he closed his eyes for a second then opened them, the face in front of his hand that held the rake would be gone. When he finished blinking four or five times, the face was still there and then the words were there too. What bubbled out of the private mouth was flat and unadorned, all business but gentle just the same. "Come along, Franklyn. It's time to come along."

"Why?" Franklyn asked back, exhaling hard, always finding it hard to exhale. He adjusted the rake like a lance and stepped back a giant step.

"To be clear....the end to all days."

"The end to all....what?"

"And to new beginnings, always," the ghost reassured. "Come with me."

Franklyn couldn't figure out a word the ghost was saying, even if he could have seen its face plainly, which he couldn't. He blinked four more times, but the face in front of the hand that held the rake was still there, hovering, yet inching closer by the second. Franklyn began to feel fear for the first time in a very long time.

"I think I've seen you before. Are you dead?"

"Franklyn. Please set down the rake."

"Go away, mister ghost," Franklyn pleaded. "Go away." He closed his eyes again hoping for his prayer to be answered. And kept them closed. "Please, please....pleeeease."

"Settle down there good lad. It's time to come along."

Without warning, the ghost pulled aside part of his dark garment and out came a weapon attached to a hand. It reached around the flimsy rake and came crashing down on Franklyn's skull. Again and again, the blows came. Even as Franklyn dropped the rake and was driven to the ground, the blows kept coming until his body was a limp and flattened mass. A new ghost. The face smiled, regarded the corpse with mild affection through the patters of rain, then wrapped it in some of the bags meant for the capture of red and yellow leaves.

Lifting the corpse and humping it to the back of the station wagon was easy. The ghost doing the humping was a big ghost. Still, it was a lot harder to drag the corpse up to the top of Barton's Hill and lay it in a corner inside one of the cement bunkers, unwrap it and continue with the experiment. But that could be done; that had to be done. The ghost kept banging away at bone and muscle with the big, dull blade. There was a need to learn how to do this clean and swift. If there was going to be a new beginning on Flora's Island, and the end to all days, this was as good as any place to start.

#  2

Flora's Island is a small stone in the world's wet shoe. She rises from the waves of the Long Island Sound and spreads herself thin: eleven miles long by, at best, two miles wide. Despite her dubious past, first as a Pequot summer sanctuary, then as a pirate outpost, then as a rum-runner's _ship-to-shore_ , by the fall of 1983, Flora's Island had become a seasonal haven for America's most reclusive blue bloods. As a result, tourism was out and retail took a back seat. Left in her wake was a tumble down bar, a produce market, a liquor store, an antique shoppe, a summer theater, a post office, a modest library, a doctor's office, a gas station, a constable and one all-purpose killer.

There were other outfits springing up around the village green, but most of the proprietors came and went, the signs changed, the Five and Dime became an ice cream parlor became a florist became a dry cleaning business. Often, the cycle started again. There were moments of good and plenty of bad, but it changes nothing. My only goal's restorative, to dust off the filth and make things clear as glass.

We Islanders, the Geese, as I call us, as opposed to the Turkeys - the blue bloods- we have an adage:

If it flies salute it!

If it lies, shun it!

If it dies, bury it!

If it cries, ship it to the other side!

I'm not sure who wrote those sterling words, but I'm sure it means that Island living's not for the faint of heart. _If you're here, shut up. If you're really here, you have a history, so shut the fuck up!_ Flora's Island knows a fallen angel when she sees one and, like the pull of a giant magnet, stretches her feelers to bring that angel aboard. Those who are born here have a different pedigree. Iron shavings are implanted into our skin from birth. When I left for college I wasn't forced back out of adoration. I returned because I had to, because I had no choice. I could feel Flora's unerring tug, her mineral magic, from thousands of miles away.

I wasn't the only one. Take my grandpa, for instance, Louis Tables, a foreman in a Bangor cement yard who left Maine to take a shot at Island living. Louie came because he viewed it as a hideout for fools who fall off the face of the Earth. And he fell all right. With a single punch he killed a man and became another catch of the sea for old Flora. Louie spoke in monosyllables because he was smashed one night in a brawl outside Winter Harbour and it left him with a perforated mouth that never healed. I remember him tree tall with hammer hard fists, but this stalker, out to retrieve his woman, had a more effective weapon and used it the second Louie emerged from the Elk's Head Café, a dingy bar on the coattail of town.

I imagine the scene. Under cover of darkness, a disgruntled lover waits. Louie bursts open the bar door, a gust of icy wind blows through. Suddenly, there's a rustle in the bushes and a mad rush. It catches Louie unawares. With one swing, the hand-weeder, in all its three-pronged fury, catches him square in the jaw and loosens the lower lip from its moist socket, setting it adrift in a consommé of blood and muscle. I sometime see the weeder swinging into motion like the claws of a big cat. I sometimes hear it sizzle through the frigid air. The prongs get hooked on Louie's lower mouth plate and can't be retrieved without reverse pull. Less drunk and more reflexive in those days, Louie bites down with what's left of his jawbone, forcing his assassin to tip forward on the ice, the weapon still in his hand. The distance is short. The dance is short-lived. Louie's fists with nowhere to go, pancake into the attacker's face, reeling him headfirst into a white birch. He dies the next morning. There's no inquiry. This is Maine, an eye for an eye state. When they released Louie from the hospital, he recovers his pea coat and cash, but never recovers his woman friend who beats it back to Calais. I can only imagine her disgust watching him try to pry the weapon from his bloody jaw. Stuck in his bone, it wouldn't come out. A team of surgeons in Ellsworth remove the utensil and patch him up, but it leaves a series of buttonholes in his twisted lower lip.

When Louie breathed, he whistled, and while he hardly spoke, he often performed for his grandsons an unaccompanied duet (plus one) of Gershwin's, _Summertime_. He also could whistle _Dixie_ in three-part harmony. Chip liked the rendition, but I'm a visual learner, and was attracted to the curlicues of smoke that Louie issued while puffing his Viceroys in his rosewood rocker, three strands that blossomed into a bouquet over my admiring, young head.

If Louie found it almost impossible to speak, one might consider the drool factor. His lower lip yielded as much fluid as air. Thick, bubbly _droolzicles_ I called them because they appended in distinct tracks like fangs.

Louie was always a sight. Sometimes when he was drunk, his antics proved dramatic. He could swallow an unlit cigarette, chop it in threes and blow the parts out of his apertures like stray bullets. And a lit cigarette, he'd wolf down then make it re-appear through the same openings. The game was to guess which one. Of course, when he was over the edge, when he was in that mood where he neither whistled, drooled, or barked like a pack of dogs, it was best to back off. Grandma Roberta called him an "Asshole!" three times over when he was like that, and it wasn't only cause his wounds looked the part. The dark prince of the Island, Louie had secrets that kept him rambling when everyone else was put away for the night. And he wasn't alone. An entire troop of ramblers remained at large during these witching hours. What they were up to depends on your moral perspective. Frankly, since my return to the Island in 1973, I, too, spent a decade tripping the night fantastic somewhere between stages of somnambulism and insomnia, and wearing Louie's pea coat every time.

You've got to understand there's something in the air here, something that gets into your lungs and makes you crazy and wired. Everyone's out and about, howling at the stars and dropping a line into the cobalt sea. It's not just the magic. The magic just brings you aboard. Something else is going on, something about living in the middle of nowhere that makes your blood boil. The Island's a mirror and, friend, you best like what you see.

It was a shame, then, to have lost Louie. When they found him washed up on Rosabella Beach, he was his own singular droolzicle spit up by a hungry Sound. At the time, I expected more from his death than a simple dying, a chance to parse out the details as to why he took the plunge in the first place. Roberta, on the other hand, was born on Flora's, her family seduced long before that. From Sweden they came, in the mid 1850's, a family of long and lean lobstermen called Janssen. Unlike her husband, Roberta died in her sleep six months after Louie drowned, just days before I left for college on a basketball scholarship. I miss her real bad. In vain I scout for evidence of dichotomies on the part of my forebears. I felt there had to be some foul-up in my gene pool to explain why I was so distracted, my family so dysfunctional. Unfortunately, the Janssens were airtight. Unlike Louie, nothing spilled from their hermetic lips.

But I get it now. Pure. Clear. Clean. Flora needs to come _Clean_ and so do I. Louie wasn't exactly a fount of wisdom. Half his ideas about Island living he found under a seashell and the other half at the bottom of a bottle. He did, however, understand the paradox we Geese live under, the feeling of always being watched on a barren terrain. It was a sense that no matter what we did or how we did it, no one ever minded the store, so to speak, except the resident spirits who watched over us all. Hence, we were left with metaphor to certify our concerns and no matter how we expressed them or how we acted out, we inevitably were left stranded in the backwash of deadly circumstances that had to be more than mere coincidence.

Somewhere between the birth of my hero, Sassacus, and the death of Captain Kidd, Flora's Island took control of her destiny and disavowed time and rejected place in favor of kindling her own chronology. As do I. I make no apologies for my research, my ambiguity, or my lack of emotional fortitude. However, I do apologize every second for what horrible thing I did to Chip. So there's the conundrum. How do I move on without moving away? How do I move away without moving on? How can I choose between Hell or high water when on Flora's Island they're both very much the same?

#  3

Flora's Island is the antithesis of the modern temper. It's a world without rush hour, a world innocent of schedules, ignorant of malls, busses and trains to catch. It's a respite from the hassles, a place to call time out, a vision of paradise in the eyes of a snail. But be forewarned. Flora's Island is tough and peopled by tough people. I'm not talking about the blue bloods. They're more _complex_ , according to their own peeps, their own historians. That's why we play by their rules. That's why there's a gate and a guard separating the Island. That's why ferry travel's expensive. That's why planes are out of the question. It's the real Islanders I'm talking about here, the net setters not the jet setters, the lifers, who live in exile, impositioned by aesthetics and necessity. The blue bloods have all the aesthetics. We, on the other hand, are bound by both.

Quitting the basketball team at Sparta College my sophomore year and dropping out by semester's end, I couldn't make things fit. During my tenure on the other side, I lost heart and soul. I endured my own version of a continental drift and ended up back home retracing my steps and recapturing the contours of my youth, the geography of my past. It was my necessity. The aesthetics came later. For Geese, the bridge to the other side's by ferry, and if you didn't have to cart something over then you could make the other side go away. Sure, there were phones, but you didn't have to pick one up. There were televisions tethered to roof antennas but you didn't have to turn one on. There was plenty of gossip, but you didn't have to tune in. That's how I got by for a decade.

The fall of 1983 through the first half of 1984 was a dangerous period on the Island. I'd been living in an apartment, the first year by the old Navy barracks, then over at Roby Edwards place for the next nine, and I'd never seen anything like it before. I checked my notes, and spoke with historians at the Flora's Island Historical Museum and the New London Public Library looking for connections, but I found nothing. I even tried speaking with our librarian. She moved here a few years ago, but doesn't have the passion. The Island's not yet ingrained into her system. It takes time. Another problem's she doesn't know how I feel about her. And that's about to change.

All this mayhem started with Carl Calderone, our garbage collector, who got wasted one August night and tried to bury himself in the sand. Alone on Rosabella Beach, the same beach that claimed Louie, Carl choked to death on a piece of flotsam brought up by a recent storm. When his son found him the next morning, it was too late. Then, a boy was bitten on the thigh by a muskrat (later captured and destroyed - the muskrat not the boy) on the Island's nine-hole golf course called The Meadowlands. The youngster, a small Turkey, was in mid-stroke on the sixth fairway and, "The thing," he said after Doc Talbot examined him, "came outta nowhere and tried to eat my leg."

The latter part of 1983 seemed to be the season of the rabbit. Flora's was over-packed with eastern cottontails. Kids in Yankee caps shot at them with BB guns. Teenagers ran them over at dusk in their father's pickups as they hunched by the dozens on the dusty roadways, jabbering into their buckteeth like little old men. Caretakers poisoned them with Pindone. There was no choice in the matter. The carrot was the stick. And then, after all that, the rodents showed up. They stormed across the Island in biblical numbers, seeping into our native placidity like an ugly brown tide. Rats were found floating in wells, squirrels harassed us from sycamore branches, mice were fussing in the insulation behind the school walls. We again reached for the poison, but they kept coming.

All this infestation went beyond the pale. It wasn't like the land was a desert. Things were lush as Eden. And it wasn't like we were restricted to rabbits and rodents either. We had all kinds of animals and gaming birds, too. And while there wasn't much game in the absurd hunts out behind the Crescent Club where the Turkeys gathered on warm Saturday afternoons, we did have some real wild turkeys roaming through the honeysuckle and creepers. Being cautious, we Geese backed off lest we be mistaken for game and shot. And that would've surprised no on. For, as the final seconds ticked away, we became convinced that as a group, we were fatally flawed, had stepped over a line drawn in the Sound and were heading for a watery grave as a consequence of the singular crime of _indifference_.

Overall, it didn't matter how we behaved. When roused to action, Flora was one mean mother. And she was roused all right, so the crises kept on keeping on. Our school bus driver was arrested in New London one August eve for driving under the influence. This fact takes on larger proportions when one sees it as the development that delivered us Lucius Brett to replace him. But I'm getting ahead of myself. It was a space filled with soft blows and set the stage for the larger ones that followed. As a group, we were just getting used to Calderone's death, the new bus driver, the Nor'easter, the violent provocations of our raccoons and such. However, I'm convinced the real beginning had to do with the great-horned owl. Shep Barone and I were the first to see it.

"Well, will you look at that," I marveled.

"What the fuck?" were Shep's first take.

Shep and I were handymen, both unskilled, both highly unemployable, but on Flora's there was a lack of Island tradesmen and Roby Edwards, our biggest contractor, had to hire far afield, as they say, and ship his workers over by ferry. Our locational skills worked to our advantage. The thing about manual labor is there's gradations in the talent pool. Shep and I were low in the pecking order but we didn't have to catch a four-thirty ferry to the other side. We could work at whatever, whenever, wherever. I wasn't much with a drill and saw, and Shep was less handy, meaning he could carry lumber and plumbing parts to a work site but from then on, he was a waste. Shep was tall, not like me, but tall enough. He had long, black hair pulled into a ponytail that stretched his face back like it was going to crack. It was an austere face, scarred and pasty, and when he tied back his hair his features smoothed out but elongated his mouth and eyes in an unnatural way. It made him look sinister when his only real sin had to do with heroin. He eventually kicked it, so he swore, but you don't kick heroin without it someway kicking back.

My big sin wasn't very original. I didn't give a crap about my job. The work sites could crumble to dust or burn to ash. It was just mindless labor that gave me time to indulge in my primary passion for reading and Island research. When I was at Sparta College in Ohio, I suddenly found myself a big fan of my few Humanities classes. I didn't think it was in my nature as I had trouble paying attention and did poorly in just about everything else. Plus, basketball got in the way, and because I stand over 6' 9", far taller than even Louie, I always was down in the gym. I had no choice. I was on a full ride. I made amends by pulling all-nighters, enjoying a quiet corner in my dorm's spacious study hall which was always empty. It was my only sanctuary till I couldn't take any more and quit.

As a kid, I was an average student but when there's three, maybe four students in your entire grade, things can get screwball. And, as I was the biggest creature the Island had ever seen, I became an A student for the simple reason that I was an oddity. I seemed, in my small but large way, to put the Island on the map where it had no business ever going.

Our high school team only fielded seven players because that was all the males we had. Because of my size, everyone took note. The opponents were terrible but what caught the attention of the scouts were the pre-season games against the larger city schools. During those games, I wasn't double-teamed, I was usually triple-teamed and once, quadruple-teamed. It didn't matter. I pretty much played on automatic. I tuned out the noise and gnat-like inconveniences of the opposition who were a second too late to guard my every twist and turn. Each shot I attempted was contested by at least three sets of clawing hands. Each move attracted stumbling feet, body grabs, and usually the whistle. While I averaged 36.6 points a game during our regular season, I only averaged 29.4 points a game during those intense scrimmages. There were times I suspected the water, or the intoxicating air, or even Indian spells. I certainly had enough arrowheads and pottery shards stashed away. Maybe it was the kindred spirit of Sassacus who covered me. Or maybe it was Captain Kidd, our resident pirate, or curses placed on the Island by sailors going down in a squall. I can't explain the alchemy, but when I stepped onto the hardwood at game time, I lost all sense of self. I felt possessed.

Whatever it was caused a sensation. During my senior year, I was honored in papers throughout the northeast, appeared on local television, and even written up in national sport magazines. When we had away games, there'd usually be a reporter or two on the ferry and they'd harass me all the way to New London. It got so bad I took to hiding out in the ferry bathroom, hunkered up by the stalls, holding onto a side rail because the trip made me seasick. Unfortunately, being so tall, the ferry couldn't hide me well enough, and I eventually retreated to the main deck, sitting outside in a cold corner refusing to answer questions. It was a gift, really, because the reporters hated leaving the cabin. Besides, the wind made it impossible for them to hear what I wouldn't have said to them in the first place.

Scouts constantly came over to recruit me. Some high-powered schools flew coaches in on Piper Comanches and one Big 10 University brought in a crew on a Cherokee Six. They got out of the plane, five men in dark suits and sunglasses and, though it was fall and a wet chill was in the air, they insisted on walking to the school, a short slog through the drifting leaves that littered the trail between the airport and ferry dock next door. Peering anxiously through the steamy gym windows, the men looked to me like a no-nonsense bunch of bastards and I didn't like them from the start.

Nathan Ogilvie, our English teacher and boys basketball coach, who was waiting at the entrance, marched them to the small office next to the gym, and there they spoke in hushed tones words I couldn't make out. Then they called me in, spoke to me at length, marched single file back to the airport and left. I find it telling that this particular interview seemed like a defining moment in my life. Near the end of the session, the head coach pointed to me and said, "There's only a few candidates we consider, and it's an honor to be mentioned in the same breath as those boys."

Ogilvie, thin, balding, anemic looking, was sitting on a kindergarten chair behind the band of recruiters who faced me and kept peering between them, bobbing this way and that, urging me to register some enthusiasm, be friendlier than the, "flat-tire façade," I was putting on. Later he said, "You weren't putting on any airs, that's for sure."

The head coach paused, squinted at the ceiling lights, let his empty words fly. "On the downside, you haven't played against the top stars, but your P.P.G. and shooting percentage are among the highest in the nation. Coach Ogilvie reports you come from nice stock and live in a desirable community. It's stunning here, if I may say so myself. Our university sits in the middle of cornfields. Water's brought in with the weather and few lakes or rivers are found in our neck of the woods."

While I thought the head coach's daft sentiments and mixed metaphor was in keeping with the legion of square-headed men seated before me, I said only that I didn't care much for water in the first place (which was a lie,) that challenges are a good thing (which was the truth,) and that when I commit to something, I give it a hundred percent (which was questionable.)

I would have said more to keep the ball bouncing, but the head coach was swinging into his finale. "Son," he said, standing straight as an arrow to give import to his words, "it's my understanding your parents provide as best they can for you and your brother. Sometimes the best isn't enough and a little help goes a long way." I shrugged, then nodded, then smiled big enough to part my lips, show some teeth, indicating by this that I would take anything they offered into consideration but the head coach wanted total allegiance and I know I never had it in me to give. "You realize that for four years, basketball will be your life. Nothing else. You'll think basketball, dream basketball, pray basketball, make love to basketball, eat basketball for breakfast and dinner, and unburden yourself of other wants and replace it with a sheer ardor for the game. I hope you understand our commitment. We need to understand yours. Is basketball life? Do you love it? Are you in love with basketball?"

All five pairs of eyes were on me. This was my moment to shine and meet their passion head on with my own. Behind them, Ogilvie foamed at the mouth in anticipation, waving his arms like a conductor waiting for his boy prodigy to escalate up the scale, waiting for his star tenor to accept the tenor of the moment and make some appropriate noise. And he waited. I didn't know what to say. _Do you love it? Are you in love with basketball?_ The questions seemed useless. My feelings for basketball were private. How was I to communicate the salutary nature of the sport on my everyday life? I was a gym rat but my only cheese was _Swish_. "It really...is really...stellar," I at last said, as I rolled my eyes, gritted my teeth, and popped my head back and forth in jerky fashion to convey some intensity. It was all the bullshit I could muster without getting frustrated and pissed off.

"Speak up son," said the coach, looking at me more than a little oddly.

"Basketball's the most terrific game since Monopoly," I blurted, and, trying to muster more enthusiasm, I looked directly into the eyes of the head coach and spit out what I later recognized was an act of pure vehemence, "It's the greatest game on Earth and I love it more than lobsters, shrimp, and... and God!"

If I behaved like a deflated tire that day, my final comment sucked the air right out of the room. The stunned coaches, expecting more bang for their university buck than a passing reference to board games and deities seemed welded in their seats. They were ambushed by a stunning, new appraisal of their life's work. To use their vernacular, they were stuffed. Rejected! A full court press was in progress and they didn't like the squeeze but it couldn't be helped. I felt like puking. A new kind of _chucking_ was at hand. Then they rose together in unison, masking their vitriol in twisted smiles and curt, "Thank yous," for my time. They thanked Ogilvie for his time too, wished us the best of luck and reminded us at the door to think about their offer (but not too hard now, not too hard) and were gone.

I try to put it in perspective. I wanted off the Island bad but something was holding me back. I blundered my way out of one scholarship and dozens more like it. Finally, when it was practically beyond too late for any scholarship, little Sparta College came calling and I jumped at their offer if only to get something a scant more than nothing. The basketball court in the school gym and the little library overlooking the village green were my only places of refuge. I had a girlfriend for my high school years and a support staff of two, Doc Talbot and Nathan Ogilvie, the latter my mentor and an amazing role model.

Nathan Ogilvie was a regional expatriate. He came from the other side seeking refuge from an assortment of demons. Deep into thirties when he first took me under his wing, he was ahead of his time when it came to education. A celebrated educator in New Haven, Ogilvie taught English classes to the city's most hardcore teens. He even taught a course at Yale on the side and developed a reputation as an innovator of a student-driven curriculum. There were some articles in educational magazines, chapters in English Ed. texts and he became best known for a small, self-published book titled: _Proverbs from the Classroom: The Truth in Plain English_ , that sold less than all right throughout the northeast.

Unfortunately, his wife, Tillie, left him after most of his savings dried up in the publishing venture. She then returned without warning a year later and they made their uneasy peace. She had met a professor at a gallery opening on the Yale campus, was smitten, then deeply bitten, when the long fling flung, turned ugly, and finally abandoned at Stanford, where her new lover now lived and worked. Tillie's return home was less than celebratory. But time, a different kind of hunger artist, eats away at memory, chews away the fabric of erroneous behavior, and the wasteland of their exposed lives allowed for a kind of pity to erupt in Ogilvie's heart, alleviating his wife's shame just enough for them to reunite. The new terms of their marriage, though not of their own choice, was of their own making and now based on borrowed cash, borrowed cars, and in one aspirational sense, _borrowed_ _robes_.

No longer able to make it on the mainland despite his talents, it made the reconstituted couple perfect grist for Flora's mill. Not that the school board offered more money, but what they did offer was more appealing. He couldn't go back to the New Haven schools. There was too much calumny, for when a good teacher turns bad, it becomes disconcerting on the most fundamental level. When Ogilvie's students picked up the scent of his private failing, they became unteachable. And that was it right there.

Flora sensed his regression from across the Sound. The moment Tillie stepped off the plane after returning home, Flora pounced into action, tracking him, formulating a recruitment plan, slipping her iron tentacles into the Race and over to New Haven on scouting missions. With nowhere else to go and no other school willing to see the talent howling above the legion of negative references, Ogilvie applied for the English position that had become available at the Flora's Island School. This was in September of 1964. The old English teacher, thirty-six years on the job, had taken a walk on Rosabella Beach in late August and had a stroke. Like my grandfather, and Carl Calderone more recently, they found her body days later covered in spider crabs and thick robes of kelp.

There wasn't much time to sift through the applications. In fact, there weren't any. Only a few stalwart souls would brave the elements, switch life gears, and live out at sea. Teachers couldn't live on the other side and take a ferry. The weather was often prohibitive. You had to live on the Island to teach on the Island. When the district posted an opening in the _New London Day_ , Ogilvie was the only respondent. They quickly offered him a job and an apartment to lick his wounds and sit awhile in misery.

I say with appreciation that it was Ogilvie who, in eighth grade turned me onto literature. I remember he pulled me aside one morning in the school's circular hallway and handed me a thick paperback. "Read this," he said with a knowing smile. It wasn't that I was exactly looking for something to read. I had plenty to do, what with the chores, shooting hoops, helping care for Chip, and fantasizing about Gloria Haynes, but Ogilvie sensed what he later said was, "...something unique about how I went about my business."

"What business?" I asked.

"A space has opened in your brain. We need to fill it with curiosity. Books do that. It's like a wound that heals with the right ointment."

I shook my head, still puzzled. I already stood half a foot taller than Ogilvie. "What wound?"

"No, what I mean is that, well look, I don't want to confuse you."

"What's an ointment?"

"What?"

"I'm confused."

"Raney, what I'm saying is your writing shows curiosity. It's a way in. That wound's my way of saying your mind's ready to be filled with a kind of knowledge that may lead to critical insight."

"So?"

"So?" Ogilvie appeared stunned. "So?" Then he slapped me soundly on my back. "Raney, you're going through a sea change. And that's why I'm giving you a book, _The_ _Odyssey_ , and it's the best book ever written. What do you think?"

"I think it's a big book."

"That's because it encompasses the world."

And he was right. It took me half the year to get through it and half as much time to get through it again, but Ogilvie was right. I needed Odysseus to guide me at that point in my life as much as Odysseus needed a subset of sympathetic Gods to guide him back to Ithaca. The book was a turning point in my relationship with Ogilvie too. He became my mentor and, as the years slipped by, he became my best friend. He even agreed to edit my account of the history of Flora's Island I planned to write, the only caveat being I had to promise to return to the Island one day. But Flora was no Penelope. I came back screaming and kicking but I was pretty much toast by then.

I tell myself all the time I came back to write a chapbook about the history of the Island. I wanted to set the record straight and square things with the truth. And if I learned anything from my travels abroad, and I include the other side as foreign travel, it was the truth that's been missing from our lives. I looked at it as my mission to return truth to center stage. My account would be a minor narrative in the world of truth, but I wanted it to be something that would assign the word, "Savage!" to its proper place, as there's been too much aggrandizement of European right and might in the old historic texts. I wanted to craft a cautionary tale and spell out the vagaries that exist between truth and facts.

This was my public explanation. I already spelled out the others. Yes, Ogilvie was my friend and I owed him allegiance. But even friendship has its limitations. But does brotherhood? In thinking back on it with brutal honesty, I see I had been lying to myself as well as to everybody else. Chip was the only reason I wanted to stay in the first place and, against my better judgment, the only reason I forced myself back home. I could muck around in the sludge of all my other bullshit excuses, but what's the use.

Am I my brother's keeper? Yeah. I am. So now you know _my_ deepest truth. Chip was the only reason I stuck around so long.

#  4

Almost two decades ago, in 1965, when I was thirteen, my mother wanted to have her fortune read. There was a fortune teller who worked the Groton Fair and put an ad in the _New London Day_. The rest of us didn't know my mother's plans. We thought we were going for the food and rides. The ferry we took across the Sound was called the _Lily Pusher._ The other Island ferry was called the _Warner Bee_.

My mother, Lucinda, Lucy for short, was pregnant. "A big Whoopsie," was what my father, Harold, said about it. They supposedly practiced safe sex, Harold always leaving the bank early, no deposit, no return. He claimed he had some spare change he knew nothing about, but I claim he planned it all along.

"Guess what, honey dolls," Lucy said to us after her visit to Doc Talbot. "I've a juicy little surprise for you, a little lamb, a little darling."

My brother Chip, older by two years, he was fifteen, and four years into blind, picked up the sweet tang in her voice, and right away guessed what was so juicy about Lucy. "No way, man... _this_ ain't happening!" he screamed, taking a swipe at me and crushing his soft hand against the hard kitchen door. There were squirts of blood, lots of cursing. Chip hated my guts for making his world dark and would gripe and swipe at me whenever he could.

So here we are, the fantastic four, meandering around the Groton Fair Grounds, knowing there's a late ferry back home. It's growing dark. The stars are winking and blinking, telling their deepest secrets to the sea. We hardly pay attention. We're tired out from the grind of commerce. I swear to you, too much of a good thing is a bad thing. Too many funnel cakes and vinegar fries; too many Tilt-a-Whirls and Ferris Wheels. Chip navigates a bumper car and under my passenger seat supervision ("Go straight! Hard left! Brake! Brake!") keeps bumping into Harold's car until he decides to do the reverse of what I tell him, leaving us cornered and crushed by every car on the circuit.

Was it fun? With Chip, it had its moments. He could be crude, but that was part of the fun. Chip let his blonde hair sprout. His voice had deepened into a brash crow's caw, and lately he had begun asking Lucy to groom him, you know, wash his head, lay out his clothes, and even read to him from our 1963 edition of _The World Book Encyclopedia_. It became her mission to serve Chip for the rest of her life. Lucy was fastidious and her allegiance had turned into a complete sacrifice, a mother to martyr transmigration. I resented the royal treatment, and every time I let the kettle boil over, I'm forced back to a moment when I made a fatal error in judgment that marginalized, three lives - four, if I'm included. It bottles me up every time.

"Put a lid on it!" my father would bellow whenever I acted out. A lid was the last thing I needed. Alone time, a wary isolation, became my best options for years.

So here we are, at the Free Throw booth. Chip pays his two bits and demands to shoot the imposter basketball into the impossible basket and chucks all three balls into the next tent knocking out a row of ducks. Chip wants me to take a few throws too. I refuse. My parents are chucking darts at balloons a few booths away and are clueless as usual. For some reason, Chip demands a second set of shots on the house. The old carnie with the bulbous nose won't budge. "Pay up front you!" he scolds.

Chip calls him a jerkoff. "That's why it's a _free_ throw, you jerkoff. It's free."

The carnie holds his ground, sees it differently. He tells Chip and me to, "Scram!" until Chip spreads his arms out like Christ on the cross to appeal. "I'm blind. How can you take money from a blind kid like that?"

The carnie squints around, embarrassed. He frowns, his face reddens, and spits something brown into the hot dust. Chip gets his second chance and holds the ball firm before swinging it back the wrong way into the crowd, missing the girl's head by inches. I still remember her chocolate brown hair as she passed. How in a second I carve the memory into my mind: the hair soft, downy-like, with bouncy curls floating against her freckled cheeks, drowsy tufts of dark bangs just reaching the eyes, a hint, a tiny spill of protein really. The girl's about my age and holds her mother's hand. It was hard to see in the hazy light. I think she was dressed in pink. I think she wore white sneakers. She never senses the basketball whizzing past the back of her head, maybe grazing it, maybe not. Then it's over. And seconds later back to Chip. Always Chip.

"How'm I doin'?" He asks.

"You're no Jerry West," I say and then, "Let's go. Mom and dad are coming to get us. Dad's got a plastic bunny. It's purple."

We've taken turns all day squeezing Chip's miserable hand and we're all squeezed out. He's in a nasty mood and when I tell him, being in a nasty mood myself, to, "Watch where the hell you're going!" he let's go my father's hand and flips me a bird that lands somewhere in my general direction.

"Knock it off, Charles," says our commander-in-chief. "We'll be leaving soon enough."

Unfortunately, Lucy isn't ready to leave. She's come to the Fair Grounds to have her fortune read, and she isn't leaving without a prescription for her future. We thought we were finished. We thought we'd seen all the sideshows including Erdman, the Fabulous Birdman, and his band of feathered friends, and Bruno, the Fire Breather. Earlier, we even stopped to admire the bearded fat lady, but when she offers to take Chip on her knee, he unleashes a vicious invective which will forever go down in carnie lore: "Touch me bitch, and I swear to God I'll rip your nuts right out of their fuckin' sockets!" This prompts the fat lady from her stool, but she's restrained by the costumed midgets in their clowns' outfits and the pacific leanings of Bruno who saves my brother's life for in this brief interlude between invective and disaster, Chip lets go of Lucy's hand. Luckily, Bruno coerces the fat lady back on the stool. It takes some doing, some beard tugging and a whole lot of sweet talk. Firmly grabbing his shoulder, my father whips Chip away besides a lonely tent and reads him the riot act. A minute later, he's back apologetic, begging for forgiveness from this damsel in distress. Ruffled feathers all smoothed out, our nuclear family goes on its not-so-merry way.

Dark. Darker. Darkest. Where we end up is the most miserable, unlit, back lot part of the whole fair. This is the part that allows any scrabblers with a few bucks and a tent to pretend they're part of the greatest show on Connecticut Earth. This is the low rent, Charles Dickens' side of town, the area of the Fair Grounds that comes closest to being kissed by Death for, in truth, it's set in the old Groton graveyard. Every clod of soil has its price, and the town fathers in their infinite wisdom, allowed all to set up shop within the purview of the almighty purse. On this particular night there's only one taker, the fortune teller. She has her wreck of a canvas shell set up high and to the left, a football field away from the weathered marquees, pavilions and rides that cascade down to the Marina and the spacious Sound beyond.

How Lucy comes by the fortune teller's tent, I don't know. I don't even think Lucy knew what she was going. She seems to be walking in circles. As far as fairs went, this wasn't exactly the famous Danbury Fair. This is a low-budget event, the best Groton could muster. It's easy to get lost in the swirling shadows, the carnie cries, the kicked up sawdust and hay. That's why we hold firm to Chip's hand.

Lucy's tired, six months pregnant, flashing her usual anger at Harold, but she won't be denied. One way or another she'll receive her divination. It doesn't matter what's in that tent up the hill by the graveyard. If there's a will, there's a way, and Lucy, no drama queen, no adored princess, has a constitution next to none. The gravity of her situation simply warrants a sympathetic response she knows she can't receive in a more professional setting. Hence, the trooping all day around a dowdy fairground that has no interest to her. It's merely a matter of time as to when there'll be a reckoning.

Eventually, she finds the tent and leaves the rest of us standing in the graveyard tripping over monuments and wondering when we'll be heading back to the _Lily Pusher_. When Lucy comes out a while later, there's tears streaming from her blue eyes. She's ashen and broken-hearted. It seems the fortune teller, all three and a half feet of her, predicts some tragedy on the way. What she had hoped was something totally different.

As Lucy said, she enters the tent and sees a dozen candles blazing in clear chalices supported by steel spikes in the ground. The air smells sweet like cinnamon. As her eyes adjust, she makes out something moving toward her in the corner not ten feet away. As a literary sort, I'm thinking Tolkien's Gollum or something close to it, stealing his master's ring, a ring that would make him impervious to his fate, the frog lady stealing Lucy's soul, a soul not impervious to the news she dearly needs to hear. The stupefaction brought on by seeing the approaching creature makes Lucy gasp, and I imagine it's this gasp that dooms her, as if this shock of recognition of her greatest horror could have some genetic influence.

"You have sealed your fate by fear my dear," the fortune teller begins in a hard, gravelly voice, "but fear not. I am human too, brought down by human indignity towards that which is most ill-perceived." Anyone else would have split that scene, but Lucy's made of iron. "Now please, if you will, sit down," the soothsayer soothes, "and let us begin." There were a couple of weathered stools and a frail, plastic card table in the center of the tent. Lucy sits, shivering in her sandals and shawl, convinced that at last the center will hold and there'll be a moment when the universe makes sense.

"We shan't waste precious time," the fortune teller says. "I only ask you heed my every word and, please now, place a ten dollar bill in the bowl on the table." Lucy complies in a heartbeat. The bill drops from her wintry hand and parachutes down. The beast lurches forward, half climbing, half slithering onto the rickety centerpiece and extends her webbed fingers, swiping the bill away before it comes to rest.

Inching back onto her stool, the fortune teller appears to be at peace. "So you have come to rescue your future, have you?" she asks. Lucy nods, wiping away tears. "I know your horror at seeing me, the baby Medusa. But...let me ask, by chance, do you think you are purer than me? By chance, do you think I chose this life for myself? By chance, do you feel you are immune to life's travesties by virtue of virtue? Is not virtue and loveliness all accident?" Lucy keeps on nodding and doesn't know why, but knows she powerless to stop her head from bobbing up and down like its attached to invisible strings. Tears still spill from her eyes. She feels the center closing in.

The fortune teller gives a sharp cackle. Lucy sees her teeth are yellow and black. "You think yes, do you not? I ask you then to think again. How naive you are to assume we are special by design, as if being pure is more a state of grace, a willful act, and not mere coincidence." Lucy's breathing hard, panting like an overheated dog. The tears have all but stopped. I'm unsure about what's implied, but Lucy's not. The fortune teller couldn't be clearer. "I am not here to issue lies to comfort you. I speak only the truth. The truth being the only way forward. Now, hold my little hands tight, dear lady, hold them tight, and tell me your dream."

Lucy makes it sound as if the fortune teller expected her to open the curtain right on schedule. She said this to me in confidence. "She knew I was coming to see her."

"How could she know?" I asked. "What's so special about you?"

"Raney, there are things you can't understand. She knows because she's informed by something superior. These are the arrangements we live by. We're all connected. You'll see one day."

"I see great. It's Chip-munk who can't see."

"Your brother will see again. Like the fortune teller, he'll see from the inside out. He just doesn't know it yet. He's special too. He, too, will have the gift."

"Do I have a gift?"

"No, my one and only. You're special in other ways."

"In what ways?"

"In ways that haven't been revealed."

"Did she figure out your nightmares?"

"They're dreams, Raney, merely dreams. And so I squeezed her warm, little hands and told it all."

"What did you tell her?" I asked.

"I tell her I'm lying on a concrete pier. I see my parents on their fishing boat far away, and I smell fish. There's a light on somewhere hanging from a ceiling that's close yet far and not a bright light but enough to see that there isn't anything surrounding the pier. Maybe it's the sun; maybe the moon. Nothing's clear. There's the surrounding sea. That much I know. And the clang of buoys and a foghorn _moos_ far away."

"Are there cows in the sea, mom?"

"There were sea cows once, but they're gone now."

"Go on," the fortune teller insists.

"The sea blows the wind, and the wind speaks like the Sirens saying, 'Come to me, child; come to me,' and I don't know if it's calling for my baby or calling for me. I become afraid and cry out. I get cold and my teeth begin to chatter, and the ground begins to heave with the backwash of the sea as it rises over the top of the pier, chilling me to the core. I'm so alone. It appears there's no one nearby, no one to call out to and the wind gusts, the water comes again washing over my mouth and with each gurgle, I try to breathe and choke and choke again trying to breathe."

"You have had many such dreams?"

"The same dream over and over."

"Ah, my poor pretty one...fear nothing," says the fortune teller, releasing hands and flashing those black and yellow teeth right in Lucy's face. "You are young, yet it is useless to fight against the whims of fate. You have paid me to speak the truth and I say forget the truth. We are one, you and I, and as one I tell you I know them all, and for their money I issue pleasantries. I lie and lie. Heehee. I too must eat too. I do not subsist on worms and little fishies. I am not a stranger to God, yet we have our bouts of doubts. But this one very special time, to you and you only, I will speak under the influence of truth. You will suffer a great misfortune. There will be death and then a profound sadness that will slowly bring change. But change is often good. And if not good, then often necessary for it allows us the chance to flourish once again. And so my dear one, you will flourish once again and once more shine."

Then the fortune teller unwinds her slinky self from her perch and slithers closer and closer towards Lucy like she wants nothing more than to take a bite.

"That's gross!" I remember blurting then getting nauseous at the thought.

"Please leave me now. I have nothing more to say," the fortune teller whispers up close, her little mouth pressing firm and moist against Lucy's ear. "Your boys will thrive and you will flourish and shine and forever bask in the depth of their deepest love."

#  5

"Read it louder," ranted Chip leaning back in granpapa's cherry wood rocker. "You read like you play hoops, no personality."

"How do you know how I do either, jackass?"

"Just read it again if your lordship wouldn't mind."

"It says: 'Dear Mr. Tables, We are proud to inform you that you have been accepted as an athlete-scholar to our'...do I got to keep going? That's three times."

"Read it again; you know I can't or I'd read it myself. Once more for the gipper."

"Stop! It was an accident."

"Don't matter. You're suppose to be contrite. Be contrite."

"It was an accident. You said you'd stop bringing it up."

"I can't help myself."

" You can if you try."

"Pay attention, jerkoff! Just read the letter again."

This was in 1969, late August. My brother, Charles (Chip) Table's was in rank disorder and so was his bedroom. Layers of ratty clothes and albums and cassettes and reams of newspapers and magazines were everywhere. It was early morning. Lucy hadn't begun her domestic grind before leaving for work. Grandma Roberta had died from a sudden embolism a few weeks back, and everyone was in a crappy mood. I was about to drive with Harold and Chip to LaGuardia to catch a plane to Columbus where I'd be met by the head basketball coach of Sparta College. I wanted to tell Chip he couldn't go. I didn't need him in the backseat zapping me between the blades with his angst. He always sat in the back, grim and grumpy, as I was too tall to sit anywhere but up front.

Chip's room smelled like ass. After Lucy washed and vacuumed, it still smelled like ass. As the day wore on, Chip let his lunch bake on the radiator, let his damp towels dispatch their reek, let his complacency drip like beads of sweat, transmuting all regional molecules into the fumes of a barroom John. Chip had his definite ways, cultivated by years of a blistering rage. I was here, as always, to bear witness and burden myself with shame. Sometimes I felt Chip's most powerful weapon was in knowing how I felt. He lowered me from the heights and, as I always had a long way down, he gloried in the reduction. In fact, he needed it.

There he sat. There was the Chipmeister comfortable in Louie's rocker, the one he inherited after Louie was discovered at Rosabella Beach six months earlier. Chip wasn't there the day Louie was chucked ashore, stiff as a plank. The weather was freezing and a hard wind was coming up from the south blowing sea foam yards in from where the pounding surf caved to the sand. The Coast Guard and the volunteer firemen and the ladies auxiliary and the Sinbad's regulars and Harold and Lucy and myself were out combing the beaches looking for the body. When and where it would come ashore was anyone's guess. The fact that the tide flung him back on Rosabella makes sense. If there was holy ground anywhere on the Island, that was it.

Chip was wearing his wide, dark sunglasses with those black Buddy Holly frames. I would swear he only wore them in my company, just like I would swear he played his Stones albums, particularly _Aftermath_ , a million decibels higher than necessary for the same reason.

So there he sat, an unwilling exile, his long, blonde hair shoved back against the crown of the rocker. His face was pinched, unimpressive, a ruined landscape. Even his starburst pimples spoke to me of a life of reckless solitude, a consequence of my own youthful recklessness. The rosewood rocker quickly became a gauge. It measured Chip's outrage. When Chip was calm, the rocker swayed back and forth like a cradle. When he was contemplative, there would be an _uumph_ in the forward pump, and then Chip would lift his sandaled feet with those gnarled and blackened toenails and careen back from the force of its own momentum like a metronomic device. When Chip was ticked, the rocker would buck furiously like a hell-bent carriage on the verge of tipping over, but never doing so, an overheated machine spouting steam and danger. I could feel its exhaust. It discharged like irony.

The rocker was rocking now, I mean moving. The song, _Paint it Black_ , was cranked up and Chip was holding on for dear life, his white hands tightly squeezing the armrests. His wild hair sprayed back and forth over his glasses. He was lip-synching:

"... _.I look inside myself and see my heart is black._

I see my red door and it has been painted black.

Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts.

It's not easy facin' up when your whole world is black."

I winced, waited until the song was over, then removed the album from the turntable and laid it softly on the dresser. It wasn't easy. I wanted to smash it to smithereens, obliterate his whole collection. The rocker slowed to a standstill. I sat down on the edge of his bed and waited. Chip looked around the room regathering his marbles and casually trained his cruel glasses in my direction, inciting me for no other reason than he knew I would be. "Why you messing with my tunes?" he asked in that shrill voice of his.

"You gonna to stop me?"

"You're a guest in my room. You got no right to do this."

"Don't talk stupid."

"Read me the letter again," Chip repeated, his thin lips parting into a calculating smile. "The part about the tuition waiver and all those bitches you'll be balling."

I tried my breathing exercise like Doc taught me but it was useless. "That's it!" I bellowed. "You're blind but you watch me all the time. I feel your eyes on me. Mom says you have internal visibility."

"Internal what? She's a basket case, like you. Plus, I got no eyes."

"Call that a technicality."

"Fuck you. I'll call that a technical foul."

"Yeah, well, mom takes care of you and this is what you say? I'm done with helping clean your mess. I'm done with the history questions and stupid equations. And I'm especially done reading to you. I don't know why dad wants you to tag along. It makes you out of your mind."

"I wanna go, jerkoff. It's the closest I'll ever get to college."

"That's garbage and you know it. How many GED guides and college programs have been piled on the kitchen table for you to hear about? You had hundreds of chances to graduate, to get a tutor. How lousy do you want mom to feel?"

"Raney, you're going away, man. You're going away and leaving me with nothing!" Chip hollered at the top of his lungs.

"That's right. I'm leaving. I feel like a prisoner here."

Chip was incensed. "You? Get off it. Who's the prisoner? You made me a prisoner. Now all I got's Ozzie and Harriet."

"Hardly."

"What am I going to do here alone?"

"The same as always. Whine and complain."

"At least I got something to complain about."

"You're being maudlin again, waxing pathetic."

"You read too much. Stop reading all those nasty books."

"Yeah, well you listen to too much Stones. Diversify. Ever hear of Dylan, Ray Charles, Simon and...."

"Simon and Garfuckyou? Yeah. I have." Chip stopped the rocker using his right foot as a break and took off his sunglasses. The rest of his face had sort of healed. One had to stare hard to see the light rings and uneven indentations along his cheeks and forehead, but the two burnt areas around the eyes had the look and texture of bleu cheese. Even after four operations. But it were the irises that got me the most. They were almost unrecognizable, covered as they were with white scar tissue. They looked like shadow patches, a blister of pale blue moons partially concealed by thin layers of clouds.

"Put the glasses back on, will you? You look more distinguished with them on."

"That's a big lie. Anyway, who the hell do I got to impress?"

"Come on, Chip. Let dad take me alone. It's a long ride and you get car sick and annoying as hell."

"You just don't want to feel like I'm punishing you."

"You're not, at least not too intentionally. Being tall's a punishment, too, like I'm singled out. When people look at me, I feel like they're blaming me for what I did."

"Doubt it. You're a hero around here."

My legs were moving a mile a minute. I gave a couple of squints. I couldn't help myself. I worked so hard to calm down, to stay focused, and Chip messed me up every time. "I don't feel like that," I said. "And you know I'm sorry."

A softening of position, a rare moment between brothers. "I'm sorry too," Chip said. "But there's nothing left to say. You made your decision."

"So did you," I said, reminding Chip that his castle was his prison. He didn't get it, didn't get that I was afraid to go away, didn't get that I was afraid he would never leave his room and I'd return to find him a troglodyte groveling in a vat of self-pity. "You're the one who didn't finish school, who rejected whatever therapy they had."

Chip was incensed. "Should I stock shelves? Maybe you want me to park cars at the Crescent Club? Or how 'bout..."

"Look, why can't you just pick yourself up and do some stuff? You've had that Braille machine for years." I pointed towards the closet; don't know why. "And you leave it covered in dust in the corner. You refused to learn Braille."

"So."

"Then you broke your walking cane in half. Sometimes walking you around the green feels the same as walking a dog."

"So."

"So there was also just so much the school could do. You weren't cooperative and threw their help back in their face."

"So. What's your point? You want me to go to a special school? It's too late. You want me to get therapy to fix what's wrong? It's too late. There's nothing wrong with me except I can't be fixed. Perhaps you haven't noticed. I'm blind, you idiot! I'll always be blind, and there's nothing any crappy therapy can do about it."

"What kind of loser talk is that?"

"I can't stay here alone."

"You're not alone. Gloria always helps out."

"Gloria's a bitch. Your bitch actually."

I could feel my face flush. "Don't talk like that. And what's the difference?"

"It makes a difference. She makes me feel ugly."

"That's a lie. You're just embarrassed. She likes you enough."

"You don't get it. You never did. You're a dork in a giant's body."

"You make it sound like you're helpless, and you're not. You can type. I've seen some of your poems. You got a romantic streak going in you."

"I told you never to come into my room when I'm not there...Fuckin' dad!" Chip screamed. "I told him to put a lock on the door." and then mocking in a deep baritone, "'I can't son because I may need quick access someday.' Some ambulance driver he is."

"He was right about the lock. And I don't need permission. You're my brother."

"Don't ever read my stuff again."

"See, I can tell by your expression you know you have some skills, but you let them go."

"How would you know what skills I got? Your only skill is throwing a piece of rubber into a stupid hamper in the sky."

"You're not going! You hear me? You're staying put. I'll be back before you know it. Don't give mom a hard time. She can't take it right now. And don't hassle dad. He's mourning grandma. You got all that?"

"I got it," Chip confirmed, looking up, smiling straight into my face. "Now shut up and read me that letter again."

#  6

Shep and I had been out surf casting for stripers since dawn. We'd taken the company pickup and were bitching about our crappy outing when we saw the owl glide over the trees in the town square and settle on top of the flagpole's patinated globe in front of the fire station. We got out of our pickup for a closer look.

To say the great-horned owl came out of nowhere would be too simple. It came out of a black somewhere on a yellow someday and plunked its puffed tawny-feathered body down after a silent circling of the town proper, all one square block of it. It came like a whisper, a ' _Ssshhh_ ', during Sunday's respite between mass and meal. The tips of an owl's feathers are soft and make for silent maneuvering when in its hunting glide. Rodents have no prayer. Neither do small birds. An owl's a complete carnivore. Its claws are steel clothespins and even the fiercest resister is hung out to dry, eaten: bones, fur, feathers. Everything. After digestion, an owl coughs up the roughage into a tiny pellet and guns it to the ground, its calling card, a miniature cemetery plot, a tiny monument of the recently deceased. I like that about owls. They waste not, want not. Their stomachs moonlight, simultaneously devour and cremate.

"This is quite remarkable, sort of a miracle," mused Smiley Webster, our museum curator and resident naturalist. His remark was directed at Shep and me as we stood among the growing crowd, all faces languidly lifted towards the sky.

"I guess so," I said with a tired shrug, unconvinced about what owls could or couldn't do.

"I guess so you need to get out more."

"Why professor? To be one with nature?"

"I'm serious. Owls are beautiful hunters. This species is especially fierce."

"That's one damn cool-looking bird," said Shep sleepily.

"Cool bird, and fierce feeders," added Smiley.

"I'm sure they're cool, and I know they're fierce as you say, but wait a second..." I said, struggling with the recollection. "When I was a kid, my parents took us, Chip and me, to the Groton Fair and there was a performer with a bunch of birds. Erdman, the Fabulous Birdman he was called. Had this owl on a stick. A screech owl I think. The guy let me hold the stick, but I gave it back."

"S'bad owl," said Smiley. "Did it screech when you held the stick?"

"Think it did."

"Only asking because some owls are considered omens of death."

"But not this owl, I'm sure."

"Great-horned owls are fierce, and tribal favorites. Sacred, according to many."

"If you say so," I said, getting further distracted by the crowd.

"Sacred, sacred owl," Smiley repeated.

"I hear you Professor. I hear you. It's a fierce and sacred owl."

Father Ronald Jacobs who was listening nearby seemed eager to join the conversation. The priest didn't appear any more taken by the owl than I was. As far as I could tell, it was just taking in the scenery. I didn't think the owl deserved anything more than a tip of the hat, you know, _if it flies, salute it!_

The priest felt our naturalist was too effusive with his local flavoring. "I heard what you said about that bird," he began, "but we're all missing the point. There's nothing remarkable about this occasion. We just don't recognize it for what it is."

"And what would that be?" asked Smiley, turning back his lips and revealing the nastiest set of false teeth ever carved into a human face.

"Nature's wonders are constructs of God's will, an example of divine synchronicity, and if we take time to observe life without blinders, blessed sights will come like joyful spirits."

"Well," said Smiley, "I think this is a very special moment."

"On the contrary," said the priest, "it's one of a thousand special moments."

"I'm a Catholic myself, a scientist, a Dartmouth man, and I say this is a once in a lifetime moment."

Shep cut in. "Dudes, that bird's a bird of a bird. And damned sacred too!"

I cut in too. "You're both being too insistent. Call it a tie. The owl's a wonder of nature and also a way for God, if God even exists, to exhibit the nature of wonder."

"I'm not insisting anything," said the priest, obviously irritated by my comment.

Smiley was indignant. "You're insisting on your version."

"On the contrary, I'm only sanctioning your take on this humble creature."

"With a slant towards your religion and away from my science."

"Our religion," the priest reminded, "our religion. Let's not forget our social responsibilities."

"Sure. Whatever you say Father. It's all fine by me," said Smiley, his mouth radiating dollops of light.

Just then the priest removed himself from our group and began circling the flagpole. It was an expedition. He was significantly heavy. The priest looked up at the owl giving it a stern reprimand, bending his bushy brows into the noonday sun. It was an odd thing about the priest, the way he looked, the way he spoke, with such care on one hand and such sloth on the other. In truth, our priest slobbered food like it was going out of style. I believe the church had so many fundraisers only because their holy seer couldn't resist ribs and rhubarb pie, berry pancakes and wings.

I looked up at the owl again, disappointed.

"Oh my, do you see that?" asked Smiley.

"See what?"

"The way the owl's studying Father Jacobs."

"It's not studying anything," I said. "It's just a stupid ass bird."

"That bird's one hell of a bird," Shep concluded, his eyes half closed.

It was only natural for Jon James Jameson (or J.J.) to be looking out one of his large shop panes the very moment the owl landed on the flagpole. He was always looking out, for himself and for the blue bloods who ruled the roost and feathered his nest. J.J. inherited the produce store across from the village green, directly opposite the fire station. The store was in his family for two generations and turned a tidy profit, allowing him to winter in Florida. J.J.'s storefront was in rank disrepair, but what kind of remodeling would a local shop need to sell fruit and vegetables to the Turkeys? A yearly whitewash, a little weed clipping, a couple of flower boxes filled with pansies, potato vines and other crap and - voila - done. He didn't grow his own stuff; wouldn't know how. Instead, he took a ferry twice a week over the Sound, mumbling gibberish about cost overrides and the bottom line on crates of white eggplant. Up the hill at the Farmer's Market, J.J. placed his order and picked up his shipment at the ferry terminal. Nothing could be easier. We Geese didn't buy his tomatoes and bananas. He charged extraordinary prices and always got them. The blue bloods wanted a kiwi, they couldn't care what it cost. Half of them never shopped anyway. They sent their slaves, Geese converts, converted into domestics and landscapers and odd hands to fetch their masters' victuals. In that singular sense, Flora's Island had that strange _Island of Dr. Moreau_ feeling to it. Something happened to the native population every summer. A Goose would disappear in the morning and return for supper but her behavior was odd, something about his face wasn't right. They no longer looked like Geese. They looked like penguins. They'd be wearing black and whites, they'd smell of car wax and Lysol and barbecue. There was grease on their palms and grass stains on their knees. Their psyche seemed misshapen, tampered with.

That's why summertime was about me retreating deeper into my own sanctuaries. I was the one, like Louie, who came out at night during those summer months when the population swelled to over four thousand men, women, children, and factotums. I'd walk the beaches looking for something I couldn't identify even if I stepped right on it. Often I'd walk over to Alister Airport, wade into the surf at the end of the runway, and throw an appreciative line into the wild Race. Most of the time, I got lucky and caught nothing.

Occasionally, I'd wander over to Deep Harbor, kick off my sandals and pick shellfish if the tide was low, or drink my Jack and lemon in a private cove and stay far away from Sinbad's, crawling with Turkeys who came later, when the Crescent Club closed for the evening. Basically, I avoided anything that reminded me of anything on the other side. There even was a certain disturbance to my sinus linings during this time of year. Doc Talbot laughed about it when I told her the symptoms: tightness in my throat, a strange sensitivity to pungent smells, a wet nose.

"I was there when you were born," she'd say with her usual aplomb. "And I'll always be there for you."

"Yeah, but Doc..."

"Still, it might take a while. A wet nose isn't a good sign."

"Then what do I got?" I'd ritualistically ask.

And she'd answer along the same lines as always. "You got the bitus of a mitus I've never seen before. Rest it, don't infest it, or there'll be bodies at the door."

"Doc, you're shooting, but not hitting a thing."

And, she'd ramble on with yet another adage from that medical joke book she was given from Ogilvie on her 50th birthday. "Say it, don't spray it and keep it to a breath. It multiplies its numbers when it thinks you smell like death."

I had to leave. I couldn't help it. My goose was cooked. Co-opted out of my rightful place in the Island pantheon by more impressive titans, I had to wait until after Labor Day till equilibrium was restored so I could breathe again.

It was during these summer months when I was walking the shoreline late at night that I became keenly aware that I wasn't alone. Rosabella Beach was my best alone spot because it's hard to get to as one had to descend a steep precipice. The path's lined with myriad creepers and fragrant Rosa Rugosos exploding in constant summer bloom. There were no lights and if one didn't have a built-in antennae attached to one's affinity for night crawling then Rosabella was an unattractive choice for those who couldn't sleep. Being on the Turkey's side of the Island, a mile from the guard station and off the beaten path, it wasn't a standard Turkey trot, particularly during the witching hour when just about every Turkey was tucked in neat and comfy with their central airs blowing and security lights glowing.

I'm perfectly tailored to Rosabella Beach. I could step lively over the creepers and see over the Rugosos as the path eventually regains its horizontal composure and the rhythms of the waves become more alluring like an enchanting melody. Finally, the path gives way to a plank of sand, a giant white step at some points twenty feet wide, that I have to wade through before descending again another five feet to the beach proper. Most of my compatriot night crawlers preferred safer avenues to decommission like the uninspiring Little Carnamount Beach near the ferry terminal at Bottoms Up Harbor.

It wasn't that there was anyone else on the beach. I was singularly it, but there was something like an alien scent that imbued itself into the scent of the roses and spicy salt air that spoke to me in detail. It was akin to the disturbance I spoke of with Doc. It was that sensitivity that sent my heart into a tailspin and made my breath come up short. It was an awareness that if time was compressed and history was splayed out all at once, this beach would be inhabited by thousands of people busy with their lives and deaths, loves and hatreds. But that wasn't it at its core. What it was was that every time I was out wandering I suspected that one of those displacements had a special interest in me, stopped what he - it was surely a he - was doing and began following me like a wraith. I was the magnet this time, the iron-filled attraction. And better, whatever was following me merely wanted to engage in a type of speechless conversation. I didn't see anything unusual. I didn't hear anything out of the ordinary. There was just the translucent light shimmering off the foaming highway of the dark Sound, and the constant reminder of Island existence, like a thrumming heartbeat, the jolt and re-jolt of the crashing waves.

Maybe it was the spray as it washed over me like a fine mist. Maybe it was the damp healing sand, giving way here, solid there, as I plodded along the beach line, reminding me of the impermanence of time and the precariousness of treading too firmly on a planet best served by a lighter footprint. There was just a small sense of dread and a larger sense of wonder. Every pore of my being aspired to it. And then it was there. I saw it and didn't see it. I heard it but it didn't speak. I viewed it like one views a mirror when there's no certainty which side is the powdered glass and which side isn't. And giving that which I sensed a name, Sassacus became the only choice.

I'm not crazy like some of my neighbors. I know I was playing tricks on my mind. It had always been my defense mechanism. Being in a unique holding pattern, waiting for my heart and mind to coalesce into a pure certainty and attend to the business of Livinia, I let my thoughts wander; a kind of imploding wanderlust I suppose. Who knew it would bring Sassacus into the picture.

#  7

As I said before, J.J. Jenkins began acting up. The moment he spied the owl, he bolted from his store. I don't know how he came to see the owl, but there he was, running pell-mell towards the firepole, broom in hand, with the intention of shooing it away. J.J.'s smock was tied around his neck. It was a white garment and ragged pieces dragged under his feet as he hustled along waving his broom into the morning sun. Shep and I were near the flagpole and had a good perspective of J.J. as he came into view screaming like a rebel, like a man who'd lost all sense of dignity. His eyes were open wide and burning so bright it seemed he discovered to his utmost surprise that he was a man alight, an upstart fanatic setting himself on fire. Shep and I knew J.J. wouldn't be able to coordinate the lengths properly. They began wrapping around his legs like tentacles. The merchant tripped over himself, grabbed his throat, and submarined into a pile of clippings and early leaves raked days before by the _Garba-troll_ our pet name for Franklyn Perricone, our town greenskeeper who had disappeared and was nowhere to be found.

J.J. lay still as death. Within seconds, we came charging through the crowd to his aid. Shep was an Emergency Medical Technician as was I. In fact, over fifty percent of Flora's year round adult population had taken the class at the red fire station and renewed their licenses over the course of many winters. Today was J.J.'s lucky day. He had me as a protector. Shep wouldn't have been as kind. Kneeling by the prone man, Shep said, "Don't worry. He's most likely alive. Just catching some winks."

"I'm not worried, Shep," I quietly replied, not wanting anyone to overhear.

"Well, you better be. There's always the chance the old shit embarrassed himself to death."

"C'mon Shep, just undo the string."

"Well, one can only hope, man."

"One can only hope."

"J.J.," said Shep, "you're the snarkiest dude on the Island."

"Knock it off Shep. People are watching."

"J.J., your mother was knocked up and out you came."

"Cut it out, asshole. I mean it. You know he's all right. Stop wasting time."

"Then gimme a hand here. He's breathing a little heavy."

"I know he is," I said.

"Help me get him up, so I could knock his ass down again."

"Stop!"

Shep went to work on the body that lay limp in a pile of leaves. He untied the tight knot from around J.J.'s wattled neck and, like the jokester he thought he was, pressed for signs of life. The old man grunted, took a deep breath, brushed Shep's hand away and got to his feet with my easy assistance. He then rubbed his eyes and put a hand through his thinning, white hair. "Thanks, boys," he said gruffly.

"Quite a spill there, J.J.," I said with mild concern.

Shep was equally distraught. "You walk much?" he asked, and then burst into spasms of laughter.

J.J. had calmed down by now and was scratching at the red ring that appeared under his chin. He looked his old self again but as we know, looks could be deceiving. Over the decades, J.J was known for his foxiness. He was the current Town Justice, the treasurer of the Flora's Island Utility Board, Fire Marshall of the Fire Department, a past President of the Flora's Island Ferry Commission, current Superintendent of Highways, and member in good standing with the Flora's Island Technical Corporation (FLITCO for short,) the ruling junta representing the wants and wants of the presiding Turkeys of the Island.

Shep called it, "an extreme case of moral turpitude," but I think he went a little overboard with his convictions. Unfortunately, Shep's last occasion for going overboard was his last occasion of all. They never found his body though they scoured the Sound for days after he jumped off the _Lily Pusher_ on a cold, cloudy Thanksgiving afternoon.

Shep's vindictiveness was ground in the past. Shep's grandfather supposedly was a Bridgeport mobster who was gunned down outside a nightclub when Shep's father was an infant. Legend has it that his body was dumped into the Sound and never recovered. Months later, he was said to have washed up on the shore of Lake Ronkonkoma in Long Island. That's impossible. There's no conduit connecting the two bodies of water. Shep's beef with J.J. had to do with J.J.'s father who some say was a crooked cop and purportedly offered false testimony attesting to the fact that there was no shooting and no body-dumping. In fact, J.J.'s father insisted that Shep's grandfather robbed a neighborhood bar, stole a car, and was never seen again. If not for the fact that his body was discovered along the banks of Lake Ronkonkoma with five bullet holes in it, there may not be any question that it most likely was a boating accident. But there were bullets, and questions, the most compelling being how this simple police sergeant managed to quickly retire to Flora's Island in 1930 and lease, soon to buy, a prime piece of property in the heart of the village green and open up a fruit and vegetable business.

Shep tried to dig up evidence in this cold, cold case, known in the press as the _Case of the Subterranean Subterfuge_. He even made Livinia use the resources of our library to track down dates, places, maps, old records, witnesses, and all available transcripts of this miscarriage of justice. Shep wanted to have his grandfather's name cleared posthumously in a Connecticut Court of Appeals and bring murder charges up against J.J.'s father. It was an impossible endeavor, much like my attempt to clear Sassacus's name in the roll books of history.

That being said, we casually hopped the low iron railing that surrounded the green. Nearby, J.J.'s broom lay smashed to pieces. We then walked across to the fire station, past Roby Edwards' pickup where we originally parked, and paused to take stock of the situation. The crowd was indeed massing. While I could see everyone, everyone saw me first and foremost. I wished I could blend in. I was sick of hugging walls, stooping to converse, excusing myself whenever I felt uncomfortable with a vertically-challenged assembly. Everyone knew me. I was born here, and, at the time, I was resigned to die here. I was a fairly responsible employee, tried to keep my mouth shut, and was more thoughtful than I used to be when I was a hotshot athlete. And always, I kept an eye out for Livinia Grover. She was around. I just knew.

"The bird's got to go," J.J. whispered to Shep and me as he stared with those blazing eyes up the pole as if he was about to put a shake on it. His teeth were bared and his hairy, uni-browed, lemon-sucking face, still flushed from his tumble, made him look like some kind of overexcited Neanderthal. Shep and I shot each other glances.

"Go ahead, J.J.," I said. "Go climb that pole. But it won't do any good. It's going to leave any second."

"Ain't goin' nowhere, Tables. It's hangin' around like an evil omen."

"What are you saying?" Shep asked. "It's just making a pit stop. You want to butcher it and stuff it just like your dear old dad, the jolly greengrocer."

"Your kin was a hooligan. Got what he deserved."

Shep made a threatening move toward J.J. I threw out my large hand on Shep's chest. He stopped. "Well, you're gonna get what you deserve if you don't shut your pie-hole now!"

"Open your eyes, Shep. Ever see an owl sittin' so plain so long?"

"Professor Webster thinks it's possible," I lied.

"It's a sign," J.J.said.

"A sign of a stupid bird."

"We got dead teenagers, disappearances, strange fires, and animals wreakin' havoc all over."

"It's just a stupid bird," I said again.

"We fire missiles at enemies we can't hardly see. Here's one plain as a button."

Shep made circles with his index finger by his right temple. I nodded. "It'll fly off," I said with mild conviction, but even in this, I was far too presumptuous. For when the others came, and they didn't have far to travel since most of the Geese were confined to the west side of the Island, they came with a grim curiosity, and with the tools to satisfy it: cameras, nets, traps, scraps of flounder, and, just for the heck of it, as if right on cue, Mike Calderone quietly showed up in the back of the fire station parking lot with his father's double barrel shotgun, reminding me of something Chekhov once said about introducing weapons into the early acts of a drama.

I don't know how word got around so fast, but in less than thirty minutes, the village green was fairly full, almost a hundred people were on hand, and, within an hour's time by my watchtower calculations, there were more than twice that and a small number of Turkeys as well. And still, you got to question this: that fat, lazy, no-good owl stayed put. Wouldn't move, flutter a wing, eject a pellet, shoot some hoots, crap. I know these Geese. I grew up with them. But to know them isn't to love them, and they proved the rule when they showed up and shut down just when they had a chance at being redeemed. There were weekend fishermen like Shep and me, and lobstermen and oystermen and clam diggers direct from points all over the Island. There were late sleepers getting the word on the phone and midnight creepers crawling out of the marsh grass and euonymus. Some early Meadowlands golfers were there, too, and some seniors hot off their constitutionals around Deep Harbor, and bikers, with their backpacks and picked flowers and kaleidoscope eyes.

The morning was windless. The sun was unfettered by clouds stacked to the southwest over Long Island. The leaves still left on the trees dripped with color, the air smelled of low tide, pungent and primeval and, you know what I mean. It was a morning to get the hell outside. The Geese would have been out promenading anyhow, but that owl, sitting so cool atop that pole, prompted an impromptu forum that seemed necessary at the time.

Gloria was over there in the crowd. When Shep spied her, he left me alone to fend off further abuses by J.J. Shep greeted Gloria with a big hug and together they walked, arm in arm, to the back of the pack.

Since J.J. had the most pressing issue with the bird and I was, _de facto_ , the most identifiable face of an Island now gone semi-berserk with growing fears, we broke through the human pilings rimming the flag pole to grab center stage. As such, we became the most responsible for displaying the proper reverence at being able to witness up close a sedentary great horned owl. I didn't ask to be the owl's defender. The role was thrust on me by circumstances. I balked and was about to bail from my spot under the spotlight, when J.J. turned and faced the assembly, shouting in that cracked-leather voice of his and trouble, unlike the owl, soon took flight. "Want you all to know Raney and me saw this thing land," he said emphatically. "Its intent's malevolent, and its nature's, well, its nature's pure evil."

The crowd had been gathering in small clusters, their idle chatter rising and rising, waiting for something, anything to be delivered. And J.J. didn't disappoint. Their attention rallied. Nets were lowered, cameras put away, and fish pieces were flung to the ground for the gulls. The spell of Sunday morning, the tradition of Sunday quietude had been shattered. "Damned bird got no business here," J.J. continued, banging his arms violently into his chest, "It's a public menace, a dang'rous nuisance."

Some of the onlookers laughed, but not enough. I laughed and I saw Shep and Gloria laughing too. Doc Talbot was hysterical, issuing mirthful snickers at J.J.'s every word. Smiley smiled, the priest was lost in thought. My brother wasn't around, but Lucy was standing in the back and later said she found the whole day, "amusing really, but nothing to get too huffy about." I knew Livinia would be whooping it up somewhere. I kept looking.

"Remember that fire at the town dump last month?" J.J. pressed. "Was no accident. Damn near burnt Margaret Roth's house to the ground and what with her just getting over her brother Carl's death. And his drownin' can't be accounted a mere accident neither. C'mon folks, coincidence has its limitations."

"Are you saying that was arson, Mister Jameson?" yelled a woman from the rear. We were all listening hard now. I know I was because I finally found Livinia.

Some people looked nervous. Some began gritting teeth and biting lips. This was no average day in paradise. This felt like judgment day without the judge. The priest had his eyes shut in prayer, Smiley continued to smile, and Doc Talbot continued to laugh in scorn. I even saw Lucy shake her grey head in defiance. But then there was Calderone, leaning half-hidden against his pickup, fingering the breech of his shotgun.

J.J. went on, disregarding Livinia's rebuke. "What I'm saying Miss, Miss...."

"Grover. Livinia Grover."

"Miss Grover, is that whatever started that fire has mounted a campaign 'gainst our citizens. You bein' the one reported it should be most aware of the pecu'larities."

"I only saw a small brush fire Mister Jameson, not the beginning of apocalypse."

The old man remained unperturbed. "You got a right to think ever you want. But thinkin' right's not the same as bein' right. Got to wake up to the truth of the matter."

"Truth of the matter's that nothing's going on here that's out the ordinary like that fire."

Representing FLITCO, and on the advice of Doc Talbot, J.J. hired Livinia to her position as Island librarian. I'm sure he'd have a few words to say to Doc when this was all said and done. "Miss Grover, ain't you forgettin' your place here?" he said, his contempt clear. "You fairly new."

"Three years isn't exactly new."

"Three's a young number, Miss Grover, and they's old ways here. Mind your manners."

Smiley suddenly broke through the assembly to give some kind of professional response to J.J., but I was starting to steam under my fishing cap and entered the arena first to impress Livinia and to shut down the small brained, largemouth asshole who was insulting my girl.

"Supernatural agencies?" I began with a diplomatic touch, a rhetorical question to put the crowd back on their heels. "Mister Jameson's calling that owl a harbinger that's gotten onto us for some reason or other. Just a minute ago, I saw him racing here as if he were a knight in shiny armor. We all know knights and dragons don't exist."

"Just a dang minute here," yelled J.J. about to cut me off.

But I wasn't going to be denied my shot. "We're civilized people. We don't have our heads in the clouds or buried in the sand. A rash of explainable incidents has a rash of rational explanations. There's no ghosts walking around, and there's no reason to be getting all fired up about nothing. This is all a big nothing, I tell you, and we shouldn't forget who we are and what we're all about." My argument, though a little lopsided and somewhat imprecise (especially the ghost part) appeared sane enough, and so I soldiered on. When I finally closed by saying, "Stick to the truth and the truth will stick to you," I even impressed myself, an impressive feat. Still, the people mumbled, drew closer, their uncertainties fanned by the very idea of having a common enemy to battle.

Then it was J.J.'s turn again, and he let us have it good. "You listen to Raney and we'll be diggin' graves all winter. Whatever's goin' on got us locked tight. Take care a your business and your business'll take care a you. And the first order of business is peace and there ain't gonna to be none until we show that owl who's boss."

Suddenly, the owl spat a surprise pellet to the ground. The crowd looked up inquisitively, many of them drawing back. The priest and Smiley joined me at the center of the commotion where we began talking among ourselves like I said earlier. J.J. was being quiet for the time being and began to warily knife his way into the cluster of locals trying to organize some support for his disdain.

"Good speech," said Doc approvingly. "Looks like you drove the heathens back to their caves."

"It's like they're crying out for blood."

"Or deliverance. It's what scared people do," said Doc.

The owl gave an occasional hoot, and once or twice the stupid bird flapped its wings testing the currents. The priest and Smiley continued to jabber. Shep and Gloria had left the scene and were walking in the direction of the graveyard behind the Catholic Church. Livinia was fidgeting with her grey sweater, my thought crawling like hands underneath. Some kids were playing tag across the street. A puffy cloud cut left in front of the sun and things darkened for a minute. J.J. continued with his tirade surrounded by a fortress of supporters. I picked up a few words, "Talons... Harbinger... Mayhem... Smokescreen... Murder!" And Calderone, whom I kept a continuous watch on with my keen vision, snuck two shells from a wedge in his hunting jacket and loaded them in.

"Did you see that?"

Smiley and the priest stopped yapping and turned towards me. "What's there to see?" the priest asked.

"Look behind you at Mike's pickup. The sneaky bastard's standing by the back. He just loaded his gun. He got a shell in his gun. Shit, now he's just gone and hopped onto the bed."

The priest looked startled. "We'll see about this. I'm going to talk with him. He's been under a lot of pressure."

"That's understandable considering the situation," confirmed Smiley, adjusting his dentures.

"That's not understandable. What's a guy with a shotgun doing here? Where's the constable? Mike's a lunatic."

"Raney, calumny produces only trouble," the priest said. "Look at it from a different perspective."

"There's only one perspective here," I said, trying to control my shaking, "a loaded weapon...in a crowd. What do you think could happen?"

The priest reached up and pressed my shoulder hard. He knew I riled easily and knew I wasn't the same man as the boy who left to play ball for Sparta. "We must be calm, very calm. Our community's experienced a bit of a shakeup. It takes time for the parts to fall back into place and be whole again."

"I agree. It takes time and it takes caution," Smiley added.

"What are you going to do about it? How calm's a bullet?"

The priest raised his voice a notch in anger and stared out at Calderone. "First of all, from what I can tell, he's holding a shotgun not a rifle."

"Cold comfort, Father."

"What can I do? The people come to me for answers. But what can I say in their hour of need? I pray for them but it's never enough. I visit their sick but some die. I organize teas and bring magazines from the mainland but it costs money and they'd rather not pay and I can't afford to be bothered when they refuse to make time for God's words. Even you, Raney, even you can't find one hour a week for spiritual refreshment."

"It's just the way it is," I said.

The priest stared at me in a way that unsettled me. He had a bizarre look on his face. Then he raised his voice even further. His voice didn't sound right either. "To be perfectly honest, my ministrations are puny in context to what's been happening here. I'm a prisoner just like they are, helpless because I'm unappreciated; unappreciated because I'm helpless. Something's got to be done."

"I understand, but you got to do something now," I said back. "Mike might do something terrible here. You have to speak to him."

"I plan to," said the priest who was breathing heavy, fuming it seemed, through tightened lips. His jaw was clenched tight and his hands were balled together into fists.

"Raney does have a point," Smiley added in my defense.

I looked away from the professor back towards Calderone. No one else seemed to be taking serious note of his presence. Calamity whipped about the green, moving from one shape to another though I was the only alarmist ringing the calamity bell. "Speak to him," I repeated in a dry whisper.

The priest was acting stranger by the second. He kept staring up at me. I couldn't tell if he objected to my insistence or to something else altogether. He pointed a meaty finger at me and cryptically said, "Why, I think you're the one. I think you're the only one that counts." Then he gave me a mysterious wink and a grotesque smile before turning and bullying through to the rear. The crowd parted grudgingly, sensing with his leaving, the end of something ritualistic that never truly began, some premature ceremony that would have required consecrated ground and a holy man to hold forth. They didn't care for their priest all that much but one that would lead from the rear or worse, _in_ _absentia_ , they would find intolerable.

Smiley nudged me with his elbow. "Father Jacobs is my kind of guy," he clacked.

"We'll see about that," I said, looking over the sea of scarves and caps to check out Calderone. He was a small, agile man and possessed a beguiling smile and a sly disposition like his father. Calderone was a loner but here you're born a loner. You can scream and shout about it, about camaraderie and sticking together, but there's too much time and space here. Flora's is a place for inward turning because there's no way to avoid the wide expanse of an ocean contesting, with every cresting wave, your credibility as a social being. While you can make the other side disappear, you can't make the water disappear. Its coming at you is incessant and, unlike other places to run, you can't run to other places without running squarely into that which you were running from in the first place. It makes you crazy in the long run like rats in a maze. This constant repetition's the beauty of the Island and also its beast.

I knew Calderone was sporting that shotgun for ostentation. He was the type of guy who'd do nothing and regret it for the rest of his life. And now his finger was on the trigger. I knew he'd never pull that trigger. And what for anyway? To honor his drowned father? To make a social statement? But there was still the crowd. Accidents happen.

With great effort, the priest climbed onto the bed of the pickup and then I heard arguing. We all heard it; how could we not. The priest was trying to pry the weapon out of Calderone's hands. It turned into a tug of war. The priest seemed determined. He called Calderone, "...a misguided youth."

Calderone was up to the challenge and called the priest, "...a bastard in black!"

A few of the bigger men from the fire department came rushing over to break it up. "Get the gun first! Get the gun first!" one of them cried out.

However, the priest being the much bigger man on what soon turned out to be a podium of sorts, wrested away the gun and knocked Calderone off the bed and onto the tarmac with a broad swing of his free hand. I thought that was it and gave a sigh of relief. Then, for whatever reason, I achieved a moment of clarity and picked up a sharp stone I saw lying on the grass. My plan was to ding the pole beneath the owl, so it would freak out and fly off. Ogilvie saw what I intended and nodded his approval. But just as I turned to hurl my rock, a double shotgun blast hit the bird square, shattering its head into smithereens. What was left tottered on the precipice momentarily, then plummeted earthwards making a thud that's lived with me ever since. Plumes of smooth, tan feathers, shaped like peach leaves, fluttered down.

The priest turned to his sudden congregation. He leaned the shotgun, barrels up, against the wooden slat of the bed. Wisps of smoke rose from the barrels and entwined conspiratorially. "Go home!" the priest demanded with a firm voice. "Go now!"

The crowd seemed in shock. The priest nodded with cold certainty and went on. "No more frailty, no more death. It's what you've expected of me. Now, it's better than before. But it'll be better still. Just you wait. And understand this, that it was slayed for your benefaction. Go home now. Go home and pray. Pray for forgiveness before it's too late. Time's running out. Go home and pray and I'll pray too."

The priest looked down from the flatbed at the stunned crowd. He actually seemed pleased with his rhetoric and gave a little jeering smile, just enough for me to conclude he'd gone insane. He ended his Sunday sermon as if nothing twisted had just happened. He seemed puffed up like a blowfish, in a world I couldn't imagine. "Peace be yours, my children. You may come closer now, if you wish to be cleansed."

The lesson for the day was complete. The priest reached out his arms to bless any takers. No one took. All the Geese backed away but no one left. The priest waited, acknowledged the retreat, slapped his hands together in prayer and closed his eyes. In every which way he now seemed as frozen in place as everyone else. He remained in this limbo for some time. We all remained in this limbo for some time. Nothing moved but the mottled feathers of the dead owl blowing through the crowd. The village green seemed as silent as a graveyard, a still life portrait of what was to come.

Finally, the priest opened his eyes, crossed himself slowly and then lowered himself off the pickup and began to lumber across the green and back to the rectory. The shocked crowd parted like the Red Sea as he passed. His gait was more precise than ever. He looked straight ahead, as if he were alone. When he passed through the crowd and disappeared into the rectory, they dispersed as promptly as they had come, making their getaways down the same lanes and over the same knolls that brought them here.

At last, Constable Martin arrived on the scene in his squad car and surveyed the small carnage at the fire station with incredulity.

And then there was me, the redeemer, crushed into the armor of my failure, left to stand alone, squeezing a razor thin rock under a flagpole. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Livinia watched me from a distance, leaning dispiritedly on the banister of the library porch on the other side of the green.

And it seemed like days before I moved and before I let go the bloody rock and covered my bloody hand with a black scarf someone had earlier dropped. And it seemed like years before the feathers dissipated from the center of town after the Garba-troll's replacement hauled the carcass away to the town dump and incinerated it. And it seemed like eternity before the world moved on its axis and Flora came snarling back, more determined than ever to put us back in place.

#  8

The morning Lucius Brett was consigned to the _Lily Pusher_ , Flora's Island remained in deep cover. A soaking rain brought on by a late season Nor'easter, had muddied the streets and private lanes and a sour blue fog followed, wrapping us in a tight crush. If there was a sun, no one remembered its existence. A grey disc limped through the melancholy sky etching a westerly groove. Everything looked ugly and caked and the hours were unsalvageable.

It rained for a week straight. It poured and poured and a white-stuccoed mansion was evacuated when the tiled roof collapsed. It rained so hard that Livinia Grover slipped on the library steps and sprained her wrist. Doc Talbot fixed her up and had the gall to mention my name. I told Doc I'd never consult with her again and she smiled. "I'm your spiritual mother; you've no other," she said and it made me laugh.

"You're always so damned pleased with yourself."

"There was a time I wasn't," she pensively replied, "but things change."

"Things don't change, only people."

"Only if they can see what needs changing. I didn't see it coming so..."

"Doc."

"I know, dear, I'm being morbid. Let's change the subject. Let's talk about Livinia."

"Let's not," I said.

It rained so hard that the sand traps on both Flora's golf courses flooded and a few Turkeys swore they saw pilchard darting around before things dried out. They say they had to hire some of Edward's crew to empty the water from the traps so the Turkeys could finish for the season. They say a lot of things here but one thing never said was the traps were cluttered with metal shavings and rubbery goo that caused the gravel filters to clog and draining became near impossible. It was the blend of iron shavings from Markham's Golf Club factory and the refuse from the Preparation S Hemorrhoid Crème plant that dampened the spirit of the bunkers and kept them from their proclivity to abate. It's funny how the only light industries on the Island had a hand in this incident. A little putt and a little butt; how appropriate is that?

When the rain stopped, it took two days for the fog to clear out. By then, the owl was less than two week dead, the priest went into total seclusion, I went into total denial, and the rest of the Island went into total arrhythmia. It was already mid-October and things were just beginning to change.

Lucius Brett was a black man, not an ordinary sight here. He'd need to have a special dispensation to be accounted one of us. He'd need to have some powerful iron shavings coursing through his system. And he did. That's why Flora sent Ogilvie into the fog to greet him when he disembarked. Ogilvie was assigned to be the after school bus driver for the first month and a half of school. He hated doing it but all the teachers and staff pitched in because there was lots to do and not enough personnel to do it. Someone always had to bang on the boiler, teach the continuing education courses, be available for the rehearsal schedules, keep things hopping at the AA meetings, the Gambler's Anonymous sessions, the book club gatherings, the Lonely Hearts Club dalliances, the Independent Film series and lock up after the bi-monthly FLITCO events in the school's amphitheatre. I also suspect Ogilvie was the only one compassionate enough to handle Brett, a man who set off alarms whenever his name came up at Sinbad's. It's obvious Flora would only hire singletons for the special jobs that needed to be done. At first, being black wasn't a factor. Being deeply troubled was.

Brett had a tough run on the other side. He was in and out of trouble, minor stuff mainly, and therefore avoided real jail time that would have knocked him out of contention for the bus driving gig. He couldn't keep his hands to himself. His propensity for _knicking_ items of little or no value was a source of ridicule among the thieves with whom he ran. When he attempted to raise the stakes and take what didn't belong to him on a more professional level, he was invariably caught. He was often captured by retail security or by the police. "A constant New Haven pain in the you know what," one police sergeant noted. The authorities issued warning after warning but never got around to hauling him into anything resembling a jail cell. The holding tank didn't count and he was always released before he was booked as a way of protecting him from future felons who treated him with malice and occasional whacks of violence.

What made Brett unique was that he was not as deft as he imagined. He was neither artful in his approach or a dodger in his escape. In fact, he really didn't want success in any fashion at all. He just wanted what was available only because it was available: on that counter, on that desk, on that sill. If it was left, it was his and brought him that momentary gem of exquisite relief that lasted till his next flurry.

His wife left him soon after their marriage. One day she returned from work and caught him in the act, pilfering then hoarding a pair of tweezers, a set of hair curlers, some wads of cotton and a bottle of nail polish remover left on her vanity. She spent time every day on the lookout for her purloined possessions and when she finally found him stuffing, "his little victories," as she called it, in a stash under a loose floorboard she exploded with rage, stabbed him in the shoulder with a pair of cuticle scissors, took all the available cash, and moved in with her boy friend.

Brett had a disease and Flora had the cure. She loved having people on her squad who were emotionally spent, those who couldn't resist inner turmoil. It meant a lot that he was now available as that piece of loose change he loved to swipe, her favorite coin of the realm, her go to guy in a penny pinch. The fact that he was an unemployed bus driver was all the more reason for Flora to waste no time driving pinheads of metal into his willful disdain of himself and all he'd become. He was one of her easiest marks and was one of her most important imports in the dangerous months ahead.

That being said, Ogilvie walked Brett from the ferry to his smashed up, sky blue Honda Civic. Making small talk, they seemed like old friends. They laughed out loud at a strange limerick Brett recited about a man from Goode:

There was an old man from the village of Goode,

Whose flagstaff was made enti'ly of wood.

When the weather got hot,

That old piece it done rot,

Now a space does replace where a tree had once stood.

From a nearby incline overlooking the dock, Flora watched with bemused interest as Ogilvie crunched Brett's single duffel bag into the trunk, and then roared off to his new home, a small apartment in one of the old Navy barracks. My brother lived in one of the apartments with Lucy and so did many of the newbies from the other side. I, too, used to live in the barracks when I first returned but I grew claustrophobic and needed room to throw an elbow. Consequently, I soon took a small apartment overlooking nothing special near the Meadowlands. It was at Roby Edwards' machine shop and storage shed but he had a big place up on the second floor with an outside staircase and outstanding late day sunlight. The ceiling was unusually high. There were three skylights. I liked that a lot.

The Meadowlands golfers were, more often than not, Turkeys and tee time was, for the most part, a summertime affair. For the rest of the year, the Scottish-style golf course remained barren and wind battered, except for the instances Jane Eyre and the sour Heathcliff and beautiful Tess and sexy Eustacia Vye and the drug-deranged Baskerville Hound and other Moorish inhabitants scurried through the moonlight under the watchful eye of my imagination. I liked that even better. When I walked the course in the gloom of gloam, or especially in the pitch-black dark, going hole-to-hole, and back again, the stark elegance of being lost in something without ambition improved my mood and kept my anxieties at arm's length. The constancy of the waves rolling in from the nearby Sound served as a soothing lullaby and sometimes rocked me to sleep in my sand trap cradle near the last, the ninth hole. A long time ago, the Meadowlands was a renowned eighteen hole golf course, but like everything else on Flora's Island, the 1938 Hurricane rearranged the configurations of the course and permanently drowned half the holes under fifteen feet of inlet water.

Look, I know I'm being scatter-brained. A mirror smashes to the floor, and I can't assemble the pieces in a coherent way. Every time I fit them back, I only see parts of myself in every shard. For once I'd like to get a glimpse of myself in full. My processing prowess isn't my strong suit. There are technical terms, but back then, few in in my strata ever heard of A.D.D. or ever went to a shrink. We went to Sinbad's instead, or _into the drink_ in some cases, although the difference between these types of remedies is only one of acceleration. Just ask Shep.

Early on, even Doc acknowledged this chronic problem I had, incorrectly suggesting it was a mere pitfall in my deductive skills though she expressed it in a way that only she could. Doc had a degree in medicine but also had a poetic license next to none. "You're a train wreck which reduces forward thinking to cabooses," she scolded, on one particularly bad day years ago when my grandma passed and I was about to fly off to college: "Like a monarch to a thistle, be aware of every whistle. Every track has some impasses and in your case, it's the lasses."

It was an accepted fact that Doctor Maria Talbot was the most remarkable and lyrical human being that Flora ever hosted. I never asked Doc about her poetic constructions and accepted it as part of the job set. She had plenty of free time between office visits and if she spent it contriving little rhymes, all power to her. Drawn to the Island by disaster, "a discordant relationship with an impossible rascal," was how she put it, Doc Talbot was a free range Goose who thumbed her beak at convention from her medical perch just a honk up the road from the village green. Her little house, within view of the fire department, the library, and nearly every other commercial piece of real estate on the Island, was paid for and provisioned by the town fathers - FLITCO et al - and was a little shingled saltbox - half office, half personal suite - fully appointed with the accoutrements of an isolation that suited her to a tee.

Self-imposed isolation and its symptom, loneliness, can take a toll. In Doc's case, what are the clues? Is it the way she drapes her favorite shawl over her silver hair? Is it the manner in which paintings from grateful children are rendered on the big corkboard behind her desk? Or is it what's on the desktop, shorn of anything personal, of anything, really, except a small, framed photograph of Livinia, her closest friend. I felt strongly about Doc. We all did. So it was sad then that all our tokens of appreciation never settled about the house I knew so well, visited so often, in any visible way. The gifts were treated with indifference and probably stuck behind a shoe rack in the closet. That's why I sensed such a deep vein of loneliness running through Doc. All the trappings that composed her spinster life were of her own making. She had barred the door from the inside and all she let out was whimsy. She owned practically nothing except her practice and her pride. And that singular piece of her, that drive to superimpose her desire to set things right, bones included, on everything in her surround, rejecting the intrusions of side attractions and even the hospitality of a devoted congregation, was what made me assume that, in effect, we were very much the same.

Let me now switch to the events leading up to Halloween. I couldn't imagine a more perfect venue for Flora's multitasking abilities. That night happened to be the night our speculations became real, the night the fog lifted like a curtain then settled in again, taking a curtain call for all the mischief it was about to unleash. I clearly heard Flora advise the fog to go, "Break a leg!" And it did. It wasn't just a leg then that they discovered washed up on shore, bloated and purple and horribly nibbled on the rocky point by Alister Airport. There were other remnants as well. The body was pretty much in decomposition, but it did hang together enough to make some sort of identification. Fillets of skin hung off the bone, some hair fibers remained intact, the pilot's uniform was a mess but it made the inquest simple.

While Flora was waiting on Lucius Brett to arrive, she decided to bundle together a little gift, a small token of depreciation for all the Geese and remaining Turkeys. It was Flora's fall fashion blowout and on display were Franklyn Perricone and the Groton pilot who disappeared one week ago on a day everyone should have stayed indoors. The fog was like pea soup and the pilot was heading to Long Island's Mattituck Airport to pick up Franklyn Perricone's old shrink from Pilgrim Psychiatric in order for him to come to Flora's Island to identify his ward's body once they found it. Halloween was just a hop, skip and jump away and so was the coroner who had come from Old Lyme to examine the recently discovered Perricone.

He had disappeared only days before the owl landed in town and, while no one suspected mischief, no one understood how the Garba-troll could just evaporate off the face of the Island. While many hiding places exist where a Goose could seek shelter no one could believe him remotely capable of seeking such a haven and then remain hidden until termination. Was it suicide? Was it foul play? Or fowl play? He was our Garba-troll, our quicker picker upper, the fastest green cleaner, Jack-of-all-blades turf warrior, that we ever could have had.

It was beyond comprehension, then, to find out that the Garba-troll was cruelly beaten to death and his body left to decay inside one of the bunkers the Navy had built almost a century ago up on Barton's Hill, the highest point on the Island. The bunkers were part of the larger fortification system that protected the Long Island Sound and this vital causeway of the Eastern seaboard from nautical transgression. Besides Fort Johnson on Flora's Island, the _Harbor Defense_ _System_ team included fortifications on Plum Island and Big Gull Island. Together, the three Islands formed a sort of military frontcourt that was virtually impenetrable. The old Fort by the airport also ministered to the needs of the populace in a totally unexpected fashion: on the clever suggestion from one of the well-heeled FLITCO members, its interconnected cement pavilions became the local waste station, or town dump. What you do is back up your vehicle at the appropriate precipice and let your waste waterfall over the broken edges into one of the cement valleys 25 feet below.

This local chapter of the Salvation Army, being well provisioned by what I could only define as turkey droppings, attracted us Geese who made it a point to come shop often to salvage what some considered the antithesis of the maxim: "Waste not; want not." It got to where it felt like a social outing, especially on summer mornings. A ritual was born out of the refuse and while someone always came away with something, the visitation never failed to disappoint. Garbage was garbage, and no matter how we re-consigning the stuff under the rubric of important necessities, whether as improvements in our home décor or as supplements to glamorize our Geese existence, it didn't make any difference. It was tainted Turkey shit. That's why I preferred to poke around the old Pequot mounds up on Barton Hill because, if you knew where to look, there'd be an occasional find. Once I made a discovery that I refused to share around. I think I discovered the remnants of some old wampum that might have belonged to Sassacus. Most of the shells were shattered by time and what remained was plenty out of sorts and torn to near shreds, but it was certainly wampum and certainly the great Sachem's and certainly worth killing for.

When the coroner finally arrived on the _Warner Bee_ , Constable Bob Martin was waiting for him and they drove together in silence to the fire station where the coroner set up shop because there was no other place to bring the remains of the young pilot. Doc, a licensed internist, was given a front row seat at the proceedings, but there wasn't much to do. Besides, she was busy with Garba-troll's corpse, only slightly more decomposed than the pilot and lying under wraps in one of her back offices. The coroner would be over there next after he finished assessing the pilot. The pilot had drifted off course in the fog and then the Cherokee's single engine blew. The plane went down like lead, or more appropriately, iron, into the foamy, churning Race and broke into pieces ejecting the pilot who died on impact. Snagged by sharp rocks, the pilot's body remained on the sea bottom until the currents shifted releasing her to the surface. Drifting and drifting, the body eventually was lifted by the tide to the high water mark where it was spotted by an angler. Easy enough, I suppose. However, the discovery of Garba-troll's body wasn't. Wasn't easy at all.

#  9

Franklyn Perricone lived his entire adult life on Flora's Island. Brought over to help keep the grounds when he was eighteen, Perricone chose to stay or was asked to stay, dependent upon whom you asked. He had no close family on the mainland, no real ties to any significant others, no real ties, in fact, to any significant reality.

In and out of foster homes for most of his early life, Perricone spent time at Suffolk County's Pilgrim State Psychiatric Center in Deer Park where he'd been selected by the very discriminating Flora herself and targeted for future transport. To get it done, she enlisted the aid of a benevolent Turkey, a young hen and Great Neck volunteer with too much time on her hands now that her wealthy husband was so often on the road. Sensing that the young patient was neither dangerous nor recalcitrant, Mary Angeli intuited a hopeful future for Franklyn if he could be released from the center into her personal care and put on staff to be used in some worthwhile capacity.

The handsome, young man with the broad chest and large hands made quite the impression on the Angelis, specifically the wife. The husband found Perricone perfectly, "malleable and quiet," as he said later at the inquest, even though he was malleable because he had no tenable position that couldn't be shaped by a beating, and he was quiet because he never spoke except in a wheezing whisper that was the consequence of a strange vocalization brought on by inhaling rather than by exhaling.

Notwithstanding these minor drawbacks, Harvey Angeli sensed the appropriate demeanor in the young man and consigned him to the grounds-keeping brigade. You see, the Turkeys also brought over a few of their own every season. They weren't all Geese. Striking a balance in the labor pool played a key role in maintaining equilibrium and assuring a successful season. It was a shame, then, about how it played out later on, but it couldn't be helped. The season of the witch was on us and it didn't matter which fowl you ascribed to; we were all fair game. And the Garba-troll was the fairest of them all. Typecast as user friendly both by a lonely wife and a wealthy drug dealer and usurer, a bank executive by trade who, decades later, was arrested in a Ponzi scheme that stole millions from innocent investors, the boy immediately fell under Flora's spell once the Angelis hit the Island that Memorial Day in 1967.

While the Angelis had two young children at the time, Mary, was constantly despondent, constantly on edge, and constantly adrift in a sea of self-doubt. She was in her early twenties, had a frail physique and a faltering disposition that got worse with wear. Her husband's neglect and occasional whacks were stunning and his acts of infidelity more than blatant. Mary's brave front was toppling by the second and every second counted. She felt time was running out on her youth and her marriage. She trusted Harvey as far as she could throw her two Steinways, but that wasn't the issue. The issue with Mary was the new gardener. She felt her fall coming in a more Biblical sense. Her skin, white as an incoming wave and her hair, black as the blackest ash, formed the boundaries of the discoloration of a withering soul. While soldiering on, she constantly berated herself in front of the gilt-framed parlor mirror when she was alone saying things to herself like, _Il faut souffrir pour etre belle_ , and singing the lyrics to _Eleanor_ _Rigby_ over and over again until she burst into tears and called for another Manhattan, stirred not shook, cherry included.

One day in late June, Mary, sipping a Gibson in a chilled martini glass, spied Franklyn tending to the privets that bordered the pool. Harvey demanded they be trimmed because they eclipsed the expansive view of the Sound that their property overlooked. The children were at the Crescent Club taking sailing lessons and Harvey was in the city with his mistress, so it was Mary and some servants and Franklyn, who in one short month had become their personal landscaper.

"The hardest of the hard workers," is what Harvey later said about Perricone after watching him sweat and fret and prune and weed. Mary felt almost overjoyed that her husband approved of her young selection. Her own approbation was distributed in more subtle ways: a warm smile at Franklyn whenever she passed him in the patio; cold drinks of mineral water offered up by a servant at her request; notes, innocent enough, she supposed, left on his pillow in the greenhouse anteroom where he lived; and multiple offers to use their large, heated pool whenever he, overheated from work around the property, "...needed to cool off."

"If you need a bathing suit, my husband's should fit well enough," one note reminded. "And if you're in a rush, take off your uniform and jump in. I won't look."

Perricone found all this confusing. He'd never been with a woman and this boss lady, particularly with her notes, made him uncomfortable. His boss he could deal with. If he needed to hear his incessant tirades, if he needed to get a physical reminder of his shortcomings, a quick slug to the head would do the trick. Once, early on, he was smacked because he left a box of strychnine in a place where the kids might have gotten into it. The voles were tearing up some of the front lawn and his boss told him to go into town and get some calcium carbide from one of the contractors. All they had handy was strychnine. It would do. Perricone had worked for years at Pilgrim Psychiatric helping to care for the grounds. He felt he got pretty good at it. His experience landed him a decent job on Flora's, his first real work, and helped him escape what he viewed as terminal sedation, an existence shorn of any enticements, full of medications, boredoms, small bedbugs and those larger bedbugs, the doctors and nurses that constantly patrolled the wards day and night.

"Franklyn. Oh Franklyn, you're melting in this sun," the boss lady was calling. She was a constant irritation. He didn't want to see her, join her, as she would put it for a little breather under the green canopy near the pool. First of all, there was no one else around. Secondly, she was wearing a pink striped dress that for some reason revealed the contours of her large breasts and made her nipples stand out and, thirdly, he didn't want her to see the fading blue bruise on the left side of his head put there by her husband a few days before his latest visit to the city. Why wasn't she wearing a bra? he must have thought. Why was she shoeless? Where washer bathing suit anyway? That damn dress.

Perricone wasn't used to this. He had watched her throughout the morning drinking up her pitcher of drink and he imagined, by the way she was tilting the pitcher, that it was at least half gone. He also had heard her crying earlier when he was out of sight down on his knees behind the arborvitae, digging weeds out of the English Ivy. Now that he was done with that and hacking away at the privets, dark and muscular enough he supposed, he made for an easy target.

"Franklyn, Franklyn my dear." She cooed. Her voice sounded cool and pleasing like one of the icy pitchers always at her disposal near the chaise lounges. "Franklyn. Franklyn," she demanded stamping her small, painted foot on the brick patio, "come over here this instant! You're sweltering. What you need is a cool drink to cool off."

Mary always confused Perricone. The little games and little notes and little gifts excited him in ways he never felt before. He saw it coming a long ways away and had little to say on the subject and couldn't articulate it properly even if he could. As a kid, the others in the foster homes would ridicule him constantly. It wasn't only the asthma. There never was a corrective measure for his faulty speech. He never learned to breathe out during words out and in during the breech. Consequently, his anxiety over this and other orphan issues forced him into a perpetual state of inhalation, as if he could only hold the world in and could never let it out. If his life depended upon blowing up a balloon, he knew he would die.

This tension was often overwhelming like now, like now that he was slowly making his way over to his boss lady. His feet were acting independent of his brain. "Huwwooo," he inhaled sullenly. He couldn't say no. He couldn't go back to the psycho center and be a ward idiot the rest of his life. She made him gulp three large glasses of drink and, somehow, they ended up naked in the pool. She touched him here, kissed him there, and then she made him do the same to her. Unlike him, she could absolutely breathe out. He felt her sweet, hot panting on his neck. Her timing was immaculate.

Her timing was immaculate. She knew when the children would be home and when the staff would materialize. And then it became practically every day all summer long. He never realized there were so many places to have liaisons: the pool house, his greenhouse, the boat house where they launched Harvey's spectacular yachts, her daughter's bedrooms, the guest quarters, the outdoor shower, the kitchen cubby, the hot tub under cover of darkness, the billiard tables in the rumpus room down in the basement. The other servants were never around. Somehow, they magically disappeared every time, or had chores to perform on the far side of wherever they were doing it.

Even when Harvey was present, it never was a problem. Perricone didn't know if his boss didn't care or was just setting the stage to issue one large bashing when the time was ripe. Maybe that was the ultimate game.

And now, sixteen years removed from that magical, mysterious summer, the game was truly over and the Garba-troll lay on the plastic coroner's table both rib cages kicked in, an eye gouged out, three fingers cut off at the knuckle, a missing ear, a broken collar bone, a broken knee cap, and dried gray matter mashed all over his face like the crusty debris of a mountain landscape. It was a beating all right, "a first class pummeling with a blunt weapon of great durability," Doc later reported.

And to everyone's chagrin, the weapon was found soon after wrapped in an old piece of deerskin and placed delicately at the front door of Constable Martin's apartment in the rear of the police headquarters he singly staffed. The small ranch with the weathered shingles and small flagpole was midway between the ferry terminal and the village green. It was set back behind a tall thicket of hollies and it was easy to pick things up and drop things off without being seen. The headquarters was the local Lost and Found and also the impromptu court of all sorts, where tickets and fines could be paid and quarrels mediated. If there was a problem that couldn't be resolved through Island jurisprudence, the dispute would be resolved in Southold before a more proper body of magistrates.

However, this little gift was another matter altogether. By the look of things, the perpetrator wasn't necessarily insidious by nature or cryptic by intent as we might have expected. In fact, there wasn't much speculation on the part of any resident curious about what Martin discovered at his doorstep. There was no attendant calling card, no attached missive save a simple reminder, but we all knew just the same because of the burglary a week before the murder. The awkward design, like a child's doodle, on a torn sheet of nondescript paper was that of a wigwam (the local natives didn't live in teepees) and in it was scrawled a respectful plea for the constable to return the artifact, an Indian hatchet, to the Flora's Island Museum when he was finished inspecting it.

The plain stone hatchet with its round edge was discovered by chance with some other Indian relics a century ago or so ago near Barton's Hill. The tallest point on Flora's, it was not only the Navy that recognized the strategic value of this hump rising high in the middle of the Island. The Pequots, too, enjoyed a measure of safety from this incline and set up summer camps for hunting and fishing. The adjacent garbage piles used collectively by the tribe later became a rich resource for artifact hunters, like myself, if one knew exactly where to look. I'm not necessarily a fan of gifts from the past, but I wanted to secure some totems that would serve my inquest into the historic happenings in and around the Island. My little treatise clearly folds part way around that wampum I was discussing previously, but my case would be made with or without it. It's just more external trappings that clarify ideas I've hatched for the text, but certainly not the centerpiece by any stretch. History speaks to me in whispers, in soft tones. I try to listen to the wind, like Odysseus, not to the dust. I don't barter with the past. There's evidence enough in other books, if you just know how to adjust your antennae as you make your way through the fuzz of bias scripted into every page.

In either case, among the treasures discovered inside the mounds were two hatchets, one pointed, one rounded and both discovered missing from their mount in the museum's back room where only valuable artifacts are put on display. The theft was a matter of convenience, how to stuff two hatchets in your fall outerwear or backpack.

Smiley Webster reported the incident but wasn't sure if someone broke in and stole the pieces or if someone merely paid a visit and casually removed them from the wall. The Flora's Island Museum is free and since there weren't many visitors, the front door was never locked, the rooms never checked, the curator, himself there only a few hours a day. Smiley felt bad about the loss and had complained to FLITCO about getting some security going at the museum because such a crime was inevitable. It was just that no one expected that which would be taken or liberated or borrowed, as the case may be, would ever be used for murder. It would have been our crime of the century had not so many other misfortunes rained down all at once, overwhelming the Geese who only wanted to settle in for a good autumn now that the Turkeys had gone home to roost.

The most important speculation now that the word was out about the murder wasn't the most obvious: whoever killed the Garba-troll would eventually be found out. There weren't too many suspects on an Island like this. What remained was a little more chilling. Where was the other hatchet, the pointy one, the one that this killer could use in cutthroat style to carve up a sleeping Goose at anytime day or night? Therefore, the real concern was which would come first, the capture or the rapture? And this singular concern put a pall on everyone's goal of putting away the past, forgetting the fires, the rains, the fog, the owl, the drowning, the plane crash, the murder, the crazy creatures that feasted like there was no tomorrow. And in effect, there wouldn't be a tomorrow for someone unless the bearer of that other hatchet was brought to justice before it was buried in some innocent Goose's skull.

A team of two CSI investigators and one detective from NYC arrived soon after the pilot was cremated in New London and just before the victim's body was returned for burial in Deer Park. Constable Martin, small, heavyset, bearded, watched them examine the mangled corpse, watched as they hoofed it up to the bunkers on Barton's Hill where the corpse was discovered, taking photographs and measurements with all kinds of equipment, watched them review the evidence, including the note, in whispered words as if someone who shouldn't have been listening was, watched them deftly interrogate all pertinent friends and enemies of the Garba-troll, which amounted to very few to begin with, and, finally, watched them leave the same day with a briefcase full of paperwork and the hatchet, and the drawing of the wigwam, which was to be studied by a crack team from the F.B.I.

Smiley Webster soon took ill over the handling of the case and FLITCO's continued refusal to put a lock on the front door and alarms on the windows. And as Halloween approached, we were no closer to knowing who committed the crime and no closer to guessing where the old pointy hatchet newly resided.

Three days before Halloween, Smiley returned to work, a little thinner, a little less buoyant, and received a package from the constable that had been flown over to Alister Airport. The murder weapon had been returned, cleaned of blood and gristle. Smiley put it back on the rack next to its little plastic museum tag which identified it as an old Pequot tribal tool used primarily for domestic purposes.

The space above the hatchet where the other hatchet belonged caught the noonday sun through the large windows and the brooding light, with nothing to radiate off except the bare cedar wall, reflected back oddly into the room with the same dim veracity as Smiley's false set of teeth. And of course, the picture of the wigwam, with its simple curves and lines, was never returned.

#  10

Two weeks before Halloween, there was an emergency meeting at the VFW Hall. The Hall's bar was shut down and plastic chairs were set up in long, clean rows. By the time Constable Martin finished informing the public that Franklyn Perricone's death was a homicide and that the investigation was speedily moving forward, every seat had been taken.

Martin said detectives from New York City would be visiting on a regular basis, intending to interview witnesses to the crime, though there were none, and citizens familiar with the victim, though there were but a few. Handing the microphone over to one such detective, a tall, slim, poker-faced Hugh Smitts, we were sternly reminded again to keep on our toes, be observant. He needn't have bothered. We were as skittish as cottontails.

"Ladies and gentlemen, as you know by now," Detective Smitts said, "there was a murder on your Island. From what I understand, crimes of this magnitude are unheard of here. Your isolation serves as a shield to such behavior. The demographics of your Island and the utility of your population make such a crime statistically impossible. But nothing is impossible these days, and I'd be remiss in my duty if I didn't warn you that nothing you can do is without risk and that there's nowhere you can hide without some element of danger. Welcome home, folks...welcome to the real world."

Smitts stared down any contentious looks, and there were many, coughed into the sleeve of his black suit, composed himself briefly by wiping a hand over his short silver hair, and went on. "I'm trying to be practical. This isn't a time to be lulled into false patterns of security. Safety will only come when the crime is solved and I expect that to happen soon. We currently have no specific evidence to make determinations as to who or what committed this heinous crime, but we're certain that there's available information waiting for us to uncover. And that information will come directly from some of you here, from some of you concerned townspeople who want to return to a normal regiment, free of fear and the discomfort that comes with such a waiting game.

"The crime lab's pouring over everything we brought them and we'll have more details to direct us in the proper course of action. But make no mistake about it, any of you, particularly if you have vital information or if you are aligned with the perpetrator or if you are the perpetrator or perpetrators, make no mistake about ascribing our lack of speed to inaction. This case is finite. It's a closed case because we're working within a limited purview. And that's good news. It allows us to be careful and thorough in our procedure."

"Tell them about the hatchet, Hugh," Martin leaned over and whispered to Smitts.

"I will," said Smitts with confidence, momentarily covering the microphone with his hand, "but let's move this along slowly." His hawk eyes conveyed a soft beratement, a downgrading. Martin was a constable and only that. The detective waited until Martin pulled a few steps away before shifting his gaze back on the audience.

"As you know, we've recovered the murder weapon and the attached note, and, among other things, we're now engaged in developing a psychological portrait of the perpetrator. We think we know what kind of thinking compels such a person to take such risks, to commit such an awful crime. I say this because we feel there may not be a second event at all."

The audience hummed with relief. It was a brief chance to exhale after weeks of deep holdings. Some people took the moment as an excuse to readjust themselves in their chairs, trying to get into more comfortable positions to counter the effects of their uncomfortable situations.

Smitts went on. "The victim may have suffered a personal assault based exclusively on a possible connection to the perpetrator alone. Consequently, this may signal an end to further acts of violence, but at this point, I repeat, at this juncture, we cannot be sure. It may also have been a random act aimed at the general public or, like I will say again so you understand, a specific act aimed specifically at Mister Perricone. The latter motive frees us from further concern and anxiety. But once again, I repeat, this may be the act of a singleton whose lost sight of his or her reason. Therefore, I ask you to take care, watch your neighbors, their backs I mean, lock your doors and practice prudent safety measures that would guarantee safety for you and your loved ones.

"Finally, the perpetrator most likely lives on or visits the Island with regularity. Being from the mainland doesn't guarantee innocence. We're questioning day-trippers with the same intensity as we're questioning the local population. If you have seen any strangers here or about, or if you know someone off-Island whose had public or private dealings here recently, we would appreciate an immediate call. This being the case, we would prefer not seeing things get blown out of proportion. Public accusations won't serve our investigation and might impede the progress that we shortly intend to make. So, along with your cooperation and your caution, we ask for your respect and for you to respect the rights of your neighbors. Stay calm, don't take unnecessary risks, go about your business with the knowledge that we, too, have your backs covered. Thanks for coming. Are there any questions?"

A deafening silence filled the hall. Everyone in attendance was trying to decide whether we were safer now or not. Detective Smitts didn't allay our fears, but he did heighten our misgivings about who the culprit might be. No fingers were pointed, of course, but knowing that the killer might be nearby, knowing that the killer might be, in fact, in the next row, smiling wolfishly at the fold, blithely looking around for another lamb to the slaughter, that didn't sit right with any of us.

And after we asked our useless questions and after we got our useless answers, we left the hall like children lost in a throng, alone among many, our fall jackets zipped and buttoned and pulled tight around our vulnerable necks. But, unfortunately, we didn't leave empty-handed. We were holding on to the broken shards of our faith, trying hard to shake out how we could reset all the pieces of trust we once had, trust eviscerated by so much misfortune in so short a period of time.

#  11

My first close encounter with Livinia Grover happened soon after I spied her at the fire station during E.M.T. training over three years ago. She was brand new to the Island, and I fell instantly in love. It was late summer and I was living deep in the shadows waiting for fall to arrive so I could come out of hiding.

I didn't make my initial move on Livinia until after Labor Day a few weeks later, so when I speak about encounters, I strictly mean alone time; she, me and books make three. It was late in the day, just around closing, and I knew she was there, and alone, when I made my not-so-subtle entrance into the Library to get a book about anything.

Any door I pass through isn't about safe passage. You can't be over 6'9" and subtle. A typical door's about my height. I have to slightly bend and sidle to the right to enter most places. I'm always the eight hundred pound gorilla in the room. I knew I had one chance here and I wasn't going to mess it up. Whatever book was lying on the front counter was the book I'd take home. No sense sidling down the narrow aisles like some quizzical Quasimodo. Rather, grab something, make eye contact, show some backbone, and even with your broad slope, remember: you stoop to conquer.

The only book on the counter was a large book of art with hundreds of color reproductions. The cover painting was by Raphael and titled, _St. George and the Dragon_. It's the one that hangs in the Louvre not the one in the National Gallery in D.C. The gallery one shows St. George slaying the dragon with a lance. The dragon looks like a giant, winged rat and is pretty much at the warrior's mercy. The painting at the Louvre shows the rat in action and St. George proficiently swinging his sword back over his shoulder about to cut the rat in half.

As a kid, I wasn't well versed in the art of art and my parents owned only one piece of art, a cheesy reproduction of Winslow Homer's _Gulf Stream_ , which was hung for some impractical reason over the towel rack in our bathroom, just opposite the toilet. For my entire childhood, I crapped before the fisherman who saw life in different terms, as his time on Earth was about to expire. The sharks, in a state of cold-eyed hysteria, were gathering for lunch, but I didn't think they were much of a match for the black man in the battered boat, a boat listing badly, the oars gone, the mast blown off in a squall.

Livinia saw me leafing through the big book on the counter and was pleasantly moving from the card catalogues over to reference where I waited. The only words we'd ever spoken before were, "Hello," and I couldn't think of a better opener. "Hello," I said, and then, fumbling through my wallet looking for my library card, "I'd like to check this book out."

"Oh, I'm sorry. You can't," Livinia replied. Her smile appeared genuine. There was a glimpse of white teeth and a flicker of pink tongue over glossed lips. She was wearing a simple outfit, faded dungarees and a sharp red turtleneck. My eyes rattled and roamed. She also was wearing an attitude. "It's a reference book, and it's there for display purposes only."

For display purposes only? I already said my icebreaker, and I'd nothing left in my game plan but my game face, which, at the moment, was as lonesome looking as Homer's boater. I changed tactics. "My name happens to be Raaaanney Tables," I said calmly, coolly, beaming like a fake fool. I had spared no effort for this occasion. My long, brown hair was combed straight back. I was manicured from head to polished work boots. I, too, sported a pair of dungarees, black, and wore a beige polo shirt, no insignia. I wasn't a company man, hated logos except for Sparta's.

Still, I feared I blew it. Raaaanney? Do I lisp? Do I neigh like a horse? Did I forget to reset the pause button? Luckily, Livinia saved the day.

"I know who you are," Livinia said politely. "But is the name Raaaanney Tables suppose to mean something to me?"

"Perhaps... if you lived here long enough," I said, too late to realize that that was a dumb thing to say. "What I mean is there's not a lot of people here so we know each other on a first name basis."

"Why that's simply familiar of you," said Livinia. "However, I plan on being here a while, mister big-shot-basketball-star."

I paused, mulling over her full court press and my only possible play. "I see you've done your homework, Miss Grover."

"I see you've done yours as well, Mister Tables," said Livinia with no hesitation.

"Yeah, I try."

"As do I. After all, as the only librarian on the Island, it behooves me to know my constituents."

"As a constituent, it behooves me to know my librarian," I replied, starting to feel a dash of confidence, "just as it behooves me to know everyone on the Island."

"I imagine you think being who you are that things come easily for you?"

"If that's a question, then the answer's no."

"It seems to be the case you do, I'm afraid."

I peered down at her, wide-eyed, startled. Livinia was scolding me. We were at last alone and she was already telling me what's what. I was charmed and taken aback at the same time. Livinia wasn't exactly the Marion, Madame Librarian, type. "You're wrong about that," I faintly replied. "Nothing comes easily for me. Never has."

"Are you an artist? Do you collect art?" asked Livinia.

"No. I'm not normally a fan. That's why I'd like to take this book home so I can study it, you know, learn something."

"What you have to learn is that we have rules here."

"Yes, but did you know that there's most likely no one who'll ever look at this book, here, or anywhere else?"

"And why would that be, Mister Tables?"

"Well, Miss Grover, don't you know? We're all illiterate."

Livinia burst out laughing. My hour was made; my day, my week and year. "That may be the case, Mister Tables, but the book you're smudging up with those paws is a picture book and can be enjoyed by anyone whether they read scripture or page titles. Unless you suspect everyone's blind as well?"

"Only one, and he's my brother."

"I already know that and I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Still, I'd like to borrow it for a week or two. I promise not to draw on the Rembrandts or chew on the Chagalls."

Livinia nodded her approval, appeared impressed. "Just in case you thought otherwise, I'm pretty sure I know where you live."

"That's creepy."

"Like you said, I've done my homework."

"Well, I know where you live too, but I promise to return it."

"Okay then," said Livinia with professional grace, "let's have your card."

Putting creepy aside, Livinia lived right behind those book stacks in an efficiency built as an addition to the library decades ago when FLITCO decided a full time librarian was needed to handle the influx of donated texts the Turkeys turned in.

I also knew this initial contact was just the barest beginning of our relationship, and I knew that, like the art book I never returned. It was long overdue. Ironically, I learned to admire that big book and every night after work, before I turned my attention to the history of the Island or read myself into a stupor or walked to Sinbad's for a nightcap or two, I'd sit down with my meal and pour over some of the paintings, admiring the geniuses who had the wherewithal to create something out of nothing. A canvas is something that exists on the purist level just like my feelings for Livinia. They both start out as a yearning and then the artist fills the space with hope, with a forward thinking that's oblivious to tinkering by any shades of fancy. Art is direct and candid, and brooks no intervention. So are my feelings for Livinia. As the artist begins to paint and I begin to hope, the canvas will fill. Waiting will fill.

Unfortunately, it never filled. I waited years too long and couldn't wait any longer. Sure, we said our hellos and chatted pleasantly as we passed on the green and remarked on the weather at the post office and danced around the feelings we were feeling, or the feelings I was feeling and only hoped she was feeling, but I didn't have the bravura to break the ice in a more decisive way. Something was holding me back. Even the books I signed out at the library were signed out in a verbal trajectory that vectored just to the south of formal. I couldn't bring myself to the next level. I retreated deeper and deeper and feasted on the fancy I decried. And the whole time, while there was commerce between us through the texts I signed out and the texts I returned, all on time, all a bit early, I neither offered and she never questioned the book of paintings that sits on my living room table even today.

#  12

There was a smaller than usual crowd at Doc's. It was the night before Halloween and this was her 30th Halloween bash. Doc called the yearly gathering, "a habitual ritual." The soiree was always on Halloween, but now, due to the intractable climate, it was moved up a day. We were sitting around the living room drinking too much champagne and politely chatting about impolite subjects that didn't include Indian weapons and double barrel shotguns. I'm not sure how I fit into this extended cocktail hour, but along with Smiley Webster, Nathan Ogilvie and his wife, Tillie, Livinia Grover, Corey Blackstone - the Island's Casanova - and his new squeeze, Gloria Haynes, my brother, there with his mistress, Julia Beck - the town Miss Lonelyhearts - and the new initiate, Lucius Brett, we made one motley crew.

It was three weeks since the priest blasted the owl and we were feeling glum. The missing hatchet was a quiet but outspoken guest taking up residence in the back of our minds. Uninvited, it became the evening's party crasher, the Garba-troll's murder giving us the willies to the point that I noticed Livinia's hand slightly shaking as the bubbles wobbled to the top of her champagne flute.

Doc was discoursing on her favorite topic, the past. "He said, 'I did the best I could.' He said this weeks before dumping me and walking out of my life. He was earnest about it and there wasn't a reason to forgive him as there wasn't a suggestion he'd leave. I mean, how does a husband pack up and walk out? He had a child that died when she was a speck. What's there to forgive anyway? I may be an old frump, but I feel fine." Adjusting her plump bottom on her desktop next to Livinia's photo, she continued with her tirade. "We were living in Madison, a little east of New Haven. We had a house with a view of the harbor. We had a small boat. My ex called it 'a little putt-putt, a little puddle jumper'. He was just being cute. Wasn't he cute? He was cute all right."

"What a bad man," Tillie piped in, a little drunk herself. "How could he be cruel like that with you expecting? People do ugly things. I know. I made a bad mistake once." She paused, as if surprised by her own admission. Leaning back on the couch, Tillie, smallish in stature to begin with, seemed to shrink in front of my eyes. I knew she was marginalized by her impropriety, but I'd no idea it was a rift that kept on giving.

Nathan, sensing his wife's distress, put his thin, hairy arm around her shoulder and gently said, "It's okay Tillie, give it a rest. That was long ago."

Doc turned and shook a crooked finger at Nathan, making him blush. "Time heals nothing. Anyway not in all cases." and then hesitated thoughtfully, and then spoke again. "Listen up. I'm going to tell you something I want you never to repeat. Is that a promise?" We all nodded in synchronicity. I was a little back from the rest, outside the tight circle of guests in the small great room. I nodded respectfully along with the others from the wall on which I was leaning, not wanting to sit on an uncomfortable stool and make a vertical nuisance of myself.

"I don't know why I'm telling this," said Doc, "but it's been such a hard year. Maybe the camaraderie that comes from misfortune has loosened my tongue."

"Might be the champagne, Maria, that's doing the loosening," Beck joked.

"It's possible, Julia. When Joseph left me, when he perforated my soul and left me alone, I'd no idea what alone really meant. I was only twenty-six. I was seven months pregnant, in medical school and taking a semester off to give birth and...and one can't really do all that by oneself. Hell, the guy just walked out, no-good-bye, no Dear Jane letter. I had a baby who wished to enter this world and, ba-boom, so long, Maria, it's been good to know you. Not to bore you with details, but I really expected to see him again at least at the hospital. He left a forwarding number, this much he did, and I wanted him there so our daughter would one day know there was a coming together, at least for this. And honestly, I was so stupid. I actually hoped her birth would melt some of the ice around his heart and there'd be some contrition; even imperfect contrition, would do. I wasn't in the business of being picky at the moment. And you know what? He did show up. After the baby was born and was battling for life in the ICU, he shows up and tells me how beautiful the baby is and how sorry he feels but has a plane to catch to Cleveland. There's a new job waiting and an old flame. You believe this?"

Doc paused, her eyes burning. "He actually had the temerity to say, 'There's an old flame waiting for me back in Cleveland.' For Christ sakes, who did he think he was?" Doc hesitated again, abruptly stepping back from the heat of her resentment, rubbing away a tear, fighting to retain her dignity and soften the blow that had ripped her life in two. "But, jeez Louise, what's the use of whining. It's been so long and I've moved on and what I can't forgive, I can forget. I can, you know. I've certainly made provisions on that account. Haven't I?"

Doc forced a slight smile, then nodded vigorously, waiting for us to agree with her final question with vigorous nods. And we didn't disappoint. Doc was our champion, our Joan of Arc. Her pain was our pain. Her suffering was ours. We felt the fire of her discord licking at our feet. I was watching Doc's theatrics play out with interest and compassion. I'd seen it before, a number of times. I clearly saw its relevance ascribed on everyone's' shifting faces of which I had a bird's eye view. It may have been uncomfortable, but still not as uncomfortable as that which was stewing away in the back of our thoughts. Nobody wanted to ratchet up the hatchet.

Let's put this _People-watching_ in perspective. It didn't come naturally to me. It was a learned behavior. My height made me feel that everyone I spoke with thought I was going to be overwhelming, like my words were going to be grandiose, equal to my size and take on an airy distinction like somehow I was a member of a pantheon of Gods looking down their snooty nostrils at the mites below who made lots of noise but offered nothing of significance. Eventually, I moved away just enough out of elbow's reach to be something other than what I thought was bothersome. I knew it was a protective measure, like guarding the ball with a hard forearm to the chest. So while I was part of a conversation, I could also step back so as not to attract attention. Neutrality was the key, but even in this act of impartiality, I had to remain aware of every spouted line, no matter how trivial. I reveled in my quietude and decided that to be in touch, I had to appear out of touch, even though I was required by my own sense of self-preservation to do it from a distance. That's why I could be there and not be at the same time. A focused detachment was my ticket to every game in town.

I tried to focus in. My brother sat listlessly on the couch sipping his champagne. He was wearing his Buddy Holly sunglasses and his greying hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Trying to come across as nonchalant, Chip never made the cut. There was a perpetual nervousness about him, a fidgety little something evident in the imaginary rocker he couldn't stop priming. The metronomic tick was still present, in his tapping feet, in the bottom lip he was casually chewing.

To his left sat the notorious Julia Beck, red-haired, lanky, flanked by slight indentations in her sallow cheeks I attributed to a bout with something eating at her resolve. One of the great progenitors of contemporary Island rumor mongering, constituting a no holds barred approach to fabrication seasoned to taste with malicious exaggerations, she was still, without a doubt, my brother's one salvation. She was the only employee of the only _Preparation S Hemorrhoid Crème_ factory in the universe. I've no idea why they chose Flora's Island to construct a little plant where little tubes were filled with all kinds of milky chemicals and a hint of aloe. The single product they made was world famous. Every asshole heard of it. Even the thick residue was used for all kinds of Island projects, though no longer to supplement Island sand traps. And still, when I say she was Chip's salvation, perhaps what I meant to say was that she was also Chip's only salve.

Sitting on another stool sat Lucius Brett in a blue tie and red jacket, for all intents and purposes sleepy-eyed, his arms folded together in some sort of dissatisfaction. Studying him, I was quite sure he was wide-awake and had cased Doc's apartment the moment he entered, on the prowl for any misplaced odds and ends. Being the kind of athlete I used to be, I know acute peripheral vision when I see it in others. Brett took a greedy look-see at just about everything that wasn't nailed down or sewn up.

Gloria Haynes and Corey Blackstone were holding hands on the other couch. Blackstone, older than me by a decade, was a wiry, pompous-looking rake, a notorious womanizer, and raconteur, who held forth nightly from his perch at Sinbad's recounting details of his sexual conquests. He appeared uneasy with the arrangements with Gloria. When was the last time he had held any woman's hand except in reluctant or involuntary restraint? He stroked his black beard with his free hand, a beard fashioned in the contemporary style, full-blown but still smooth and tightly trimmed against the face.

Gloria Haynes, my first girlfriend, was a large woman now with big breasts and an ambiguous waist, her hair dyed blonde with dark streaks done up at some stylist's shack in New London. Always keeping up with the Joneses, Gloria badly wanted off Island but, like so many of us who grow up here, she was unable to make the transition to the other side and make it stick for any appreciable period of time. Two years at the University of Hartford was all she could take, then it was, like me, a quick tour around the country just to say we did it to the rest of the Geese, and back we went to the safety of the Island. Still, Gloria was cagey and could be charming, even astute at times, and she knew better than to hook up with Blackstone. Gloria was another spirit bound by circumstance. We all believed we could take flight whenever the spirit moved us, but the genius of Flora was to keep us _un-moved_ but convinced that our flight response remained intact. And now, squeezing Blackstone's hand, she appeared giddy with happiness as she always was with the advent of a new beau, but seemed to be restraining her satisfaction since Doc's story was unfolding in a way that wasn't to anyone's liking.

And then there was Smiley, a confirmed bachelor, an academic, apparently sound asleep in the high-backed armchair, his denim jacket open, revealing his green, silk Dartmouth tie with the Dartmouth shield. His mouth hung wide open, his shiny dentures emitting a formidable band of light.

Finally, we swing over to Livinia, sitting legs folded to the side on the leather ottoman directly opposite me. No matter how I tried, I couldn't take my eyes off her. In fact, I was trying for some major eye contact, which I sparingly got. Doc droned on and I felt sympathy for her, but she could have rambled on about the approach of the Four Horsemen for all I cared. All I cared was that Livinia was giving me some eye and she knew I was eyeing her back. Livinia was wearing a blazing, pumpkin orange dress that was low cut and revealing. The cleavage was dramatic, surrounded with a black wrap and soft, thick, black belt. There were black stockings on her long, lean legs and black boots. And, to top off the ensemble, a classic, black witch's hat that Livinia cut and pasted together from black poster board. Black on black on orange on black. Well, really, that was too much for me, Raney of the simple tastes. Doc disdained extravagance; she called all excessive trappings, "Elegance gone sour." Livinia took some crazy initiative for the occasion and took me and everybody by surprise.

What also surprised me was how long it finally took for deferential attention to be paid to the basic theme of the evening: the missing weapon and our miserable scalps. We all commiserated with Doc, poured another round, tried to make light of her incessant narrative, but there was an Indian in the cupboard and it was itching to get out. I find it interesting that Smiley was the first to open the door. Smiley was a good guy but a quack just the same. No Pequot arrowhead or rusty cannonball means anything in the true sense of history. You can't pull meaning from artifact alone. The bones of what happened here can be unearthed only by looking at the events as they unfold, by making connections and studying the intent of history not the content. What kind of testimony is a hatchet? Or wampum? In the marrow of history, it's not what the hatchet is but what the hatchet does that counts. The real museum's what's said in the books of recall not what's said on the walls. That's why I plan on finishing my pamphlet in a way that not only impugns the fanfare of what's expected by those who play nice with elapsed time, but also plan on changing the rules of the game. Smiley can go on smiling at the past, but it's a lie. History can be written by losers as well as winners, and the history of this Island's all about loss.

Smiley was startled into consciousness. He was having a nightmare in the middle of Doc's story. As he told it a bit later when our drinks were again refreshed and our seats reshuffled, "I was walking down an avenue somewhat nondescript. It could have been a college campus or a city sidewalk. Then I heard footsteps. I thought I was alone but there were footsteps coming out of nowhere. I remember hearing horns honking, music playing, dogs barking, people talking, but when I turned to see, there was nothing there. So it's all about these footsteps and this Me I'm observing moving forward towards an unclear objective. Oh, did I fail to mention it was night and a very dark one, too? And that it was foggy which only added to the detachment? Well, it was. All of a sudden, I hear those footsteps again getting closer and quickly turn around but the street's empty. There's a cadence to the sound of the steps now, a wind starts picking up and along with the padding foot noise, I hear drum beats. I remember thinking Indian drums, powwow drums specifically, but I could have been mistaken." Smiley swallowed hard, then continued in an effort to be complete, "No, but I don't think so. I've heard those drums before at Mohegan cultural ceremonies and the sounds are quite distinct and uniform, and loud like a bass drum."

"C'mon," Blackstone said, sitting up on the couch now, removing his hand from Gloria's firm grasp, "this is too easy. Your minds playing tricks on you."

"On all of us," interrupted Gloria, reaching for his hand again. "I don't need to be sleeping to think about that tomahawk."

"Hatchet," Smiley reminded, "hatchet. There are differences you know, mostly a contrivance of tribes far removed from the Pequots. All weapons pose a potential threat, but I didn't see anything suspicious at this point. I only heard these methodical footsteps and the rhythmic beat of these aboriginal drums carried on the breeze. Then the sound of the footsteps faded and the volume of the drums increased and I remember starting to walk fast as I could away from the booming sounds. I wish I remembered where I was going, but like quarry my only aim was to escape, not arrive. So I began to zigzag down these narrow alley ways and the faster I walked, the louder the beat became until I navigated down a lane that ended at a brick wall and I'm, for lack of a better term, trapped like a rat. It's funny but I knew it would come to this and I'd have to turn and face the music. I wasn't scared. Are people really frightened in their dreams or are they only frightened upon waking up?

"Smiley, what did you see when you turned?" asked Beck.

"Kind of funny about that. It was definitely the last moments of my dream, I'm certain because after I turned and saw what I saw, I remember nothing else except I was awake and looking at you all. Frankly, what I saw in my dream was in keeping with my pre-occupation with the Island and the early settlers."

"Wasting our time here, Prophet Webster," Blackstone said.

"All right, all right then. Don't laugh. What I saw emerging through the fog was a giant Indian coming hard down the little turn-in. He had on war paint, and was dressed in Indian clothes, deerskin leggings and moccasins and his headdress spoke volumes to me. It wasn't a war bonnet like we traditionally see in the movies, but a beaded headband with colored plumage, which I took for a number of turkey feathers banded together and sticking straight up. His hair was shorn off except for a thick curlicue that formed a large locket right in the middle of his head. It was your typical east coast woodland Indian swooping down on me, that's for sure. But at the last possible moment when only an arm's length away, I clearly identified him as atypical because of his stature. He was colossal, and he seemed to hover just a second before....you know, and his teeth were gritted together in anger and he had his right hand raised and in it I saw, I saw, what else but a hatchet, a sharp, bloody hatchet. And then I woke up."

"That's ridiculous," shuddered Tillie.

"Nonsense," added Doc. "You're making up stories."

"I'm being square with you," Smiley responded. "What's a dream? Certainly not a vision, but figments of our imagination. Is it hard to imagine I dreamed of a great sachem I likened to Sassacus returning to heap big revenge on his white enemies? He was called the 'Tyrant of Connecticut' you know."

"Who was?" asked Gloria, her face tight and colorless.

"Sassacus was. And like him, I'd come back from the grave, too, if I was subjected to such disgrace. He really never was a menace except to the Crown. He was quite large for a Native American, well over six feet tall, and most competing tribes were scared to death of the powers accredited to him."

"For example what?" Brett asked, perking up.

Smiley snorted in surprise, making his dentures shift softly in his mouth. He wasn't use to direct examination. "Well, for example, depending upon the documents, Sassacus was either a brutal savage or a noble warrior. As a savage, he was considered indestructible, an uncanny fiend, a night stalker and phantom-like, but other texts speak of him as courageous and a peace-maker, and a doer of what most conquerors do, which is land acquisition and protecting his people, the Pequots"

I had enough. I popped in, almost spontaneously, almost like there was a jump ball. I couldn't believe I was doing it again, first, defending the owl's right to perch, now this. Now again, wanting Livinia, wanting Livinia to take note like that day at the library when the stacks were oddly in my favor. "He was going to scalp you, Smiley?" I asked.

"I don't know. I didn't bother to ask him."

"Why would he do that? Are you feeling guilty about something?"

"Of course. You know that. It was my museum, my hatchets that were taken."

"Then there it is. It wasn't your fault," I said. "It's no one's fault. Do you deserve having your head stove in? Does anyone? There are a few but Garba-troll wasn't one of them. He was an innocent victim of circumstance."

"Aren't all victims innocent?" Chip asked, a wicked smile laced across his face.

"Hardly," I countered. "Some victims choose to be victims. I see Garba-troll in that light. He didn't watch his back. He wasn't equipped for it. Still, maybe the murderer was practicing on him, a light workout, saving his sharpest message for those who aren't doing right by the Island."

"But Raney, what do you mean? I don't follow," Doc prodded.

"I'm not sure what I mean. What I mean is things happen here like things happen on the other side. It's just that they get magnified because we're cut off. Maybe it was an accident, probably nothing will happen and the other hatchet will turn up like the last."

"Except someone placed the hatchet at the police station door," said Blackstone.

I returned fire. "Maybe someone found it and then dropped it off. I'm not saying he wasn't murdered. He probably was."

"Well he didn't exactly beat himself to death," said Chip, relocking his death ray back in my direction and readjusting himself on the couch.

"Chip, I'm not denying that. There's nothing going on here except what we make going on. Sassacus might have been up to no good, but does anyone feel he was carrying out the command of something beyond what he could control?"

"He was murdered by the Mohawks and his scalp presented to the civil authorities as proof of his death," Smiley said.

"It might have been, I replied. But it might have been someone else's handiwork, someone closer to the Island, perhaps."

Smiley seemed disappointed. "Do you have evidence that Sassacus was killed here? That's one heck of a stretch. There's plenty of research suggesting he was killed in New York."

"Where do you think we are, Smiley?"

"No need to get flip. You know what I mean. It's a stretch."

I tried to remain calm. "I'm only suggesting other possible endings. It happened nearly three and a half centuries ago. Isn't it possible that time alters our perceptions of history, that facts and arti-facts, get bent to shape the will of one perspective?"

"So what does it boil down to? Spit it out," said Chip.

"I can't. The message gets messed up because the messenger gets messed up."

"Try," pleaded Livinia. "We want to understand what you're trying to say." Only Livinia's appeal could instigate me going where I wouldn't normally go. I pushed myself off the wall and into the center of the room. I now had a burning desire to say what I meant in unvarnished terms. "I spent practically my whole life here. This stuff going on isn't like anything I've ever seen. But I think there's something up. I don't know what but it's like a payback, but I'm trying to see it metaphorically, you know. I just think time's ripened for a balancing and that history's a zero sum game and a mini-battle is being played out and the Island's winning."

"You lost me again," Doc said.

"I've believe everything happens for a reason. Even Smiley's dream might have a bottom line. With Sassacus, with the owl, even with the hatchet, there are legitimate reasons for the endgame, but I'm afraid some of us see it as something deeper like there's a haunting going on, like someone's out there punishing us. And I can't tell you what because I don't know. But Garba-troll wasn't a sacrifice and the hatchet's not the work of anything other than a lunatic running around with a chip on his shoulder."

"Funny, brother," said Chip.

"I don't mean to be. There's lots of talk about all this stuff as different from other stuff. But it's not. Not in the context of history. It's just a bunch of stuff coming together and too many of us are seeing it through a darker lens. Some things are just meant to be. I think we call that Fate." I paused for a moment and looked around the room. Every sulky set of eyes was drawn to me, each pair fluttering like moths and I was their only source of light. For just a scant second, I could feel the sanctity of language, and it made me never want to shut up. "Sassacus may have been a part of your fantasy, Smiley, or maybe something more appalling. The pieces don't fit actually, but it makes for one hell of a Halloween story."

"Or maybe not," Livinia said, trying her best to figure out what I couldn't.

"So that's it," I said, running out of steam. "No God, no demon, no beyond the grave callback, no nothing. And that's what I'm trying to say; we may never know the truth. We don't even know who had it in for Garba-troll. I'm not questioning the facts, just the truth behind the facts because the facts don't add up and just because we want them to doesn't mean they ever will. Maybe they weren't intended to. Fate."

There was a long hush in the room. What I said didn't exactly cheer everybody up. Livinia appeared stupefied, looked at the wood floor, and took her witch's hat off and placed it on her lap. Chip stopped rollicking and Beck began stroking his hair in long, light push downs. Brett was wide-eyed and alert, looking distrustfully around the room. Doc took a long drink out of her champagne flute. Gloria and Blackstone squeezed hands hard. Smiley wasn't smiling. My rambling dart, hit an unintended nerve, a bulls eye that landed squarely in the chest of the guests. Thankfully, Beck changed the subject and began talking about the increase in sales of Preparation S and quarterly reports and profit margins. But it was no use and we all knew it.

The topics then turned frivolous, first to the water quality on the Island and if drinks tasted differently because of the chemicals being released from our ice cubes. Next it was on to the new paint job on the _Lily Pusher_ , how we would escape in case of a nuclear attack (we were all to be rescued by nuclear subs, of course.) Even Livinia gave it a go, talking about some of the new collections FLITCO purchased for the library. Finally, back it came to Beck, who offered examples of Island infidelities that were beyond belief and beyond scrutiny.

Before long, we had our coats and hats on and were all bidding Doc a fine good night and congratulating her on another successful bash. Not a thing said tonight had caught our deepest attention, whether it was grounded in details or false implications. How could it? We only paid attention because some of the narratives allayed our fear of the moment to come when we all had to trek our way home. It would have been better to have kept it light with our hostess's ruminations, Blackstone's blather, and Beck's gossip. Smiley's nightmare and my unburdening had no business consuming the time we spent together. It led to nothing good.

And now, the hour was late. It was October 31. Halloween. But, you know, time flies when you're scared shitless.

#  13

I dawdled at the front door. Doc was holding a meeting in the kitchen with Livinia. It was animated and there was plenty of hand wringing and shoulder shaking. Everyone else was long gone, their hesitant footsteps echoing on the cement walkway that bordered the green. I was hoping for a chance to walk Livinia home. It wasn't a far walk, but the shorter the sweeter.

I closed the door and stood on the porch and waited. In the last day, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. I thought the worse was over a week ago when the fog lifted and Indian summer held court. But tonight was cool and damp and another fog came at us, rising out of the earth in distinct torrents like demons meandering through the trees and bushes stalking prey. Doc's porch light was a casual stain. The further I looked away, the darker things got. The village green had no streetlamps and I knew any midnight prowlers would have to rely on moonlight as they did their business under Flora's spell. But looking up, I saw nothing except a vacant suggestion where the half moon ought to have been. The fire station was semi-lit but on the other side of the green, and far enough from Doc's to serve as nothing but an indistinct beacon. So there you have it, the lay of the land as I was about to make my maiden voyage with Livinia. Still, I thought, who needs a compass when all signs point up. Who needs a light when one has the heat.

When Livinia finally stepped outside, she seemed startled to see me, but held herself in check. "Raney, what a surprise," she said. "I thought you'd left." She wore a blue jacket buttoned to the neck, and carried with her the witch's hat. "Why are you still here? The monsters are on the move."

"I figured I'd walk with you, clarify my position."

Livinia giggled. By the small glow of the porch fixture I could just make out that she was pleased by my presence. "I thought maybe you were here to protect me."

"You don't need protection. Anyway, you're a witch."

"Yeah, but not in the sense you mean," Livinia said as she walked carefully down the plank steps. I held tight to the side rail because I couldn't see two feet in front. I looked down at Livinia's back. Even this close, she appeared like a shadow.

Livinia was immediately on the go. I wanted to reach out, but instead I took a couple of long strides and caught up. "Hey," I began, "is everything all right with Doc?"

"Don't worry. She wanted some closure about what she was talking about."

"What kind of closure? I don't follow."

"It's all right. It's just girl talk."

"Doc's been my patron saint since I was young," I said.

Livinia again gave that little giggle that excited me. "She's been my biggest fan too. It was Maria who set me up for the interview. I ask her all the time how she selected me but she just smiles and says it was in the stars."

"In the stars? What does that mean?"

"You know what it means. It means she won't tell me. I was between careers and living on side jobs. I scoured the papers every day for library positions but had no luck and no idea there even was a Flora's Island. I lived next door in Pawtucket but why would any Rhodie know about Flora's Island? I hardly knew about Block Island, if you want to know the truth."

"What did you do before you got your library degree?"

"I had a degree in Women's Studies from URI in Kingston, but I didn't know what I wanted to do with it. I instead became a caretaker for a mansion in Newport. When Hank and I split up after a few bad years, I went back to school in Providence."

I told her a private thought, hoped she wouldn't ridicule. "Got news for you. Flora probably knew about you long before you heard of her. It's how she operates."

Livinia's pace slowed. "I'm not sure what you..."

I stopped her before she could finish. "I'm serious. I sort of see the Island as having a life of its own. At school when we had to personify something, I always picked the Island, and Ogilvie said he could see where I was coming from. He called my connection 'primal'. Sometimes he even called the Island: 'Mother.' You know, 'For richer, for poorer, we little lambs of Mother Flora.'"

"I never heard that before," Livinia said, putting her witch's hat on her head so she could stuff her cold hands inside her jacket.

"It's something Ogilvie unearthed from one of those early tomes about the Island. They're ridiculous but fun to read."

"That's like what you said before about the fiction of local history and who did what to whom and when."

"That's right," I said, setting my own hands deep in my hoodie's pouch. And then, out with it, at last. "You know, I can't help but feel good when I'm anywhere around you."

"Could it be that I bring out the best in you? Or rather, do I bring out the worst?"

"You bring out the _words_ in me. Sometimes I feel you're better suited to be a shrink than a librarian."

Livinia stopped walking. We were now face to face. She tried gazing up into my eyes but all she met was a blotch. " Both jobs serve a need when the practitioners are good listeners. And I have a need to be needed in more than a general way. I had enough serving the rich. There's little they need. But here, little things make a big difference."

"I suppose, but I feel no matter what I do makes little difference and less sense."

"You make as much sense as anyone," Livinia said. "You did creep me out when you mentioned Franklyn. It's unnerving. Anyway, for the most part, I agree with you."

"About?"

"You talked about his murder not being a coincidence. That means there's a destiny apart from what we think."

"Sure, but it's not malicious. That's why I'm indifferent about the other hatchet. If there's a plan here, it's human and if there's a message, it's by a wacko who thinks he..."

"Or she..."

"Or she has a higher calling. Do you think we've seen the end of this?" I asked

"No."

"Neither do I."

We continued walking carefully down the sidewalk around the green, taking baby steps so we wouldn't fall over the rail. It was a straight shot down the little slope from Doc's to the library and I wasn't in a rush to get there. I wouldn't even have minded if Livinia tripped and fell my way. And I also thought that maybe when she stopped, and we blindly gazed into each other's eyes, that she hoped I'd take one of her cold hands in mine.

"Raney, tell me about Sassacus and the book you're writing."

"It's not a book, it's just some ideas I slapped together that rewrites the history of the Island from the viewpoint of the victims. I'm writing it because of what I found when I came back."

"C'mon. You can't keep me in suspense. What's your secret?"

"If you want, I'll take you to Barton's Hill and show you. It's an Indian mound, but it shifted my thinking on what I was planning to write. I think I found Sassacus."

"What he say to you?" Livinia asked, again giggling.

"I'm being serious. I think I found his remains, a part of his belongings, sort of."

"But," said Livinia, "you said artifacts don't account for much."

"Relics are part of the larger pie. What I found's another way to look at things."

"This I have to see."

"You will; I promise. The library's closed on Mondays."

"Today's Monday and it's Halloween. I'm staying put. I promised Maria."

"What she have to do with what you have to do?"

"She's my friend too, you know. She has a bad feeling about today and wants me to stick close to home."

"Maybe," I said, "but what if Garba-troll was killed in the village and towed to Barton's Hill? Nowhere's really safe."

"If the fog keeps on it might be too dangerous to go out anyway," Livinia said. "And anyway, I don't think I'm in the mood for some great adventure."

"You might be for what I have to show you."

Sorry Raney. I'm better safe than sorry.

"That's fine. I promised to carve pumpkins with my mom and Chip. You were my ticket out though I'd give up anything to show you around."

Livinia seemed disappointed. I heard a rush of air. "It's not nice being consigned the role of convenient excuse."

"I don't mean it like that. I hope you get the idea of how I'm feeling, how you always make me..."

And before I could finish and without a hint of warning, a sharp report issued from behind us on the green. Livinia grabbed me and clutched my hoodie with both hands. I grabbed her back, held her firm, and quickly turned my head toward the sound. What we heard seemed like metal on metal, a thick scraping like something hard had just been passed along the iron railing.

"What was that?" Livinia whispered, gasping for breath.

Now, welded together like Siamese twins, we slowly shuffled around to face whatever was coming out of the fog. Livinia still had an arm crooked part way round my hip. My arm was locked firmly around her shoulder.

"I can't see anything," I said, trying to remain calm. "Probably a raccoon got himself stuck in a garbage can."

Suddenly, the noise came again but there was a cadence to it this time, like three or four harsh clangs and then it quickly stopped. Livinia cringed with each clang and then shook her head. "No... See. It's more distinct, a sound like chains being smashed together on the far side of the green."

"Maybe, but the noise is closer than you think. It's being muffled by the fog."

"Don't say that. It's more grating than dull, and more specific then the last one."

I remained unimpressed. "You're describing something like buoys in the Race when the waves crash over them, but it wasn't like that." Then the sounds, like rolling thunder, suddenly came a third time, absolutely closer than even I thought and with what I was sure was deliberate intent.

Livinia let go of my hoodie and backed up a giant step. I wanted to leave her and go see what was making the noise. I was surprised that my heart wasn't pounding and I didn't feel any fear. What I felt was anger at the joker playing this game, disturbing us in the middle of a more important game. We weren't far from the library porch. As the sounds came again, a fourth vibrant chat of metals, close to the edge of the mist and very close to us, we turned and bolted across Calypso, reaching the steps of the library and the safety, if one could call it that, of its little porch light. The fog was so thick our retreat left a trail of grey puffs like a car with an exhaust problem. The puffs quickly dissipated among the larger swirls.

"I'm right about the where," I said, relieved to have a back against a wall, "but you're right about the what. That was no animal noise in the dark. Those were noises made on purpose. Someone purposely smashing things together for us."

"Stop frightening me, Raney, please. But it can't be."

"Sure it can," I replied with a decisiveness dedicated to the proposition that Saint George was on the scene. "I told you there's lots of wackos here. First, we're safe so whoever's doing this has to step out of the dark if he wants to start trouble. That's not going to happen." I once again put a brazen arm around Livinia's trembling shoulders and pointed my free arm, like a rifle, at the billowing shrouds. She leaned her forehead softly into my chest. "Secondly, if it's the hatchet man, there's no way he'd give us warning like that. Those noises were to scare not to hurt."

"But what if there's, you know a method to the madness? What if it's a warning?"

I scoffed at the possibility. "Warnings are good, but unless it was one of Doc's guests, no one knew we'd be here. Besides, what did we do to provoke anyone?"

"Raney, what did Franklyn do?"

Then the rattling came again but this time we both agreed it seemed more disparate, like a hurricane without an eye, and was moving away in a different direction. "Are you all right?" I asked. "You want me to stay for a while just in case?"

"I'll be fine," said Livinia, visibly shaking but keeping it together. "Just wait till I get my keys out and I'm safe inside."

"Absolutely," I said, and, then, waiting for her to find her keys, I realized her hat was missing, having fallen off in our mad dash to the library. I also realized something else, something more important. I realized that this was it, this was what years of waiting had come to. Livinia seemed to know it too and, having fished out her keys, raised herself on her toes as I bent down, allowing me to part her thick, long hair with the tips of my fingers, and kiss her lightly on her forehead. Livinia then looked up at me, an assessment having already been made, moved her face towards me, then her body. I embraced her, then we kissed, just for a split second, stopped, then kissed again harder and longer this time, eventually, reluctantly, moving apart.

Looking deep as the sallow light allowed into Livinia's face, I saw her smiling. "Have fun with your pumpkins," she said and unlocking the library door, went inside.

I waited till I heard the firm click of the locks. Without hesitation, I sprang across the street and into the dense fog. "Who the hell's out there?" I bellowed. "You want me, here I am!" I hopped the iron railing putting me square into the ring. I felt immense, ramrod straight, taller than a sycamore. Armed with Livinia's imprint, why not? I was packing an indestructible weapon. A powerful ire had overtaken me. Not anything Chip had ever said, or Harold, or my disgust with my own personal failings had ever put me over the top like this. There was no prerequisite to my life anymore, no frailty, no turning back. Livinia was finally, maybe, almost, practically mine. That hope was more than enough. There was power in that thought, that image. And then the scraping came again, very near. I froze, but the indecision lasted no longer than my remembrance of that kiss upon her lips. I inched cautiously forward. I could hardly see my outstretched hands as I moved ahead, but I knew that since I waded so deep in, this trip was only going one way.

Now I heard what I thought was thick, heavy breathing. I braced for an assault. I made two fists and waited for any sign of movement. I was ready to charge, to defend. Then I heard the monster sneeze and quickly relaxed, laughed out loud. There was a sudden movement. I sensed someone close by, not more than a dozen feet away.

"Who the hell are you, asshole?" I snarled, "Sneeze again, so I can find you. How about a cough this time? Who are you?" I repeated, not expecting any reply.

But then: "My mortality's already in jeopardy," a voice softly admonished. "It doesn't need your intercessions to further it along."

"Be careful, man; I'm armed!" I said, taking a small step back.

"Raney, is that you?" A deep voice rang out from the gloom.

"Back up, I'm warning you," I said, waiting for something very mortal to emerge.

And from that churning froth of grey, from that mottled mouth of mist, like a reluctant stage performer who's chucked out past the curtain for the audience to see... Out shot our gracious and reverent Father Ronald Jacobs.

#  14

When the priest sneezed I knew at once I could be at ease. Whatever was beyond the pale was certainly human and certainly smaller than me. My first impulse was to attack, but my first impression was a quizzical consternation bordering on contempt.

The priest looked as if he descended from a band of low lying clouds. I don't know why I felt it was more like a holy descent rather than a motion forward, he was about as principled as your typical whiskey priest, but I was starting to believe anything at this hour. Except of course, whatever crap he was going to hand me about his own midnight rambling. "I didn't mean to shock you," the priest said with sober consideration. "I've had trouble sleeping. I've taken to quiet reflection of the soul to soothe and replenish."

"Quiet reflection? Is this what you're calling your late night wanderings? Scaring your parishioners is no quiet anything." I was angry but had to keep myself in check. After all, as I was a failed Catholic, he was still a man of the cloth, even as he was a frayed father, an owl killer, a faith stealer.

"I'm truly sorry," he said. "My feet take me wherever my soul needs to be."

"If your soul needs to unwind, maybe your feet need a better navigation system. You could've been hurt. Or worse, you could have hurt someone."

"I hardly think I'm of such a disposition," the priest said, taking a few, short steps in my direction. He seemed not to be alone. There was something tall and intrusive moving along by his side. There was also a faint glow emanating from his chest as if his heart had cracked open and a dim beam of light was let out into the dark. "Why don't you come closer where I can see you better?"

"Why don't you stay where you are, Father. And what's that standing next to you?" I asked, although I knew right away what it was that he was dragging around under the lid of fog. He was supporting or maybe he was being supported by a large metal cross, the same cross that hung on the chapel wall and overlooked the altar from which he gave his tedious sermons. The cross was mostly copper-plated and some semi precious stones were inlaid along the vertical spine. The cross was bigger than I imagined, bigger than the priest himself, and heavy looking.

"In the spirit of love and forgiveness, I bear this crucifixion," he said passionately. "It's the manner of my redemption and the means to remove my flock from mortal danger." With great effort, he raised the cross in front of his face to show his sincerity. He held it there for an impossible while, struggling and groaning, then lowered it slowly over his back to the ground, the weight of such transitioning obviously painful and mind numbing. He snorted like a bull from the exercise and swayed sideways before the natural ballast of his big, fat ass took control.

I was surprised by the absurd maneuver, the penitential protocol, the futile attempt to personalize his suffering through such crazy exertion. "I don't see what you're driving at? You may be trying to impress, but who could be impressed by this?"

"I wasn't hoping to impress you. It's my sacrament, part of my vow, to cleanse my people and shepherd them back to health."

"We're not sheep. We don't need shepherds."

"Then, look at it as my cross to bear. In light of the owl's demise, I would hope you'd understand. As said in John, 'By myself I can do nothing; I judge only as I hear, and my judgment is just, for I seek not to please myself but him who sent me.'"

"I don't understand. You think you were sent by God to judge us, to save us? Is that why you shot the owl?"

"You aren't aware of the value of ritual. There's power in such experience. Maybe you should come to mass one day."

"To be judged or saved?"

"Closer."

"What spirit are you invoking banging that metal stick all over? You'll raise the dead and scare the sleeping."

"Closer," he said again, his voice booming.

"In either case, you got our attention now, so what are you going to do with it?" I'm sure the priest must have looked surprised by my disrespect. It was hard to tell. "Raney, I don't wish to make a hasty retreat, but I must be getting on with the night. This crucifix is heavy. Getting it over the railing took some doing and I apologize for heightening your fears and the fears of the young lady you were with."

"That young lady happens to be Livinia, one of you clients."

"Not mine, my son, we are all parishioners in God's temple. We all serve the same God for the same reasons."

"I'm not sure I can serve in the manner you mean."

"We're all frightened, not just of circumstance but every second we don't take God into account. My minor lapse was a lapse of perspective, not of judgment."

"You didn't have to kill the owl," I said bitterly.

"I acted without propriety. There were people who could have been hurt, but I held to the moral imperative."

"You could have been held in jail. If it was anyplace else, you'd be busted, cloth or no cloth. It was a stupid thing to do."

"You've every right to castigate my behavior, but in the long run, what I do will spare many more from harm. But now I must be going. I must."

"Father, where are you going at this hour?"

He didn't answer. The priest turned away and disappeared into the fog like he was swallowed by some pallid jaw that unhinged to usher in a morsel. I heard the cross bouncing and mewling like a stubborn child as he dragged it along the cement path.

I waited till the sounds of his steps evaporated, particularly listening for the clang of the cross on the iron railing he no doubt was attempting, with great difficulty, to surmount. Eventually, I made out those final few tolls in the far distance near the post office. Then a sense of strong relief took hold. Where Calypso split in half around the village green and then came back together, I turned left towards Deep Harbor and the Meadowlands. I could feel the earth shudder like an electric shock. Then I felt a powerful surge like a bolt of lightning had knocked me off my feet. We assign names to Hurricanes. Why couldn't we do the same for lightning? This bolt would have been called Livinia had it been the real deal. Hell, it was the real deal. Everywhere I looked, every step taken, was a look and step towards wonder.

Then my thoughts turned dark and I wondered again about that cross and about the priest's insistence that it merited symbolic significance, that it carried more than just molecular weight, that its spiritual density could be measured in the accrued pain he absorbed with each moment he waddled around with that ignominious piece of metal wrapped around his girth like an extra helping of his own sense of self-sacrifice. For some reason, the priest and his cross reminded me of the Bosch painting, _Christ Carrying the Cross_. I'm reminded of it because of the surrounding masks, the faces Bosch surrounds Jesus with, the placid Jesus, eyes closed, taking in the corset's needles and the heft of that monumental wooden monster. The disfigured faces, I figured, were the faces that the priest saw all about him, Geese grotesqueries beyond his most masochistic comprehension, faces that loomed out, mocking and distrustful. Bosch's creatures could only be contemporized in the unparalleled world of some madman who felt underappreciated. His maniacal mortification started with the owl and was moving up the distempered chain of his command. Where did the priest think he was going anyway? Golgotha? He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. There were no souls left to save here. I'd much prefer he flagellate himself before his whole congregation.

As I finally reached Edwards' shop and bounded up the steps to my apartment, I was happy to be alone. It was like I was hoarding gold coins, and I couldn't wait to count them one by one. I was about to turn the knob of the screen door when I spied through the fog a package wedged in the corner where I kept my Schwinn. I brought it into the house, and flipped on the lights in my modest living room. The package was a simple brown bag, oddly unmarked, a little damp, a little soiled, and had a thin twine holding it together. At first, I thought of the missing hatchet but the shape of the package was rectangular and delicately wrapped.

Moving to the kitchen, I pushed aside some books and put the package on the Formica counter next to the microwave, opened my cabinet, pulled out my bottle of Jack and poured myself a nice glass. I took it down in a celebratory swig, a token to my new status as the maybe boyfriend-lover to my very own Miss Livinia Grover.

Then I turned my attention to the package. In a decade, I never received any kind of delivery. It felt like a small book. Maybe something from Ogilvie. He was always showering friends with gift books. Still, I doubted it was Ogilvie. The calendar was wrong. It wasn't Christmas, it wasn't my birthday, it wasn't Easter, it couldn't have been Halloween candy, and it wasn't addressed or postmarked. I should have known: Flora. She couldn't leave well enough alone. And, when I plucked the contents I was astounded to find the portrait of Livinia, the same one as the one on Doc's desk. In an instant, all my answers became questions, all my certitudes were turned upside down.

Another bolt of lightning seemed to knock me to the ground. I'd call this one Cassandra because I should have known better, because I should have listened more closely to the dirty little snakes all around. What was left to do? I retrieved my glass, poured a double shot of Jack, fell back on my couch, and passed the first phantom hours of Halloween in inebriated disbelief.

#  15

Harold Tables had a mean streak as wide as Rosabella was long. He could be verbally abusive to Lucy. I recall the worst of his poorly designed tropes, recycled whenever the need arose to blame her for his many flaws, but I recall them with a sort of insider's affection because the images created in my impressionable mind may have been among the first to teach me to respect the audacity of language and its ability to cast aspersions in powerful ways: "That stupid, lazy bitch of all bitches!" was one of his favorites, "That bloated bloodsucking leech!" was another. Then to top it off, his signature slam to keep Lucy at bay. "Well, if it isn't that ugly queen bee of Barren Island!" It was all amazing stuff, especially when considering it came from a man whom was incapable of seeing things in any other shade than black and blue.

It wasn't only Lucy either. When we were growing up Harold preyed on Chip mercilessly, mostly after he was blinded. On me, however, he'd fawn one day and fume the next. On me, he placed all his hopes and a minute later, sensing its impossibility, he'd drop the other shoe and I'd get a swift kick in the ass. I now suspect his dual approach was because he knew I was, at times, his ticket to something more substantial in his paltry existence than clamming, weeding, and house painting, and at other times, I was his express to a furious shame he couldn't overcome. I'm not even sure Harold knew what he was doing, knocking up Lucy when she turned forty, using Chip's infirmity as an excuse to haze, using my height as a weapon even as he offered lip service to my budding stardom.

It's hard to accept the facts, even as it whacks me in the head. To imagine a father so bitter at life's ugly turns. I try to turn the other cheek, avoid the constellation of evidence that burns like a meteor shower, searing my eyeballs with obvious truths the same way the acid drilled holes in Chip's, blinding him forever. It's not easy to talk about this breach. Flora's Island was a hard place to sustain a viable existence, but the maintenance of a shared vision, a harmonious marriage, is impossible here unless you tamp down your expectations enough so they can't sprout willy-nilly again: Come to an accord with yourself when you first arrive. Wade out to the brink of the wild Race in your hip boots and scream, taunt the Gods, throw rocks at the towering waves, kill your dreams, but come to an accord with yourself. Otherwise, you'll expire like Louie, like Harold, like Shep, like Carl, like so many others who couldn't confront their yearning heart. Then go out and find yourself a mate, a mate of equal ferocity, a mate who came back from the brink like you, scrubbed clean of expectation by the rimy, salt spray and limited returns of Island life. Ready, ready for two to make one.

I remember one awful night when we were in our early teens, Harold burst into Chip's room and busted every vinyl album that hadn't been placed back in its envelope and sorted back on its shelf. Chip had a sizable collection of records. He loved music, "I could see the notes," he'd confide. "I could feel the vibes." Harold had a different take. What Harold saw was noise and clutter. What Harold felt was a deconstruction of himself. Like adults who can't accept change, an organizing faculty is what props them up. Chip's room, with its constant musical go round, offered clear evidence that Harold's life would be a terminal nightmare.

There was this as well, Lucy not so secretly donated to her son's collection of rock and roll with money she sporadically earned tending to some blue blood mansions. It added to the friction between my parents and between Harold and Chip. It was another dose of vitriol slung into Chip's eyes. Because Lucy played favorites, Harold was the big loser which meant Chip would suffer grave consequences. Every record smashed across the highboy (another Turkey discard found at the dump) was a victory against maternal affection, every taunt was a just interdiction against sloth, and every piece of furniture Harold adjusted to insidiously create a minor havoc for Chip which usually was accompanied by primal yips and yowls as he stubbed a toe or banged an elbow, had the edifying effect one expected to see from a medieval inquisition.

"I have to teach you a lesson, son," Harold said that particular day when Chip finally told off Harold.

"Get out of my room!" Chip demanded.

"You don't understand," Harold snapped back, "I need to have some order around our home."

"Busting up my albums? What'll that teach me?"

"It'll teach you discipline, help you pay attention. We won't be here forever."

"My condolences," said Chip, rifling back from his rocker, his enmity flowing pure and clean. Then, looking up regionally, into my father's maddened face, he began to sing slowly and very off key from a classic Stone's song: _"Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste..."_

"Don't mock me or, blind or not blind, I swear I'll knock you down," roared Harold.

" _Been around for a long long year, stole many a man' soul..."_

"Shut it or I swear..."

"Go ahead," said Chip, "Make your day."

Harold had a decision to make. Smashing records and making minor cosmetic alterations was one thing, but this was a threat to his dominance. Still, if Harold so much as touched Chip, I'd intervene. Even at this age, I was fourteen, I towered over Harold. He could do what he liked with me, but my brother was mine, his new life a bi-product of a tragedy I created. Things were bad enough, and Harold knew it too. Knew that the acid should have been disposed of properly but he just plain forgot and left it on the porch railing. Harold was as much at fault as I was at fault. He knew he'd never win back Lucy's heart. Somewhere deep down in his seedy little mind, a mind thinking little more than basic thoughts about his fading manhood and the flimsy yield of a life spent scraping by, scraping a putty knife against the edges of trim work, scraping long rakes through the bottom of mud flats, scraping geese shit off mansion lawns, Harold knew he was in defeat. His only recourse would be another of his set of rules, rules that kept him from being overwhelmed by failure, rules that kept the creatures of a creeping inevitability barely locked in their splintered cages, rules that even his own father despised.

"Put your damn stuff away," Harold at last admonished, his fury spent. "Keep yourself groomed. Crack a window once in a while. Be on time for dinner."

"Will do, skipper," said Chip, pleased with himself.

And finally, upon leaving, a gesture not exactly conciliatory, but the best Harold could muster before heading on out for a reprieve at Sinbad's, "We're not bad people but I swear, you can't tell that from being in this hellhole."

Of course, on a more macrocosmic level, the Island, being a limited edition hellhole, offered few excesses for the Geese besides Sinbad's. We gave it our best, but our best was tempered by the lack of subsidy and substance. We rarely questioned the parameters of our subservience to the blue bloods and, as a result, we rarely questioned the parameters to our own futile, make that _feudal_ , diminishment. We always believed we provided for ourselves and our families when, in fact, provisions had already been made and guidelines put in place for many generations, hence the advent of FLITCO.

I'm sure this accounted for some of the psychological disparities and the tension running pell-mell across the Island. This kind of paucity of spirit puts a taint on our expectations. Traditions are the mainstay of any community and traditions on Flora's Island were traditionally low budget soirees but we had no choice but to make the most of it. When it was squid season, usually around April, we got together at night by the ferry terminal at Bottoms-Up Harbor and by the docks bordering Deep Harbor and harvested a mighty trove of future fried calamari. We'd all bring nets and beer and large flashlights and round up the squid with broad strokes and a flourish of carnal commentary, usually Julia Beck inspired. If squid wasn't part of your diet, then later in the season there were softball games on the local diamond hosted by the American Legion. This was in the spring as well, but sometimes there'd be games played in early summer and would be accompanied by a picnic lunch and after, the legion band would play off key and in dis-synchronicity some our favorite patriotic ditties. If that wasn't your thing, then there were FLITCO-sponsored fireworks at Alister Airport for the Geese on July 4th and a more bombastic display, of course, at the Crescent Club for the Turkeys.

You could try but you couldn't be at two places at once, not that the summer guards at the small, summer guard station along Calypso Avenue would let you through anyway. You needed a special card on your windshield or a damn good excuse like, "I'm doing some yard work for the Rockefellers," or, "I'm setting up chairs for a wedding at the DuPont's." Sometimes, if you wanted to go fishing for trout at the three mini ponds on the east side, or cast for blues at Castle Point, a fiver would do. The guards had as much _savoir_ - _faire_ as the life guards at that scum-surfed, spithole, Little Carnamount Beach.

Still, there was one remarkable event I wouldn't let slip. Once, a few summers ago, Warner Brothers filmed part of a well-financed, star-studded movie on the Island in a waterfront mansion directly overlooking Deep Harbor. Lots of Geese became extras in the film, and most of us who auditioned got parts. You had to really be lame, literally, or disfigured, figuratively, to miss this once in a lifetime chance to make movie history and there really were some Geese that were rejected. Shep was rejected because he was lame, figuratively, and Chip was rejected because he was disfigured, literally. Sometimes life goes like that, in a complete one eighty, and you just have to roll with the punches. "It is what it is," I told Chip upon him receiving the bad news.

The extras were constantly on the go. Some were asked to walk casually, but on cue, across the broad mansion porch; some were summoned to play croquet and badminton in period costumes on the big lawn as the cameras panned its way down towards Deep Harbor. Some were cloistered in parlors and had to smile, make small talk and drink tea in fancy cups with their pinkies in dainty mode. A few were asked to attend a funeral and look sad and pretend to shed a tear.

When the movie came out the following spring, I found it weird that we all had to catch a ferry to New London if we ever were to catch a glimpse of ourselves on the silver screen. "Thanks for nothing," I thought, as I paid good money to see something I'd never have seen in the first place. Yet, it was more than just nothing because even I was hired for a couple of days as a result of presenting the industry with a major challenge. I was sort of an oddity in the pack and the assistant Second Director seemed to wrack her brain finding a moment for me in the film. I couldn't be given more tradition roles as played by the many dozens and dozens of extras they hired. As one subordinate, an assistant to the assistant's Second Director put it: "You're too tall for the camera; you overfill the space. The lens works in balance with proportionality, and you'll attract attention away from the principals and skewer the scene."

Consequently, it was decided that I would look fine from way in the distance, "a cosmic shot," they called it. I was handed a large, grey frogman's outfit, flippers, goggles, and a wooden rifle and my task was to climb out of the waves onto an offshore skiff, crouch in firing position (like I knew what that was,) and pretend I was taking pot shots at the three principals that were walking along the long jetty. I was confused and wanted to know if I was to pretend taking pot shots or I was to really take them and the answer was simple. "It doesn't matter; just don't drown."

Luckily for me and for posterity, my little moment in the limelight didn't end up on the cutting room floor. The film editors recognized my acting talent when they saw me pull myself onto the skiff and flap around like a big marlin. My little scene lasted about fifteen seconds but to me it seemed like fifteen minutes. When I finally saw the flick one night in New London, alone with my bag of buttered popcorn and large Pepsi, all I could see was the top half of this tiny, rubberized Lilliputian holding what looked more like a limp little marshmallow twig than a rifle way off in the sun-soaked horizon.

However, the best part of this whole Hollywood exchange program was the catered food, served under an interconnected shell of giant blue and white tents on the great lawn of another great estate that was adjacent to the shoot. It was the Geese's one chance to hobnob even-steven with their favorite celluloid heroes whose gentle touch of condescension was authenticated by a gracious modesty that made all us Geese feel part of something much bigger than what this commotion was really all about: the costly conversion of a really thoughtful book into a really insipid, uninspired movie.

But about the food. The great grub didn't discriminate or lose its _joie de vivre_ as we filled our plates over and over: foot-long hot dogs and all-American burgers were available twenty-four seven. They were eaten by the stars as well as by all us movable parts, at long, brightly-covered, communal tables. "All for one and one for all," I thought, food being the great equalizer, the common denominator of all things. But this carnivale was anything but common. It seemed to be continuous. Local lobsters were carted over daily and baked and boiled for all the landlubbers. Oysters and cherrystones were opened and carelessly slung down the gullets of the summer hoity-toity and the actors and the production line crew and the extras alike. Arugula, mesclun, and endives spearheaded the salads. Romaine and iceberg were out of the picture. Thick, prime cut steaks and chops were grilled non-stop. The smell of garlic and onions was pervasive. Striped bass was a fan favorite. There was even shark and grilled tuna.

Dessert killed: there was amaretto _crème brûlée_ , vanilla bean and peach ice cream topped with a raspberry puree (the chef called it _coulis de framboise_ ), chocolate mousse, fresh, homemade pies and many other confectionary spectaculars that put the G in gluttonous. Of course, Father Jacobs made his daily rounds. Without a doubt, he was in his private heaven, the true G-man of the God squad, the bard of the lard squad, perfectly tailored to the role, policing the heavily-laden tables with avaricious gusto tinged with a coating of holy grace.

I became a big fan of the principal actors during the shoot and I, also, with a hint of private embarrassment, looked forward to seeing the visiting retinue of stars and starlets and moneymen and writers and producers and editors and media magnates and hustlers that kept appearing out of nowhere and onto the set to mingle, mix and intertwine, a veritable Who's Who of celebrated, inebriated, excoriated guests, wayward travelers, room-workers, home wreckers, wannabees, and has beens. Still, despite my petty pride and my grim sense of alienation, as a consequence of my participation in the movie, I was the recipient of an $80.00 check that I received in the mail not long thereafter. It was the best two days of work I ever spent.

Unfortunately, when Hollywood blew into town, another tradition took hold: _Blow_. Without warning, cocaine arrived, became a quick staple, and both Turkeys and Geese, both young and old, discovered another avenue of common purpose. Jameson groused that he heard there were drugs being sold on the green. Ogilvie reported there was nose candy circulating in the school amongst the older kids. It was rumored that Sinbad's was selling more than just liquor and light meals, that the bathroom was always overflowing with customers, and funny things were going on out back. There was even gossip that bags were being sold out of a few storefronts and even in the homes of some of our more reputable Geese. I found the latter hard to believe and suspected Julia Beck was at it again, but I was mistaken. Doc reported a rise in general dependency and a decline in general health. The cocaine business flourished and more Islanders than ever had to be rushed by ferry to the hospital.

Shep's habits started to become obvious again around that time, and just before he took the plunge a few years later, he looked like a ghost of his former self. I tried getting him some help but he said to, Leave me the fuck alone!" and that he was working it all out. I could have been more proactive. The magnitude of my insistence should have been at a level five, the highest possible for such a human quake as Shep because he was clearly crumbling to pieces. But he never listened to solid advice. He was another tough, Island bastard. He even said he was turning to God and near the end, began attending the priest's masses and endured his blistering sermons.

I told him that was a dangerous practice. The priest had, as of late, become nutty and his sermons were shrill calls for sinners to redeem themselves before it was too late. If Shep only knew that his end was near, he might have gotten out of that sleaze shack and gone to see Doc for a truly redemptive remission. Maybe, if on the night in question, I had gone with him, but he said he was going to his aunt's house in Hartford. I was with my family at the barracks and wouldn't have gone with him anyway unless I had known he was so far gone. Had I only known.

#  16

It was All Hallows' Eve and I didn't like the way Chip held the carving knife. It was too cavalier. When we carved pumpkins, Chip would hold the stem with one hand and assault the body with the other. He'd thrust the blade in and up, sticking it a deep one in the ribs. Then Chip would twist the blade scoring an eyehole, a nose, part of a mouth. He'd then repeat the process with another jab, the knife penetrating the soft flesh, often working its way to the back. He'd incrementally squeeze and turn the top handle. Sometimes a cruel scar would be etched along the vertical rib lines. As of late, Chip preferred to plunge and recant with no strategy other than achieving a sublimated parricide, or more to the blade, fratricide. His was the only jack-o'-lantern that could see out of the back of its head. Perhaps he was making a representational point. He couldn't see out of the front of his own and was trying to kill off his creation in a fit of jealousy. Chip was no great talent but he had a gift for dissembling, so we had to be careful. It was Lucy's fate, and mine, to make sure Chip wouldn't go a step further and disassemble.

Not only did Chip's pumpkins have more eyes than a four-eyed flounder, but his finished product had a wealth of mouthy incisions befitting Louie himself. Chip's monstrosities also spit a flow of orange droolzicles, shredded mush and seeds, because we never extracted the meat. Inevitably, our jack-o'-lanterns caught fire and smoked in a most delicious way soon after we stuck candles in their base and set them on the stoop. Trick-or-Treat was a team event. Lucy never let us roam without her because Chip was blind by the time we could have gone alone and I was stuffed into my Frankenstein costume and wouldn't dare. Harold always thought the getup appropriate and enjoyed seeing me in my ragged clothes, my exposed skin painted green with paint that took me a week to scrape off. The worst were the crystal door knobs affixed to my temples by wires that crisscrossed my scalp and set in place under a woman's wig, shorn off into a flat top. To add to my humiliation, I wore Harold's work boots which made me flop around like a drunk. But my parents were clueless. They clearly didn't comprehend their jolly height of holiday fashion for their middle offspring was a low point, an unexpected comeuppance and a comedown, an unintentional penance for being outrageously tall and at fault for heaving that fatal jar.

Chip's Halloween attire was even more fright specific. He was forced to wear black eye masks, publicly defacing his defacement further. There'd be Zorro one year, Batman the next, and then the Lone Ranger. There was even a green phase - Green Lantern, Green Hornet, Green Arrow. And finally, just before Chip said enough and slammed his bedroom door shut in a brazen act of finality just before he turned sixteen, we had Harold's Tour de Force, his own point of no return, turning his son into the Phantom of the Opera for one last whirl around the Island.

I was seated at the kitchen table waiting for Halloween dessert. Lucy had made a pan of apple bread for her two sons. The Swanson frozen fried chicken dinner was the main course, but it was the apple bread that set the festivities in motion. It was overcooked and had a shine of black rubble that I silently objected to but forced down on account of it being Lucy's best. She was never more than a functional cook, and looked at the idea of food preparation as a painful obligation ever since Baby Girl was born dead. Harold had to take over the reins after that and his epicurean range on our old Kenmore consisted of all the great things one could do with mayonnaise, ketchup, butter, mustard and pepper. Luckily, Harold was a consummate grill master and he knew whatever deficit was starch inspired could be made up for in chicken, fish, steak, and pork. If he could have made up for his other deficits it would have been a boon for Lucy. But he couldn't make it happen and by the time he died of a heart attack, my parents were about as close as the opposite ends of the Island.

Chip couldn't see the unusual cast of the apple bread but could smell the frizzled applesauce and flaked cinnamon on top and made a fuss about it once he was given a slice. "This sucks. Got any ice cream?"

Lucy was in the kitchen and didn't hear his whine. "Clamp it," I whispered, trying to keep Lucy out of earshot. "Just put some whipped crème on top."

"But I want ice cream."

"Stop bitching. Tell mom dinner was awesome."

Chip was quiet for an unsteady moment, then he looked up at me through his glasses. "Hey, Raney," he said with rare interest, "what's this I hear about Livinia?"

"Nothing."

"Julia said you walked her home after Doc's party. You have breakfast in bed?"

"None of your business."

"C'mon, space cadet, we're brothers. Spill it."

"Julia should shut up. And where's Julia anyway? I would've expected..."

"Get this. She had an emergency at the factory. She called and said a porcupine got into the plant and jumped into the mixing tub."

"A Porcupine? Never saw a porcupine here."

Chip was adamant. "She said porcupine. Por...cu...pine! It got churned up in the mix. Now she got to clean out the vat."

"Well, your lucky those tubes won't get shipped. That'd be a pain in the ass."

"You're a knuckle fuckin'head, brother."

"I thought those vats were sealed because the mix has to boil."

"Julia said the front door was jimmied open when she got there this morning. She called Martin but he's busy with the murder." Chip paused, adjusting his glasses. "By the way, do you believe what you said the other night?"

"Sure, why not."

"You're nuts."

"We're all nuts."

"You think Julia's lying about the break in, don't you?"

"See, you've already taken a step ahead. Maybe the wind blew the door in. You're making assumptions about stuff that could have been a coincidence. Maybe the cottage is old and the front door's just an old door."

"I thought you don't believe in coincidence?"

"I doubt it carries much weight. Let's call the break-in an anonymous accident instead," I said, giving Chip a brotherly, yet solid, slap on the back. "Anyway, what's this have to do with anything? You know how Julia likes gossip. This feeds right in to her collection of trashy stories."

"Yeah. You think so? Yeah. What are you, a know-it-all?"

Chip leaned back in his chair, not sure if another slap was imminent. "The door has a padlock on it and Julia said things were messed up, tubes were stepped on and there was a trail of blood leading up to the vat. So now what?"

I wasn't ready for that one, but I maintained my incredulity. "An accident or even a little vandalism changes nothing."

"Then explain the blood. The porcupine couldn't have sprung into the vat. I think someone killed it, dragged the carcass over, and chucked it in."

"Makes for a good storyline," I said. "We'll call Warner Brothers. Maybe they can use it in their next shoot. We'll title it, A Porc in the Cork. Or better, A Stopper in the Hopper."

Lucy called from the kitchen, "Are you two sweeties all right? I'll be right out with the hot drinks."

Chip put his finger to his mouth. "Listen, forget the fuckin' porcupine. We have to talk. I want to marry Julia."

This time I was taken by surprise. I swung my chair closer. "Sounds serious. But does she want this? To take you on, all of you, if you know what I mean?"

Chip nodded, knowing what I meant. "My problem's not Julia," he confided, pointing in the general direction of the kitchen. "The problem's that person in there."

"She's not the problem. You're the problem. You'd be finished without her and you know it. Does she know anything about this?"

"I don't need her permission. I was gonna pop the question tonight. But now I have to wait till this problem's squared away."

"You better think this through."

"I have. Julia and me, we've been on and off for years. I know what you're thinking, that I got nothing to offer."

"You've got a thing for putting words in my mouth."

"Maybe, but you're right. I don't. Still, what do I got to lose? It gives me a shot at being on my own."

"Then do it," I said, giving Chip another firm clap on the back. "You two would make quite the team. They say the Island makes for strange bedfellows."

"You're making light of this. I'm serious when I say I won't get another chance. I help her out at the plant all the time. We talk about expanding operations, asking Hammond, you know, the owner, if we can add another product to the line."

"That's a great idea. I'm happy for you, really....but tonight?"

"What about tonight?"

"It's a dumb night to propose. Wait for a more romantic moment, maybe Valentine's Day. Halloween's not the best night for this."

Chip shook his head angrily. "Everyone's trying to run my life. I spill my guts and now you're an event's planner."

"I'm your brother. I want you to be happy. Besides, you need to calm down."

"I'm calm enough to see what you're driving at. You think I'm not good enough? Sure, I'm blind, but I can function."

"Of course you can. But look at the big picture. Would Julia be Lucy's replacement or your wife?"

"I'm trying to step out, be independent. I'm want a partner, not a sub for mom."

"Then good for you, man. Do it. Propose tonight. Now."

"She won't be here."

"That's right, the wayward porcupine. But look, when I say calm down I mean, well, for instance, how about taking less whacks at old pumpkin puss there."

"I know this holiday crap's important to her, so I make a show of it."

"Is it a show? I don't even consider it a holiday."

"It is for her," Chip acknowledged, leaning into his words with such strong conviction that for a moment I thought he saw me lean back on my chair. "Look, any time for us to be together is a holiday in her eyes. It rarely happens."

"If you want, I'll get over more."

"I don't give a shit. I do it for her. I have a flair with the knife, like Zorro, maybe Jack the Ripper. I imagine I get your attention every time, but I'm just joking around."

"Stop joking. We'd be doing her a favor if you dropped the routine."

Halloween sucked. On Flora's it was an excuse for the meek to inherit and the weak to get inebriated. The missing museum piece and murder was more than a convenient excuse not to make the rounds. I imagined there would be hundreds of jack- o'-lanterns burning away all over the western walking trails and side streets, but who would take up the gauntlet and wander alone, or with families and friends? The stores would be closed for the evening and even Sinbad's, the last vestige of common sense on the Island, was asked by FLITCO to close by ten. Tonight, all across town, there'd be an economy of effort, a dearth of spirit, and a watchful eye and ear set out like an Orwellian nightmare. Besides, I needed to stop over at Brett's apartment a few doors down to find out why he took Livinia's photo from Doc's table and deposited it at my front door. No one else had the audacity to carry out such a mission. You could treat his disease but you couldn't cure it. My question was why he didn't keep the photo himself. If it was his way of making my acquaintance, he could have sent me a postcard. I'd speak to Ogilvie tomorrow about this, but I planned on speaking with Brett tonight.

Earlier this evening, prior to dinner, Chip attacked the large, oval pumpkin and committed unspeakable crimes. If he could see, I would lay the blame for the Garba-troll's death squarely on him. His puncture wounds made more than incisions and when he turned the knife, it was with extreme malice. He ripped large gashes across the torso, worse than I'd ever seen him do. It would be hard for anyone to allow such a caricature of brutality to adorn a front stoop, even on a night as this. However, I knew Lucy would make the allowance; she always did. In that sense, the turning out of the pumpkins was a sort of paean to her own special need more than it was any invocation involving our own. Lucy wanted her boys to be together with her, but we didn't need this private demonstration of familial love and carnage to make the case. The family, or what was left of it, had been roughed up by time, and I thought Chip's antagonism was a rejection of what was lost. We didn't need to have him punctuate the pain with his carving prowess, but now knowing about his future plans, my assumptions may have been wrong. He may have just been overreacting to a rejection. What if Julia said no? I wasn't certain about Chip. His whole charade was stuck in my craw and the only thing I swallowed was my pride.

After clearing the table and washing the dishes, Lucy finally returned to the dining room with a pitcher of toddies and three mugs. "Here we are, piping hot and delicious. Don't burn your lips, boys," she said with a smile. I looked at the clear, plastic pitcher. Lemon pieces skimmed the surface. You could smell the honey and brandy steaming out of the top. Then I looked at Lucy. I thought she looked good considering. There seemed to be a rare attempt at maintenance here. Her hair, once blonde, was now grey and pulled into a tight ponytail held together by a piece of red ribbon. Strands that kept peeling off were indelicately pushed away from her face with a flick of her stubby fingers.

Lucy was a tall, austere woman. She was Germanic in the typical sense, bearing a ruddy coloration, full lips, and strong jaw line, but she was more Viking than anything else. She was big-shouldered and big-boned, a bruising linebacker, perhaps, but certainly not a pulling guard. She was much more meat than potato. Lucy was put together like a perfect snow woman, one part carefully stacked upon another. She slumped slightly forward now, melting a little with age, still, the basic structure held pretty fast to a soft, straight line. She was not about to topple over and never would. It wasn't part of her fundamental disposition. In her prime, Lucy was a furnace of energy, but she had taken it on that stout chin more than most, and her wizened demeanor was more a testament to her willpower than to any natural degradation of time. She never complained or asked for much from anyone, including me. It took its toll, however, a little here, a little there, because she asked for so much from herself. Something had to give. If it wasn't going to be her spirit, it would have to be her flesh, and perhaps her mind. She might have been going on sixty, but looked years older.

When we finished the toddies, we put on our coats and carried our pumpkins onto the porch where, with little ceremony, I lit our single offering to the night. Then we sat in the three folding chairs I brought outside for the occasion, admiring for different reasons Chip's handiwork while he whimpered about what a waste of time this was. "Are you satisfied?" Chip asked into the fog. "Are we all happy yet? Can we go inside? No one's coming for stupid candy."

"I'm quite happy," Lucy said, folding her hands delicately into her lap. "I'm so so happy. Being together, the three of us, gives me all the pleasure I can hope for in this world. Remember the fortuneteller from the Groton Fair?" With great effort, we both nodded. "Well, her prophecy was that I was to be cherished by my sons. And so I am, and here we are all these years later. It's rather a wonderful thought."

"It sure is," I said.

"Yeah, ain't life grand," grumbled Chip, pausing now so we could ingest his disgust, and then asked, "Is the fog still around? It smells foggy to me."

"It's still pretty bad," I confirmed.

"Then what are we doing out here? No one's coming for toddies."

"You need to be patient," Lucy admonished in a soft tone. "There'll be here."

"Who'll be here? Who? What?" Chip asked sarcastically. "The fishies, the froggies, the turtles? Wait, I think I hear Miss Muskrat coming down the block. Whoooa! Listen. Isn't that Mister Osprey I hear gliding by for some Glogg? C'mon, no one's dropping by tonight. It's late, and too dangerous with Mister Headchopper walking around. What are you both thinking?"

"Shut up!" I said, "or I'll take a chop at you."

"Boys, boys, please. Let's just watch the stars. They're lovely tonight. The one over by the lighthouse, over there," I looked, Chip grimaced, "that one is twinkling bright, just for us. Maybe it's a sign from Harold. He wants to let us know."

"Know what?" Chip asked, his question punctuated by a stiff, dry laugh. "Know what a mess we're in. Know what a joke he was?"

"Not at all. Maybe your father's telling us he..."

I had to stop her. "Mom, listen to me. There's no stars in the sky tonight. Everything's black like coal. Dad may be up there, but he's a silent witness. And there's no moon either, no clouds, no planets, no Milky Way. There's just the fog."

"Oh, well then, do you think Miss Beck will drop by? She's been visiting us a lot lately. She's a pleasant girl. Quiet and sincere."

"I really doubt it," said Chip with disappointment. "It's too late and she's got to boil a new batch of crème tomorrow."

"But there are thousands of pretty stars to show her the way."

Chip laughed again, not exactly a mocking laugh this time. He knew better than me what was slowly happening to Lucy. But he couldn't help himself. "And I hear that the cow jumped the moon. And the dish was shagging the spoon."

"Hey, enough!" I barked, my glower lost in the shuffle of the blind and the blinded, Lucy not computing my anger, Chip not caring how I looked at him. Still, the goal was achieved. There was a lull in the action. Nobody spoke. Nobody had anything to add. The night spoke to us instead, whispering kind and unkind words in our ears, reminding us of who we were, where we lived, and what the passage of time did to our fortitude. After a while, this silent give and take suddenly got the better of me. I stretched, blew white steam into my cold fingers, and yawned. Then I lazily rose from my chair. I had found my chance and was taking it. "Well, might as well be getting along. I got a long day's work tomorrow. I need to go to Hartford to pick up some lumber. We're doing some remodeling to the Angeli place."

"The estate overlooking the Sound by the Crescent Club?" Lucy asked, her geographic acuity still sharp as a tack.

"No," I said, "the smaller one over by Bottom's-Up, the one they just bought from old man Erron last month. They say Angeli wants to fix it up and sell it."

Roused by the possibility of contention, Chip said, "That's not what I hear. Julia says Angeli's wife, Mary, is miserable and wants out. This place is supposed to be a halfway house, half way between their other place and her freedom. Julia also says she sees her all the time buying liquor. Says she's been on a binge lately, particularly since her daughters started school in Europe and she's alone. Her husband travels all the time. Did you know he was brought in for questioning about Perricone's murder? Julia says Perricone once worked for them."

"Charles, my little lovey, if you don't have nice things to say about people, it's better not say anything," Lucy reminded with an all-knowing smile and a light squeeze to his thigh. "We all have our shortcomings and our weaknesses."

Chip appeared offended. He stared hard and bitter at Lucy's voice. "I know mom, I know," he said, stiffly pausing for a moment to gather his composure. "Well then, that's that! I'm going to bed. Tomorrow, I'm going to the factory to help Julia. We got stuff to talk about. Right Bro? Good night." Before we could reply, Chip stood up - he would have been a stellar athlete; he moved like a cat - waved both hands in front of him in tiny circles, an expert at his craft, until he found the porch railing, angled along to the left until he found the door and then the comfort of the knob. "Happy crappy Halloween," he mumbled, without fanfare, without the final last second habit people have of looking back, and slipped inside, closing the door noiselessly behind him.

This left Lucy and me alone on the porch. I dropped back down on the chair overcome by the magnitude of our family's misfortune and overwhelmed by my own inability to redirect it down a more sustainable avenue. We smiled at each other, formal, administrative, continued our small talk, and watched as the face of Chip's slaughterhouse pumpkin began to catch fire and start to burn. I cancelled the growing licks by pouring my half empty glass of toddy through one of the eye holes. Then, I sent Lucy packing with a bear hug and a promise to call more often, and finally, I bound down the steps and walked over to Brett's apartment. There weren't any lights shining through his window. I knocked but no one answered. Maybe Brett wasn't up to answering a madman's knock on Halloween. I'm sure he knew of the Garba-troll's death. Then again, maybe he was in deep sleep, his medication, if there was any, having a soporific effect. But maybe he wasn't in at all. I knocked again, harder this time. Then I tried twisting the front doorknob and pushed just a little to see. It was locked. I would have gone around back and tried the door in the alleyway, but I figured one way or another, I wasn't going to get in and I certainly wasn't going to go in and I obviously wasn't going to get answers until tomorrow.

On my way home along Calypso Avenue through the sea of dense fog and shadow, through the ocean of my own uncertainty, I thought I heard unusual sounds coming from just about everywhere, to the left, the right, even overhead. I thought of the priest, but couldn't imagine him continuing to circumnavigate the Island at this hour with that thing of his. The chorus of sounds was too disparate and came, as they say, hither and thither and yon, way too fast for his kind of slow, ponderous cadence. I wasn't in a good mood, and I wasn't up to investigating what my senses were telling me were the munching and crunching of the animals running amok all over the Island. The noises were unrelenting and seemed to emanate even from The Meadowlands, echoing wee-wee-wee all the way home. I heard the sounds as I skirted the ninth green. I saw Sassacus and saluted. Another night, I told him and wished him well. I heard the sounds as I climbed the stairs. I heard the sounds in my apartment, locked tight, curtains drawn. I heard the sounds as I pulled up my ratty covers in bed. I thought I even heard the sounds bouncing around somewhere in the far corner of my dreams. "Wee-wee-weeee," the sounds went. "Chop-chop-chop!"

The next morning, on the way to Bottoms Up to catch the _Lily Pusher_ , I found the fog had lifted and the skies were blue and crystal clear. Driving along Calypso in Jenkins's pickup, I saw some early risers wandering about and they looked upset. As I approached the village green, I saw why. Most of the pumpkins were smashed open and lay in muddy heaps. Pumpkin after pumpkin, from the storefronts to the barracks, carved or whole, big or little, weren't just scooped up and heaved high into the air to burst into smithereens. No, these specimens were viciously attacked before being heaved, and each fatality seemed the result of a massive hammer blow much more than intense surgical procedures with precision instruments. It was clear the missing hatchet wasn't involved in this sick demonstration of squished squash. Some other weapon was used.

So much for local vigilance, I thought. Better prisoners than martyrs be. No one dare step out last night whether they heard something or not. Obviously then, what I sensed wasn't, after all, the nocturnal bleating of our fauna at work, but the whacks and wallops of our friendly butcher objecting to something he, she, they, or it found untenable in our pumpkin population. Someone was sending a deliberate message warning us to take deep, unrelenting cover.

#  17

It was dark in Sinbad's, especially during the day. The bar faced north and no light ever split the veil of its smoky interior. The window shades were never pulled. Even the rotting front door with its bandage of duct tape, its rusted old hinges and squeaky voice had a thick coverlet pulled tight against the broken glass panel. At night, old brass lamps, affixed to grimy tongue and groove walls, offered some relief to the pall but it gave the patrons a feeling of being in murky depths like being inside of a ship that capsized in a squall. The ceiling fans never were used or were used to extinction. The wide plank floors were dull and pocked with age. There may have been an upright piano at one time. The pretender that mocked the claim had few teeth, a cracked torso and suffered from curvature of the spine. The only thing played on it in the last decade was the end game and now it stood squat and mean in the corner, a musician's nightmare collecting dust and recollections from the old timers who may or may not have remembered the tinkle of better times.

As the last glimmer of light trickled through the window shades, candles were lit by the two old hands, the inglorious sea hags, Peggy and Rhonda Swift, at each of the eight tables and six booths that formed the boundaries of Sinbad's barroom. The two sisters worked the tables at Sinbad's for almost three decades and were, themselves, considered fixtures, solid and reliable as any time-honored expectation. Their knowledge of Flora's tribulations was unmatched, but unlike Julia Beck, they didn't consider the Island's adventures available for public consumption. Born on the Island, the white-haired, pop-eyed twins were true Geese, tenaciously tight-lipped and totally interchangeable, except that brushing aside Peggy's long, wispy hair, one would find she was born with only one ear, her left, and Rhonda had only two bony fingers (the thumb and pinky) the color of driftwood, on her right hand. Other than that, a patron would need a microscope to tell them apart.

Nathan Ogilvie sat on the corner stool, close to the stairs that led to the second floor flops, facing the front door. He was nursing a glass of beer and a shitty attitude. It was a school night and he didn't need to be out, but I was bellicose and demanded counsel. I called from a phone in Hartford after the wood was stacked on the truck, insisting we meet. His pal, Lucius Brett, crossed the line and I had to know why.

Ogilvie didn't see me enter. He was wrapped in his grey parka and his puckered look conveyed there was more to his funk than just his waiting for me. His was a life of letdowns. His book, which was semi-ignored by the press, was hammered by the local educational community. "Anti-establishment," some cried; "Allegiance to children has its tipping point," they pointed; "No balance between text and test," they retorted; "Vygotsky for beginners," some chided. " _Trickle Up Education_ is for drips," they joked. They called Ogilvie, "An indoctrinaire, a party of one working way too far to the left of state mandates and administrative operations." And then, just as he mitigated the damage with a shiny smallness he owned, with an inward turning road map he called life's little quirks, following it always to the brink of his private hell - he was elevated by the discord, motivated by the twist ups, his devotion to this ideology so complete and final - then and only then, did his wife, Tillie, take the opportunity to slip out on him with a second rate artist and first rate jackass from Yale.

Ogilvie was self-contained. He could weather those little fluctuations and challenges. As he said, "A shot across the brow," was no more than a warning to move his leaky vessel closer to shore to repair the damage and come back better than ever, his conviction strong as iron, his smallness tight as a drum. But Tillie's desertion yelled out to abandon ship, no life jacket and no life saving boat in view. She was his anchor. He had no idea that Flora would provide the ore. He eventually recovered. His escape to the Island was a recovery of sorts. We all recover in the final analysis, but we change. We become lesser by degree and greater by consequence. Like history itself, one never knows what foam rises to the top, or when, or if that reboot of our faculties at the termination of a crisis makes us different or not or more worthy or not of a place up in heaven or down in Beelzebub's bar and grille.

It was Ogilvie's fate to forever duke it out with his personal insolvencies. His struggles didn't make him better than the rest of us, though he was as generous as anyone I ever knew, but it did make him more human in a literary sort of way. I think that point drives my fascination. He was readable like a book. He was pathetically vulnerable, wore his heart on his sleeve to the point where you could see the blood beating in its vessels right through the membrane, his protracted sense of self-loathing transparent to the core.

Sinbad's was packed tonight. Last night's early closing was more than made up for. It was a fact that most of the regulars at the bar were composed of a sizable portion of the male members of the Island itself. It seemed we were, Geese all, Sinbad regulars and those that chose not to partake were regulars in spirit. You didn't have to be present to drift into Sinbad's. You just had to be cognizant that it was the only way to get off until the ferries started up at six the next morning. That's what I mean by drifting.

By nine P.M., the stools were filled, Corey Blackstone was holding forth, and I saw Gloria sitting in a languid, yet adoring pose, on a stool next to him. Mike Calderone, Roby Edwards, Marty Redbone, Oliver Perez, and some of the others were watching a football game fuzzed up on the television behind the bar, and the rest of the tables and booths were casually inhabited, meaning most Geese were familiar enough with each other to get up from their seats and work the room.

I pulled up an empty chair next to Ogilvie on his stool so we could talk eye to eye. "Okay," he said dryly, impatiently, "I'm here. Start talking." Ogilvie looked more exhausted than usual. His eyes were puffy and red. There were dark rings under the lids. The pocked, anemic face didn't blend well with the darkness of Sinbad's. He looked like one of those old, iron tintypes of a propped up corpse in the throes of living.

"Sorry to pull you away," I said, "but things are getting out of hand." I took a swig of my Jack and lemon that the rotund bartender, Warren Barracuda, (his real name pronounced Ba-rok'-a-day) served me whenever I stepped up to the bar.

Ogilvie chewed on a laugh, then sarcastically mimicked. "'Beginning to get out of hand.' Really? Where've you been?" Contempt wasn't usually on Ogilvie's menu. Inner diplomacy was more to his liking. When he and Tillie were skewered by FLITCO Turkeys for opening a food cooperative, he remained calm, stayed within himself, accepting the slap as yet another quirky fluctuation. Even Tillie's winter retreat to the mainland to drink her shame away didn't bring out any derisive behavior that was evident. Ogilvie, over time, had developed an Island skin, weathered and fleshy. He had become another tough bastard but one with a heart of gold. Still, tonight I was seeing something new in my old mentor. Yes, there was his heart on his sleeve as always, but for the first time I also saw what I imagined were drops of blood oozing onto Sinbad's dusty floor.

Ogilvie drained his beer and wanly pointed to Peggy, the more alert half of Sinbad's skeleton crew, to get him another. His movement lacked enthusiasm. His finger seemed to wag and then sag in droopy surrender before his hand plopped back onto the bar like a dead fish. "You told me on the phone it couldn't wait. What's up?"

"How well do you know Lucius Brett?"

Ogilvie blinked, studied my face. "What do you mean?"

"I mean how well do you know Brett? Is he a little off? Is he Loony Tunes?"

Ogilvie was stirred by my question. "Lucius is a good man. What's he done?

"He's done nothing."

Well, then ...?"

"I mean I don't question his actions, only his intentions."

Ogilvie shook his head, shredded his fingers together in agitation. "I don't get it, Raney. Where's this going?"

"Our new bus driver likes to play loose with other people's property."

"Go on."

"He deposited Doc's photo of Livinia Grover at my doorstep last night."

"You sure? How can you be sure?"

"Process of elimination. No one else at Doc's had the talent or inclination to do such a stupid thing."

"Why would he do that? He's in enough trouble."

"You told me he was in treatment for his klepto behavior, but you forgot the maniac part." I felt a rush of anger, took a long breath.

Some of the patrons were getting worked up about the game on the tube. I heard them slapping palms and clinking mugs. Marty Redbone, in lighting a cigarette, dropped his mug on the floor. Its sharp report got everyone's attention as it splattered. Nerves were frayed as it was, but short attention spans compensated for prolonged anxiety on the Island. A moment later, Rhonda had the mop and was swabbing the deck. Things were soon back in place like it never happened.

"I'll say it again," said Ogilvie, his patience razor thin, "he's cured."

I became incredulous. "Cured? Bacon's cured, people never. You know what I think? Once a whatever, always a whatever."

"I'll vouch for him. He's basically harmless."

"I thought that's why FLITCO hired him. He was basically a small risk, no more than Garba-troll. Basically effective in what he does and harmless in every other way."

The draft Peggy plunked on the bar top was received with good news. Ogilvie grabbed the pint and chugged half in one gulp. Then he chided, "Don't be smug. I'm not talking about his heisting talents, I'm talking about what happened earlier in the day, yesterday. They questioned him about the murder."

I took another breath of stale air. "Who spoke with him?"

"Detective Smitts and Constable Martin."

"Why?"

"Why do you think? They found something on the school bus this morning."

There was only one thing. "Let me guess. The other hatchet." Ogilvie nodded.

"Furthermore," said Ogilvie, "there were break-ins last night."

"I know about the factory break-in. How do you know? Beck?"

"Yeah, Beck."

I started to think about Chip and his wedding plans. "It's just gossip," I said.

"No, there was a second one too. Two plants were broken into. Aren't you listening?" Ogilvie's voice rose notches, attracting the attention of the Geese at the bar.

It was the second quarter. Three minutes to halftime It was first and ten and the Redskins were threatening. The Patriots had just called a time out. No score yet. "What do you mean?" I asked. "I'm right here with you."

"Listen closely. A bunch of Markham's golf clubs, mostly the maple drivers, the Signature Series. A bunch were lifted last night."

"Why not the irons?"

"Tables, you hear what I'm saying? Only a couple of drivers were stolen."

"Nate, man, I'm not feeling good about this."

Ogilvie shook his head in agreement. "Lucius seemed okay at Doc's last night. I spoke with him after work today. He was home all night, said someone was trying to break into his apartment so he shut up till whatever it was went away."

"That was me," I said.

"That was me what?"

"I stopped by his place for a talk."

"Dumbest idea I ever heard."

"We've no idea what's round the corner."

"We never do. He got nowhere to run. Says someone stashed the hatchet behind the driver's seat on the bus so the students would find it this morning."

"Things are moving too fast here," I repeated.

After a short while Ogilvie drained his mug. I took to patting the sweat off my head with Louie's pea coat and with some resignation asked, "Why wasn't he busted?"

"It's all circumstantial evidence."

Nate, the guys a thief with a track record of lying."

"But you don't have proof. Are you sure?"

"Nate, I know you're a good guy and want to defend him but..."

"But what?"

"Who else would take it? Who else could unlock locks, steal stuff on the sly, be out at all hours dragging golf clubs and animal parts around."

Ogilvie waved me off. He wouldn't have it. "It could be anyone. You said so yourself."

"There's no mistaking the photo and who put it there. I just want to know why."

"I think," said Ogilvie with a burst of reassurance, "he sees you as a seminal figure. You're special."

It was my turn to wave off. "Thanks, but look where it's got me. I'm a hammer and nails guy. I sheetrock studs. If I'm special then the word's meaningless."

"Raney, you're too fucking big to be meaningless. You're 6 feet, 9 inches tall."

"And a half."

"Okay, and a fucking half. You were a nationally recognized athlete and whether you view your height as a handicap or a charm, we were all exalted by your athleticism."

"Yeah, everyone but me."

"Maybe Lucius just wanted to give you something that might mean something."

"You actually going to defend him to me?"

Ogilvie chuckled and pushed away his empty mug. "We got eyes. You and Livinia's been playing ring-a-round-a-rosy for years. I suppose it takes some innocent like Lucius to put things into perspective."

"Innocent my ass."

"You're avoiding what I said."

"You should all mind your own business." I said coarsely. "Look, I'll make sure Brett's the ring bearer at our wedding. Of course someone's got to keep an eye on the ring, or else." I made a snatching motion with my hand. Watching from behind the bar, Barracuda got his signals crossed and brought me another Jack.

"Leave Lucius alone for now," Ogilvie said. "Let's see what happens."

"Sure, but when it gets out about the other hatchet there won't be a kid on the bus and everyone'll be screaming for his scalp. You really think he could kill anyone?"

Ogilvie sighed and shook his head from side to side. "Again with these useless questions. Absolutely not. He doesn't have the disposition, or the strength. The cops, however, already made him a prime suspect and that's what bothers me."

"How so?"

"Lucius said they checked his apartment and wanted to know where he stashed the drivers. But they got nothing. I think he's being set up is what I think."

"Yeah, well, he's not the only night crawler. Father Jacobs is running round Flora's with the church's cross."

"You're kidding. Say you're god-damned kidding."

"I'm not kidding."

Now it's my turn to be surprised."

It was half time. No one scored. Looking around, I noticed Blackstone whispering crap to Gloria who had her ear right up against his ugly beard. Suddenly, Julia Beck stormed in through the front door and headed straight for where Ogilvie and I were sitting. Not a second later, Shep stormed in and stepped up to the bar. He looked, for a lack of a better word, _oblivious_.

"What can I get you?" asked Barracuda.

"How 'bout a fucking gun," said Shep.

"How about a mug a beer instead?" Barracuda suggested, and began pouring.

I turned my attention to Beck. She appeared visibly shaken. "I need to speak with you, Raney. It's urgent." she said. Through the smoky haze, I could see close up she wasn't herself. She wore no makeup, no earrings, and her wool, silver sweater was twisted to the side like she didn't bother to make adjustments before going out, which was unlike Beck who was driven to being immaculate in what she wore to compensate for being unabashed in what she said. Her red hair flowed like Medusa's. I could hardly look at the unattended countenance, though in the belly of Sinbad's darkness it hardly made a difference unless you paid strict attention. Presentation was everything to Beck. She believed her public persona ameliorated any claims she made about her fellow Islanders, so being here under such scrutiny was going to be a public relations nightmare for her and she didn't care she was a mess. In either case, she got my attention and apparently everyone else's.

Even Ogilvie seemed taken aback, but one always takes the segue one's handed. "Got to get home. Tillie's waiting up for me no doubt." He stood and slapped me on the back. "We'll continue this conversation later."

As he pried open the bar door, there was a gurgling noise and, just for a moment, the wind blew in. The air was cool and smelled of the churning tide. It beckoned me but then so did Beck. "Have a seat, Julia," I offered, like I owned the place and this was visiting hours.

Beck sat, unaware of the stares she was vending. "He asked," she said quietly.

"I thought he'd wait. He said he'd wait but I see he couldn't."

Beck frowned. "We were cleaning the blood from the factory floor and the quills from the mixer and he just asked. I said no without hesitating. I can't marry him."

I was surprised though not entirely, but didn't show it. "I'm sorry," I said.

Beck began to cry, big, low sobs. "He couldn't leave well enough alone. We had a good thing going. It was a light thing, in keeping."

"In keeping with what?"

"In keeping with what kept us together," she sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "I didn't think he wanted any commitment, and I didn't want anything more out of it. What was he thinking? You know him as well as anyone."

"Not really."

"Yeah, but you do. He always talks about you."

"I bet he does," I said, aware that Beck never took no for an answer except when the question was aimed at her. I think it was her way of warding off feeling. Passionate about everyone else's business, she shed her soul years ago and was driftwood on the inside. Like every Islander, she was hurt by the people she called friends, by the float of a small ambition that Flora capsized every time. Hence, she became a spokesperson for the lonely, spinning elaborate yarns trying to knit together some semblance of order in her own life by reconstructing the disorder in everyone else's. Every year, the stories became more absurd, yet we listened, took heart, semi-believed the wild grandiosity because it broke the spell of misfortune that had us locked tight. But tonight no one mistook her for an Island pundit. She looked like something dragged out of the bay, unbound, unwound, and at risk of being publically rejected, if not flat out ignored. And that was the last thing we needed. We needed Beck to be Beck. We were enriched by her falsehoods even when it stuck us in the ass. She gave us something to think about when there wasn't anything left.

I patted Beck on her shoulder, trying to help her calm down. "It's all right, Julia. He meant no harm. I'm sure it was a fright."

But I said the wrong thing. Beck looked up at me in outrage. "I wasn't frightened, Raney, I was disgusted. I was also horrified at myself for feeling that way. I can love him but I can't live with him. I've nothing to offer."

"And he has nothing to offer you back, isn't that right?

"I'm afraid I can't be what he wants."

"You mean what he requires."

"No, yes, I mean yes. That's true. What he requires. The day-to-day operation of caring for Chip would be like another business to run."

"I don't blame you. I feel guilty, too. It's almost impossible cause he doesn't help in any way. But you mollify his bitterness. You make him happy."

"I can't do it, Raney. As soon as I said 'No!' I went running out and came here."

"You came here because you knew I'd be here and you wanted to justify yourself. No need. I'm not the one to console you. I'm sure he said it all was my fault."

Beck gave a false smile, trying to be brave. "He did say that."

"So then you know I can only do so much."

"I know that too."

Just then, Shep decided to do something we didn't know or anticipate. He got off his stool and tipsily walked over to where Blackstone was drooling in Gloria's ear. "Hey, idiot," he complained in a loud, ringing voice," not enough wenches for you here? You needed to take mine?"

Blackstone was no fool. He had Shep pegged from the moment he staggered in. Carefully picking Gloria's hand from his neck, he stood up, shorter but much broader than Shep. "You have a problem?" he said, facing Shep head on.

"I do," said Shep. "My problem's I don't know what to do with this mug of beer. Maybe you can help."

It was too late. Blackstone took the bait and gave a downward nod to the mug, at which point Shep proceeded to whack the glass off Blackstone's head. Blackstone went down, blood flowing freely through a gash in his skull. Immediately, Shep came down on him with a fist to the chin. Blackstone jerked back in pain, then rolled, blood flying in a broad arc, avoiding a second blow from Shep, whose fist hit the wood floor and made a loud, crunching noise. More agile than we could imagine, Blackstone rolled back toward Shep who was on his knees holding his damaged fist and rolled right over him, grabbing Shep's pony tail, smacking him in the mouth, and pinning him in place with his legs. It was a clever move and would have sufficed had it not been for the sea hags, Shep's longtime friends. Peggy scrambled over and began kicking Blackstone in the ribs with her boot, and Rhonda retrieved the mop and began sloshing it over Blackstone's face till he let go his grip, rolled once more and stood up like a cornered boxer. Shep, too, roused to action beyond what his normal comportment could handle, got to his unsteady feet, snorted like a bull, and raced toward Blackstone, who caught him in his generous gut and reeled back, Shep in arms, right on top of the baby grand which, with a loud crash, splintered to the floor.

It was a great display of gamesmanship, but then it was over. As soon as the warriors rolled away from the flattened piano, they were separated by some of the regulars who had enough sport for the evening and a second half to watch on the tube. I moved not as fast as I normally would have, but I moved nevertheless and came between Shep and Blackstone, insisting the party was over and they go home. Making sure they both were tightly held, I said to Shep, "Shep, It's time for you to go. We'll speak tomorrow." Shep didn't move until I tightly put my arm around him and told him, "Constable Martin will be here soon, and it won't be good to have assault charges added to whatever else you committed tonight."

Freed from his bondage, he looked me square in the eye, spat blood and a bit of tooth, studied Blackstone whose forehead was bloody and raw, grinned more than slightly and, with shoulders thrown back, walked calmly out the door.

As soon as the door whispered shut, I asked Blackstone to grab a towel from Barracuda and go see Doc, who would stitch his head up good. "Fuck you," he said back, "and fuck him! I'll fix his wagon."

"Yeah, well first fix your head," I said, this being the last thing I ever said to Blackstone.

In response, the last thing Blackstone ever said to me was, "Go to Hell!" Then they let him go. Carelessly grabbing his coat with one hand and holding his battered head in the other, he barged out the front door without so much as a nod to Gloria.

Sinbad's was a wreck. The crushed piano seemed to steam blue gas. Thick, dark motes fled from its hood. Spoor-like droppings of wood lay en masse around its perimeter. Bottles and glasses and other sudden muck, as well as Blackstone's blood, were sprayed about the old plank floor. Gloria was hysterical. Beck was quiet, assessing the damage, planning the next confabulated episode that had become her life's work.

To me, it wasn't a big deal. It simply was another Island event, another weekly fight at Sinbad's. I intervened and sent both contestants packing because I could, and no one would say otherwise, or stop me or disapprove. Bulk has its advantages, plus I was Shep's closest friend. And furthermore, I couldn't help but notice that the Redskins had just opened the third quarter with a bomb to the end zone for a score.

Things soon settled back in. Beck left right away, her disposition sunnier than before. Gloria drained her whiskey in a final belt and soon followed without a word. I finished my drink, and watched the rest of the game. The Patriots were on the move and eventually rallied, winning in overtime on a field goal. Right after, I put Louie's pea coat back on, told the sea hags what a fine job they did saving Shep, and left for home.

Suddenly, loud alarms were going off everywhere, and this time they weren't coming from me. The fire station had a rare emergency, not unusual for this late at night, but unusual all the same. How many calls for help or natural disasters happen during the day? The sirens could be heard for miles, amplified on crystal clear nights and muffled when there was deep fog. Tonight they broadcast with jarring precision.

Shep wasn't on the job the next day. I could have told you that. But what I couldn't have told and what I didn't know was that Shep never showed his face at any of Edwards' sites again. It was the beginning of the end for Shep. Whatever he was planning was past the planning stage. It was now just a matter of when, a matter of _acceleration_ , the final sprint towards the tape. But Blackstone almost beat him to it.

I heard the news from some of the workers that came over on the _Warner Bee_. It seems that Corey Blackstone was rushed across the Sound to the hospital. At first, I couldn't believe that the long, shallow cut on his head was life threatening. It wasn't.

What was so calamitous was the whack Blackstone suffered from a Markham maple driver that split his skull in two.

#  18

Once upon a time, and it was a short time ago, there were three hundred Geese living placid, purposeful lives. No More. Death rolled in on the waves. It was stamped on the spine of the fish they caught. The shells of the blue lobster, grey clams and purple mussels all turned black and tasteless before the great God of Demise. The homes on the western side of the Island were no longer sanctuaries of safety, but rattling rows of bone yard pavilions connected by a sense of dread and despair. The Island code had been broken. No one could be trusted. The family unit was it, only, and even there, spouses warily tiptoed around each other wondering just what the other had been up to yesterday when she was shopping in New London or the other evening when he stepped out for a beer at Sinbad's. A sweet, autumn stroll to get the mail, or a bottle of wine, or a book at the library, was no longer easy transit.

A constant, imaginary tap on the shoulder hectored every passerby who brushed off the tap like one brushes off dandruff. Few greetings were in evidence. The typical, "Hellos... How are yous... What ups?" were useless. With heads burrowed into chins, with arms folded into chests, with eyes downcast but alert for signs of approaching evil, who had use for greetings? Only victims said hello. Only victims were pleasantly surprised to see something wicked coming their way. The ferry captains of both ferries reported a flurry of one-way travelers off Island like no one's business.

It was only a few days after the fight at Sinbad's and only three weeks until Thanksgiving and still I hadn't gotten round to making my intentions clear to Livinia and my contentions clear to Brett. I wanted more than anything to knock on Livinia's back door and put the issue to bed, but I wasn't sure how she'd receive me. Brett, I would let alone. He had enough on his plate. Taking his cue from FLITCO, Jameson suspended him without pay. He also was ordered to remain on the Island by Detective Smitts until another investigation could be launched which would include a second search of his premises.

My sympathy towards Brett was slight compared to how I felt about Corey Blackstone. He survived the attack at Bottom's Up Harbor but not by much. He would remain at Lawrence and Memorial Hospital for a month and would be relocated to a convalescent care facility in Greenwich. To Gloria's credit, she visited on weekends until she later said, "I couldn't bear to make the trip one more time." By then, they both had a solid idea where their relationship was going. It was going in the same direction it was going when they initially hooked up: nowhere. The fact that Gloria took so long to come to this realization wasn't a consequence of poor planning or weak scruples. It simply was her means of self-preservation. It simply was the hardscrabble response to the Island's incessant coming-at-you mantra: _Goose-Goose-DUCK_ , which is exactly what Blackstone should have done on the night he got creamed.

He left the bar in a fury and drove his pickup to Bottom's Up Harbor where his little houseboat was docked for the season. Blackstone had no intention of getting his wound bandaged. He pictured himself a tough hombre, another Island primitive. What he had wanted to do was get a sharp tool from his storage facility, knock a hole in Shep's apartment, and beat Shep silly. Blackstone lived on Flora's for over twenty years, starting as a day laborer like myself, and then worked his way up to become an independent landscaping contractor. From the Catholic cemetery behind the church to the Crescent Club to the ferry terminal landing, Blackstone screwed a green thumb into anything that had to be planted, seeded, weeded or laid. He ran a crew of ten and, although it seemed like his office was located in a dark corner of Sinbad's, his business thrived despite his boastful exaggerations. Crowning himself, _King of Fling_ , Blackstone was noted for bedding more local women than any three Geese put together. What marked him for trouble was his inability to keep more than his scepter in his jeans. He couldn't keep his mouth zipped and constantly regaled the Sinbad's regulars about his exploits in the sack. What kept the gaggle coming back were the libations. He found buying a round as self-serving as sleeping around. If not for this sop to Cerberus, his reign would have ended. No one likes a big mouth and there were many who cared to stuff his with a matching bag of fertilizer.

On the night the phantom struck and vanished into thin air, "It was like seeing a big, scary monster," Blackstone explained to Gloria, as best as he could remember, given the new size and shape of his brain. As he boozily bobbed along the pier to his boat, Blackstone noted a subtle recast of light, maybe the moon hiding in a cloud, maybe a sudden lamppost outage, and by the time he turned to question the change, it was too late. He instinctively raised his right arm but that only put off the inevitable. The wooden driver smashed his elbow, making it useless for the rest of his life. The real tee shot, however, happened when Blackstone was on the ground twisting in agony. If Shep had slightly opened Blackstone's skull with the beer mug, then the second blow carved a crater that took years to fill, and it was filled with such fluff that the victim wasn't much better off than the Garba-troll. Even today, Blackstone lives alone in an apartment in town and works part time as a greens keeper at the Crescent Club Golf Course. Supposedly, he specializes in keeping the grass trimmed just right on the putting greens. On good days, it's holes twelve to eighteen. On bad days, nineteen to twenty six.

Ironically, three weeks later on Thanksgiving, on her last visit to see Blackstone in New London, Gloria would be on the same ferry as Shep. Was it Gloria's presence that forced Shep overboard after they parted ways on that frigid upper deck? It appears Shep was a goner way before he spied Gloria and asked to speak with her outside. He spoke of an abiding love, tried to take her hands in his. His fingers looked, "shiny," she recalled. "Like icicles." Gloria gingerly stepped away from the rail towards the cabin door. Shep stayed where he was. "He wept," Gloria recalled, "said he couldn't live without me...heard that line before. I went inside, had a smoke, bought a beer. But Shep got me thinking." And what Gloria was thinking made sense. When she realized that she couldn't stick a needle between the differences between Shep and Blackstone she decided to call it quits. She wouldn't hail a cab up the street to see Blackstone in the hospital, never again. Not knowing of Shep's tumble into the sea until the next evening, Gloria went to a movie on Main Street, Monty Python's _The Meaning of Life_ , ate two slices downtown, then caught the last ferry home.

A few days after Blackstone's clubbing I finally fell asleep on the couch opposite Livinia's picture and had a dream. In my dream, the art book on the coffee table burst into flames and all that was handy to extinguish it was Louie's pea coat. The pea coat abruptly began smoking and caught fire and for whatever reason, I couldn't catch my breath and began choking. A pitcher of water materialized and hovered next to the couch. I reached for it to douse the book and the coat but I needed to drink from the pitcher first because I was coughing and choking and dumped the whole thing on my head. I knew in a second the water in the pitcher wasn't water, and I started to scream because my skin began to peel back and burn and then I felt my face dripping off, first my ears then my eyes, then nose, lips, and chin. I began screaming over and over and all of a sudden, Chip was standing in the corner by the kitchen stove grinning wildly with his big sunglasses on. "It is what it is," he kept repeating. "It is what it is," until I began to feel my face shrivel like melting wax. By that time, I was well removed from the scene, everything about me gone except the recoil in my parched throat that released nothing but heavy smoke like dragon's breath the color of dun.

I awoke the next morning quaking like a leaf and in a deep sweat. I felt like I just smoked a carton of Camels. My hair stuck to my head like it was mixed with gel. The hard decision I wrestled with for years, to go and finally make Livinia mine, suddenly seemed so easy as not to be a decision at all but an inevitability. Sometimes it seems the best option is when there is none. My presumption bordered on the insane: would she have me, now? Ever? I would impose my will. I would force myself on myself and do what I should have done from the start.

I showered, dressed quickly, didn't eat, made the trek in a quick trot. It took all of eight minutes. Before long I found myself standing breathlessly on the front porch waiting for the hours of operation to begin operating. I was bathed in beads of sweat, in a state of complete hyper titillation. But it was eight A.M. The library opened at ten A.M. The seconds ticked by like an annoying drip. I sat down on the front steps and tried to stay calm. I kept swallowing hard, even though my throat expelled nothing but dry echoes in return. I'd never considered the possibility of me acting on such impulse, of this being so real. In fact, it wasn't. Livinia seemed just an observer in this _film noir_ playing out in my overheated mind. She was both less and more, forced into the role of main attraction at my gala opening, this innocent, spectacular librarian, there, not there, unaware of what was soon to transpire, but featuring yours truly as the inscrutable leading man.

When at last I heard that bolt click back in its frame, I sprang to the door, ripped at the knob and tore it open. And there before me like a dream come true, there like the greatest masterpiece by the greatest painter of all time, there in timeless, outrageous beauty, stood Livinia. My heart skipped a million beats. Every cell in my body rippled. There was wild desperation in my eyes. I know because when Livinia took stock of me she gasped, stepped back a step and covered her mouth with a quivering hand. Never expecting such fierce patronage, she stared up at me with those hazel eyes, eyes dazzled into a state of massive confusion, as if, just for a scant second, she thought, actually thought, I might be the presentiment of her greatest fear.

Moving rigidly back into the library parlor, our eyes were still locked together, but it doesn't take long for brainwaves to send out signals and foreign receptors to pick them up, process and return fire. Sometimes long is extremely brief. A microsecond was more than enough to see that Livinia's whole comportment had magically changed and seemed to relax. Then she gave me a smile, a smile that no woman had ever given me before. It was wicked and lascivious and probably illegal in many states. That smile, and the seductive way she moistened those red lava lips warranted immediate prosecution but in its unabashed clarity, I knew I was the one being put on trial. And when she deliberately said in a deep, dry whisper, "'Hello stranger. May I help you?'

I knew there was only one thing left to say. "I thought you'd never ask."

Livinia then put up her hand as if to say "Wait!" and went and relocked the library door, redrew the shades and shut the lights. When done, she floated back to me in a trance. The waiting was over. I reached for her and cradled her in my long arms. She accepted the embrace with the same ardor as it was offered and enfolded herself in my chest like she was tucking her body in from all sides. We couldn't have squeezed ourselves closer if we were a single entity. I easily pinned her to the parlor wall and with no resistance on the horizon, in fact, with the deepest sense of willingness and desire on the part of any partner I've ever held, Livinia and I deeply kissed again and again. Before long, tearing at each other's clothes, furiously grappling and rappelling in the tawdry, grey light, my pants were soon at my knees, her dress was hiked to her chin and we were doing it, making hot, panting, fire-breathing love on the thick parlor rug in plain sight of every author that could ever have graced this union. And there were so many in attendance. I could feel them, their blessings, imbuing us with raw energy as we moved against each other in the most secular, most wonderfully profane sense of the word, Passion, that could be imagined, a union of two becoming a union of one not before the eyes of God in Heaven, but before the eyes of men and women here on Earth.

Words are alive, says Emerson. _Cut them and they bleed_. And so we were, bleeding into each other in a vocabulary all our own. We were both gratefully alive, I never more so in my life, and while being entirely in the moment, a part of us still remained outside and aware of the significance of that same moment. It was the culmination of an attraction that required years of awkward pining to satisfy. It was the issue of trust on an Island that reduced trust to a zero sum game. It was an opportunity we both knew may never come again; the possible beginning of a lifelong commitment. Our conjugal yearning, finally fulfilled, had come full circle to its complete, unbroken whole. There was no past to remind us, no future to upend us, just the untrammeled present to cherish and relive.

I swear to you I died that morning and then I was reborn.

And when it was over, and it was over way sooner than I expected, Livinia asked me to quickly dress, as she had to be open, too, for the other business. The door was again unlocked, the lights were again flicked on, the shades released, her clothes repositioned and it seemed, like everything else seemed in my life, that I was leaving one world for another. I did as Livinia asked and lazed gratefully askew against one of the fiction bookcases in the second aisle, somewhere between a Miller and a Nin, my long bootless legs shooting into the parlor like the antennae of a gigantic bug. I was feeling as fine as I ever felt in my life but I now see love is a two way street and, if you're not careful, the road can often be closed for repairs.

"I'm not sure," Livinia said sadly, "if this is going to be more than what it is."

I looked down the aisle to the long counter where the art book had once been and now where Livinia leaned forward. Her head was in her hands. "What is it?" I asked, warily and confused. "What did you think?"

"I don't know. I don't know what to think. This may have been a mistake. Was it me you wanted, or just the idea of me, a librarian in a library of books?"

"It's always been you. But why don't we let it be what it is right now...part something, part nothing," I said, realizing my indelicate slip an instant too late.

"Random butchery is _not_ nothing, Raney! And having sex with you is not nothing either. How can you speak like this?"

"But that's not what I mean. I mean it meant something, it meant a hell of a lot."

"Don't mess with me, all right?" Livinia looked down at me and began to sob, jerking hard away from the counter, moving swiftly down the Biography aisle.

I judiciously rose and moved to a chair. "Livinia, what is it? What's the matter?"

"I don't know. I don't feel safe. The Island's not safe. I want to feel safe."

"Livinia, I won't hurt you. I swear. You're safe with me."

Livinia tried hard to control her emotions. She couldn't speak for long seconds and took fast, shallow breaths. "Am I? Are any of us? I got to tell you somebody returned my witch's hat to my front door that night. It looked like it was purposely crushed. Was it you? Could you have done that?"

I was adamant. "Of course not. What's the difference anyway?"

"Who would do such a thing? Do I even know you? I'm not trying to be accusatory, but I think you're not telling me something. What are you holding back?" Livinia studied me up and down unsure of where to rest her eyes, then fluttered them closed, deciding what kind of withdrawal would be least telling. Her lips disappeared inside her mouth like she said a bad thing and had done a bad thing by hesitating and was trying to take it all back. She then wiped her nose on a sleeve of her dress. "I'm sorry," she said at last. "I don't want to hurt you either."

"You're not. We're both trying." I got up and walked my oversized frame down the aisle to be next to Livinia. I turned her around so she had no choice but to face me and not Dante, not Darwin, not Debussy. I poured my giant fingers onto her cheeks in a caressing effort to wipe away the warm drops. "Who'd you tell about our walk home?" I asked, trying to get to the bottom of anything not bottomless.

"I only told Maria. I trust her. Can I trust you?"

"Hell yeah!" I boomed, a hint of indignation blooming in the pitch of my voice. "But hear me out. I had my own package hand-delivered that night. It put me off real bad till I figured out who the mailman was."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about Lucius Brett putting a picture of you by my front door, the one Doc keeps on her work desk."

"Maria mentioned it was missing, but why'd he take it?"

"He knew I'd be happy with a picture of you, and he didn't care where he got it. It's his way of making nice. He needs an ally and all I wanted to do was break his skull."

"That's a bad choice of words," said Livinia. We just had one of those."

"I know, and I'm real sorry right back. The truth is Brett sensed in a day how I've felt about you for years. I hear now that everyone knew it all along. Even we knew, didn't we? We just couldn't accept what was right in front of our eyes." I moved close to her again and tried wrapping her in my arms. However, Livinia wouldn't have any of it and pushed past me back to the reference desk and sat down in her seat.

"Don't put me where I'm not ready to go."

"We're both scared," I said softly, walking in her direction, "but we'll be fine."

"I don't know anything right now. I'm not a trusting person. It takes me time."

"Take as much time as you need. I'm patient. Anyway, we got more time than we know what to do with."

"Hardly that," she said. Then a pause, then, "But, Raney, do you think Brett returned my hat back? Because if he did, I'm worried."

"The hat's besides the point," I said. "It's a big nothing. Are you suggesting Brett's been watching us... you, me, something like that?"

"Maybe, but I don't think it was him that night. It couldn't be. Besides, no one else was on the green but our noisemaker, and if anyone else was, he couldn't see a thing in the fog anyway." Livinia looked up at me pleading for affirmation, her cheeks splashed red, her full lips quivering.

"But that makes it even worse," I said, knowing what I was about to say wouldn't make me a fan favorite. "I need to come clean. That noisemaker was the priest. I should have told you."

"What are you saying? Why, why didn't you tell me?"

"I wanted to shield you from danger, even if it turned out to be another big nothing. Which it was."

"By not being honest? You knew this and said nothing? Who the fuck do you think you are?" Livinia was livid. She reached up to slap me, but I was stellar, grabbed her arm and held it.

"Please, Livinia, hear me out. The priest was looking for a way to make amends, that's all. He thinks if he wanders around burdened with that cross he'll be forgiven. It was him making that racket, and it wasn't intentional. That's why I didn't say anything." I let go of her arm, hoping I didn't squeeze too hard.

"It sure sounded intentional," Livinia said. She was still irate but I sensed a sense of poise creeping back to center stage.

"He's just another Island Loony Tune, that's all."

Livinia frowned, unsure of what I was telling her. It was a lot to ask from anyone. Finally, careful and semi-composed, she asked, "Well, then who's doing all this? And why?"

I was a bad guesser but told her what I thought anyway, "Your guess is as good as mine."

#  19

Out of the blue, Doc threw open the front door of the library and her royal majesty stepped in. Faintly surprised to see me, she said, "Why, lovely boy, you're up early for a Saturday."

"It's never too early to read a good book," I said, turning towards her with a sheepish grin.

"The early bird catches the worm, no doubt," she winked.

"Hi, Maria," said Livinia, her eyes lighting up. "What a pleasant surprise."

"The morning's full of pleasant surprises it seems," said Doc. "Are you all right, Vini? You look a tad distressed."

"Not in the least."

Doc looked festive, but it was a ruse. Her silver hair was pinned back from her face and held by a crimson butterfly pin. She was wearing a long blue skirt, simple sandals, a beige wool sweater, and teal scarf. She moved close to the reference table, looked down at where Livinia sat and studied her puffy face, making her own appraisal, taking nothing for granted. After a few seconds, she turned and gave me a scowl and then turned back to Livinia. "Well, just in case you're not well, I know the perfect cure."

"And what would that be, Doc?" I asked, like I always did, hoping for another elevated rejoinder.

"A breath of fresh air. It's the secret formula for those who are out of sorts."

"And how do you fix those who aren't out of sorts but just out of breath?"

"Allow that in your case the prescription's been filled," said Doc, with a cagey expression I didn't appreciate, but made me laugh nevertheless.

"Girl and boy, It's been an awful week," she continued. "That's why I'm here. I just needed to get away for a breath of fresh air myself. Come to see Vini. But I see I've been beaten to the punch."

"You know you're welcome anytime, Maria," Livinia fawned.

"Oh, children. They've been coming to me in droves. Everyone suddenly seems sick. Young, old, misfit, washed up, makes no difference. Everyone's got an ache."

"Is there a flu going around?" Livinia asked.

"No, but there's a mischief for sure and it's of epidemic proportions. Once we get a whiff of death, it never goes away. Everyone's scared and scared means an ache, a pain, something material for which they can get medicine."

"Take a seat, Doc," I said, sliding over a chair from a table in the parlor.

"Don't mind if I do. It's been one long month. Everyone's running to see me. They're seeing things that no one else sees. Some think they're seeing ghosts, that they're being followed like Mister Jameson and my dear Smiley and Mister Edwards and Mike Calderone. Pretty Mary Angeli was in just the other day and swore up and down that Franklyn Perricone's ghost was following her around town."

"Probably followed her right into Jonah's Liquor Depot," I amiably offered, not letting on that I, too, was being followed.

"No jesting allowed. Hers is a sad situation. I shouldn't be telling you two this but I'll implode if I don't get it off my chest."

"You know we got our lips sealed, Maria," said Livinia.

"Well you better, my beautiful child, what I'm revealing is private information."

"Nothing's private here," I reminded. "Julia Beck's a walking megaphone."

"I refuse to be petty." Doc wagged her finger urging me to hush up. Dearies, I know that Mary Angeli has a serious problem. Her husband no longer lives with her, and I personally know what that's like. It can force you off a cliff."

Livinia and I vigorously nodded. We didn't want her to get started on that again. She wouldn't be able to stop.

"And Mister Jameson was in recently as well, complaining about his neck, about taking a spill a while ago and now says he knows for a fact that some criminal element is casing his store. Thinks he'll be robbed, or 'gunned down' as he puts it, and he can't tell who it is because his neck hurts and by the time he turns to look, whoever's leering in is gone. So many ghosts to attest to."

"So many idiotic distractions," I said.

"So many horrible stories," said Livinia. "Did you treat him, fix Jameson up?"

"I gave him aspirin and a bag of chamomile tea, and I told him to close shop and go back to Florida. And just yesterday, Mike Calderone comes to the office and tells me he sees his father rising from the waves along Rosabella, and Smiley now believes he sees giant, misanthropic Indians laying in wait behind every sycamore, and your boss, Mister Edwards sees his dead wife sitting by her gravestone toying with the silk roses."

"Did you give them chamomile tea too?" Livinia asked.

"I did. And before I forget, Father Jacobs brushed by me today and he was mumbling to himself. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but it sounded like gibberish. I swear, words, words, words. There's a price to pay for each immoderate act."

I interrupted, wanting to set the record straight. "Immoderate? He shot an owl in our public square. I'd call that dangerous. And now he's seeing things? Maybe he thinks he's in contact with God. I wouldn't be surprised"

"I can't imagine. I've never treated him for anything other than indigestion."

"Well start imagining. I think he feels God's in contact back. That's must be how it works with the anointed. They all think they got hot lines to the top. Either way, add him to the loony squad and boil up some tea for him too."

Doc put a hand to her forehead in commiseration. She suddenly looked like she was in mourning. "Poor people, poor Island," she moaned. "It's not only sights, it's sounds. There's a bevy of complaints involving people hearing strange sounds at night and even when they're out during the day. For instance, Mister Brett says he's hearing knocking noises outside his front door."

"That's just plain absurd," said Livinia, swallowing hard.

"In fact, even sturdy Julia Beck's hearing noises when she's alone at work in her shop. 'Animal noises', she calls them. And do you know, Peggy Swift, one of the Sinbad waitresses swears she's picking up vibrations, strange comings and goings in the restaurant attic when she's with Rhonda cleaning up for the night."

"They do say Sinbad's haunted," said Livinia.

"Yeah, drunks of Christmas past," I chimed in.

"My sweethearts, it's my job to take each report seriously. Constable Martin covers one end of the investigative spectrum and I do my due diligence at the other. Peggy has only one ear. It makes sense that the other may be hypersensitive."

"Or hyperbolic at the least," I added. "Or maybe she's a hypochondriac like most of the locals that come to your office."

Doc shook her head. "No, No, No. Don't be snooty, unless you're included. I've spent long hours with you too, sweet one, and with you as well, my lovely girl."

I grimaced in annoyance. There wasn't a thing I wanted Livinia to know about me unless I told her myself. "Not denying I'm less than perfect," I said. "Have you spoken to my mom? I bet she's been chatting it up with quite a few unspecified guests."

"Matter of fact, we go way back. We're close confidants. Unfortunately, Lucille's condition's not related to the follies."

"I understand, but I'm not sure what to do."

"I hope you understand the gravity of the situation," said Doc. "Inevitably, you'll have to make provisions for her before a few more years pass. Alzheimer's Disease is degenerative and while she's in the early stages, her mind will slowly deteriorate and her sweet soul will soon follow and then _Poof_."

"You don't have to tell me about Poof, Doc. I know Poof. And what about Chip? Has he suffered any new breaks from reality?"

"No! Chip reports to you as I understand."

"Well, you're understanding's wrong. Chip reports to no one, not even to himself. He's not that careful."

"Well, Lucille always says he's special, and I recall her once saying that Chip could see, 'from the inside looking out'."

"I'd say more from the bottom looking up."

"I'm not worried about the Tables' clan yet," confided Doc. "It's everyone else on this Island. I just wish they find this malcontent before he does more damage."

"They will," Livinia reassured, though I could tell she was anything but that.

I'm terribly worried," said Doc. "Like the poem says: 'An Island's like a boat at sea. The more weight it's forced to conflate, the more it loses its reason to be.'"

Doc returned to her practice. It suddenly became noon-ish without our realizing, and the library was starting to fill up. It was clear the library had become a safe place to grab a corner and hide out.

"People are taking shelter in the aisles, Livinia quietly noted, and not everyone's flipping pages either. They're staring at the ceiling, looking at book jackets, looking at each other. Like Maria thinks, they're scared to death."

"I see what you mean," I said, my boots laced up, my sweater back on. "But what are they planning to do?"

"They plan on waiting, for what I don't know. They just stand there....look at them," she whispered from across the reference desk. "It seems like they're looking into empty space."

"I'd say they're more looking into themselves, seeing how much shit they can take. No one knows what to make of these shenanigans."

" _Shenanigans_. What a silly silly word. It's more than shenanigans," said Livinia. "And you know it. Why do you treat this chaos so lightly?"

"I'm not. Just trying to put it into context."

"I'm starting to think you're not so innocent either, that you're a sarcastic person with an entitlement thing going that isn't warranted. Maybe you're just as superficial as everyone else."

"I don't know that at all!" I loudly said back even as Livinia placed a chiseled finger over her lips telling me not to unravel.

And presto chango, just like that, we began to readjust our assessments of the morning. We began to scan each other with bright new eyes, like one scans the ticker tape at the marketplace looking to enrich our stock in each other's personal portfolio that had, only hours before reached record highs and was now about to crash. It was horrible and it dawned on me that Livinia had nothing left to say. Neither did I. I said my goodbyes to Livinia and left. It was a bad way to split, but there were Geese in the library and I didn't want a flap. Obviously, there were lots of potholes to fill before we could drive down that road again and reach the open highway.

Highways. I decided to take the long way home, stopping for a drink at Sinbad's first. It was pretty empty for a Saturday afternoon, but a college game would be on the box soon and keep me busy for a few uninspired hours. What Livinia said was troubling. Was my game exposed? Was there a game? Still, something Doc said troubled me even more. I wasn't sure what until I left the bar and headed for Rosabella. Striding down the path towards the beach, I kept thinking about Doc's comparison of Flora's Island to a boat at sea. The metaphor was clear. Flora herself, her entire coterie of trapped and estranged inhabitants, was under siege. Flora was the boat, had taken on too much water and now, as a consequence of poor management, her constituents were bailing out. It wasn't that Flora was losing her grip on the population, a population she populated with ne'er-do-wells, over achievers, dreamers, schemers, and now a killer, it was that she was losing her _raison_ _d'être_ in her monumental effort to control all variables. That was fine, but a maelstrom like Flora becomes dangerous when on the brink, and the machinations employed in her acts of preservation could wipe us out.

Maybe I had it wrong. Maybe the allure was genuine and not a consequence of her iron will to bring us here in the first place. Maybe Flora recognized that only tough bastards could survive her brand of love, her not so benign tender tendencies, her violent instinct to obfuscate the obvious, drive us to the edge and keep us that way, fierce, independent, oppositional. We live far out to sea. What kind of fools would sign up for this kind of indentured servitude anyway? Waylaid by Flora's sheer beauty, most of us had little idea of the cost of such allegiance to such shallow aesthetics. She mined our weaknesses until we were just crushed rock, and then she went back for more. There would always be more until now, now that she went too far and couldn't bring us back under her control. Everything - her voracious animals, her un-natural phenomenon, her grisly spirits, her people, her fierce, frugal hirelings - were rioting all over the place. What was a little Island with big ambitions to do?

As I cleaved my way home along Rosabella's white, sandy beach, I took note of how the red sun was beginning to set like a picture across the broad horizon of the Sound, and I hazarded to guess that the answer to the quandary facing us Geese- and Turkeys alike- wouldn't present as pretty a picture. In fact, I imagined a snapshot right from Hades was more what Flora had in mind when Time's camera went _Click_ and the Island went _Poof_.

#  20

Cannonballs! Cannibals! Cannabis sativa! Canada! Xanadu! Can I do! Can I don't! Cannon fodder! Can a father? Can a Mother? Can a worms! Can a germs! Can I can't! Bet I can! Cannonballs! Iron balls! Big balls! Basketballs! Cannonballs! Can of squalls! Can of peas! Canopies! Can I please? Can of trees! Can of flaws! Can of claws! Can of paws! Cannonballs! Can of balls! Call to order! Call to arms! Cauliflower! Call in case! Case the joint! Case in point! Point in place! Polyphemus! Place the call! Pass the ball! Passion flower! Midnight hour! Sweet and sour! Praise the Lord! All Aboard! Smorgasbord! Board and Batten! Beelzebub! Tolling bell! All is well! Muscatel! William Tell! Kiss and tell! Lighthouse Tower! Flora Power! Flower power! Sour grapes! Hairy apes! Nifty babes! Hefty boobs! Cut in cubes! Caribou! Caribes! Cannibals! Cannonballs!

I was dumping all this rotgut on Sassacus, as we sat together late afternoon in my bunker on the ninth hole out at the Meadowlands. I was speculating on Thanksgiving, now a day away, and decided a history lesson was in order. Sassacus grunted his disapproval. I didn't care. Earlier, returning home after a long day's work, I sidestepped the village green in case I bumped into anyone named Livinia. I didn't see her since that morning in the library weeks ago, and I didn't want to see her again until I had a plan worked out. That's why Thanksgiving could spell trouble. On Doc's suggestion, Lucy invited her for Thanksgiving dinner.

I was moving ahead in the gathering gloom down the semi-sheer dip that's the gateway to Rosabella. As the beach flattened into wide berms, I banked hard to the right towards the sunset, a half mile along the Sound's playful splurge, followed the soft bend of the beachhead, took another slight right and slogged towards the mansions rising on the knolls, climbed the walls of sedge and goldenrod split by the copper trellis heavy with beach plums that flared between the twin sentries of shale pillars by the rickety wood steps, then...up, up and away over the swirling sand and sea grass to meet the expanse of the stupendous Harvey Angeli back lawn.

This time of year, this late in the late afternoon, the monstrous estate, styled in the English county tradition, seemed bleak and surreal, void of any floral transgressors hanging on for one last chance to go _Bloom!_ The place was foreboding because its grandiosity could hardly be scripted by one's senses and seemed big enough to house Flora's entire population of Geese five times over and then some.

Once, years ago, Harold was painting a second floor wing in Angeli's main house and took me along on a day when there wasn't anyone to keep an eye out. I wasn't exactly his pride and joy. To him, I was another heavy ladder to lug around, another technical job to be dealt with on his daily To-Do list. Harold was a good Catholic, went to church on Sunday and perfunctorily performed his duties. He was a strapping six footer but the weight of his self-imposed subservience substantially shortened his stance as well as his life. Harold wore little wire glasses that made him look like a file clerk. His hair was grey and cut short, crew cut style. I imagined he cut it short to have one less thing to manage. Today, he would have been called a multi-tasker, but all the tasks he sorted out in the tidy cabinet of his sorry, little storage facility were menial. Harold had no grand objectives, no overarching schemes, no soaring visions. His general unease with himself was contagious. He even made me have doubts when a father's main job was to promote swagger in a son. Fortunately, that role was assumed by others.

Harold's apparent distaste for family left skid marks up and down the genealogical trail. He was rankled by his own father, Louie, and by Roberta. They worked too, but weren't as fastidious in their habits and grooming which gave them a seedy charm where a young boy felt at home. They seemed more in synch with the tough code of Island existence and accepted its primary premise: _If it cries, ship it to the mainland._ Once in a while, they smiled, laughed, even entertained. Despite Louie's deformity, give the old boy some booze and he became a drooling raconteur. Give Harold some and he became pathetically morose. Too much booze and Louie would start howling, rearrange the living room, and then disappear into the night. When Harold overdid it, he would be sucked deeper into the couch, eventually float to the surface, and finally slink upstairs without a word.

His words were hollow anyway. They were empty of anything but decrees. Setting up his paint station at the Angeli estate, he told me to, "Button my lip (so ironic), touch nothing, and watch and learn. You may be looking at your future someday." I didn't know whether he meant my future as a house painter for the blue bloods or my future as a tycoon. This was in the spring, 1961. I was nine. Chip still had his eyes for another few months. I was tall but there was no indication that I would soon soar like a pole bean and become whatever I was to become. Harold was under no illusions. Like all Geese, history would be our guide, service, our place. I would be no different. In retrospect, Harold was right on the money. There would be some limited fame for me, but certainly no fortune. I would fall back into the fold under the wing of time, another goose egg hurled into the black hole of Goose history. Like they say at Sinbad's when no one's paying attention, " _You Goose, you lose._ " Still, this kind of inevitability offered some creature comforts. For instance, I didn't have to waste time worrying about what the future would bring. I didn't have to while away the hours fretting over ever dip and rise of my extensive holdings. If I wasn't going to be fortune's fancy pants at least I wasn't going to be fortune's fool either. It was all about balance, all about fate.

My fate incredibly ties in with this simple, springtime excursion to the Angeli estate, into a realm beyond my wildest comprehension and imbued me with a feeling that in some magical quadrant of the universe there were special places inhabited only by titans. There was a ballroom the size of Madison Square Garden and a chandelier the size of the full moon. A dozen bedrooms of immense configurations housed beds bigger than my bedroom. I inspected fancy-fauceted bathrooms with Italian marble and tiny tiles that seemed to glow in the dark. I saw at a safe distance six walk-in fireplaces that could roast Hansel and Gretel and above each grew a brick chimney as big as factory smokestacks that broke through the rafters to kiss the clouds. I privately visited an immense silver kitchen that gleamed in lustrous wonder like the night sky at the Meadowlands and boasted more utensils than all of Sears. There was a workout room with black, twisted machinery that would make Spanish inquisitors dance the flamenco, a play room with huge soft, leather couches and speakers the size of pickups.

I snuck down to the basement to an area called the Rumpus Room and marveled at the two billiard tables, the two ping pong tables, the dart boards, the three Pachinkos, the five flashing pin ball machines and the floor to ceiling juke box that housed every forty-five ever made. On the other end, so far in the distance I had to run forever to see, was a bar with a mirrored wall lined with rows of glossy bottles. The wooden bar top, twice as long as Sinbad's, was perfectly polished with not a scratch on it.

Back upstairs, I even discovered a music room with two baby grands named Steinway, a pipe organ, and an orchestra's worth of equipment. There were rooms I missed and rooms that were sealed and rooms that had furniture covered in plastic sheets and rooms that whispered invitingly through the key holes of the eight foot wood paneled doors, _Enter Ye who Dare!_ And others that screamed, _Enter at your own Peril!_ I wouldn't dare; there was too much peril. And always there was Harold down the hall.

The heavily-fescued estate was typically called an English Country House but not one Goose could say with authority whether it was or it wasn't, although it could have fit any European principality and clicked. A few indignant locals loaded up at Sinbad's created their own classification system based on their own confused druthers: the "Giant Angeli Shitshack," or the, "Angeli Mausoleum," or the, "Great Angelic Relic," just to name a few. But Shep actually came closest when in one of his stupors he dubbed it the, "Angeli Fuckin' Folly."

In addition to the main house, Angeli's property sported two carriage houses, a thatched roof cottage, a pool house bigger than the Tables' old ranch house off Calypso, a huge, trailer-like bunkhouse for the summer workers, an eight car garage stocked with ritzy cars that sat useless all summer but were polished weekly nevertheless, a 40X80 black gunite pool with waterfalls, hot tubs and a marble mermaid fountain spouting water from her giant bazookas dead center in the pool. There was also a double alley of elms and impeccable espaliers and exotic shrubs and wisteria. The picturesque driveway along the main entrance where I usually trekked my way down to the main road was a football field long and was brick and bluestone and lined with magnolias and dogwoods and drop dead chestnuts and sycamores. Once I hit Calypso Avenue it was only a half a mile to the guard station back to Geese territory and then a quarter mile after that with a quick jog around the Meadowlands to my apartment. The problem, however, was the cannonball and the return of the native.

The sun was fading fast in my sandy lair. I decided Sassacus should leave the tulip tree he was hollowing to make his dugout, drop his adze next to the firepot and nonchalantly follow me from the beach. As we settled in, he remained sympathetic, occasionally smiling his broad smile and nodding in agreement as I spoke. He had a red sheen enriched by the last shreds of daylight breaking over his powerful physique. At times, he looked like a brooding Greek statue made of clay. When I occasioned a side glance, he looked menacing; a moment later, docile. It was hard to tell which, as I ransacked my brain to draw a clearer bead on my guest.

Aside from the head bobs, Sassacus remained motionless, although the pipe he was smoking periodically issued great clouds of smoke. He wore a feathered necklace and his jet black hair was braided into a tight curlicue like a coiled snake. He wore deerskin leggings, a pair of sturdy mukluks and a colorful breechclout topped with a flowing green blue garment that was wrapped around him like a toga. His stony, grey eyes gleamed in the waning light and he took no notice of the sharp wind that swirled around our enclosure and lashed the golf course, shaking the wan plantings and dead meadow grass that seemed permanently bent and beaten. Folded in half and resting across his knees was the wampum belt.

"The cannonball! If only I didn't see it," I told Sassacus right out loud, but how could I help it. It sat precariously on the bar top in the basement with its mouth agape like a small bowling ball with only one hole. I suppose it was an Angeli conversation piece but to a child, a child tall enough even then to reach up and nab it, it seemed more like a strange toy that warranted a careful look-see. It was surprisingly heavy but not so very for a kid my size. I rolled it around in my curious fingers, smelling it, sticking my nose then tongue, into its rust-caked flue. There was no response, but the texture dictated old so I figured it smelled ancient; it tasted historic. The cannonball was so corroded it reminded me more of an odd-shaped blowfish than a relic. All I knew was that it was different and I wanted it and knew I could have it because no one was around to say otherwise. I would stash it in my lunchbox. I had no idea that Harvey Angeli was watching me from the doorway. "Hey kid, he said, watch out with that thing. It might explode in your face."

I turned to face him, trembling and afraid, afraid more that Harold would find out that I touched something I was not supposed to touch. Angeli's appearance surprised me. Like Jack in the giant's den, I was expecting a swarthy beefcake but what I got was a thin, little buttercup, a balding mustachioed dandy. His complexion was dark but when he later got closer I realized that he wasn't. He was more yellow in a jaundiced way with a noticeable brown smudge resined beneath each eye like he'd been in a brawl and got socked. He wore orange slacks, brown penny loafers, no socks, a green button down with a white sweater tied around his shoulders in the fashion of the day.

"I... I... I was just looking," I murmured, choking back tears. There was fear in my voice, but it was already fading, giving way to a child's natural curiosity about the flaxen pipsqueak with the runty voice leaning like a chameleon against the door frame.

"It's all right kid. Try not to cry. Didn't mean to scare ya. I was just joking, that's all. Take a look all ya want. No big deal."

Harvey Angeli was young back then, about thirtyish, and later I learned he had made a fortune in the stock market through insider trading. However, he made more of a fortune peddling heroin and cocaine. Using his father's real estate money as start up, Angeli built a drug empire by being ahead of the curve, by being enterprising, and by being vicious. His marketing plan was simple. As I imagine it, it went something like this: "You try it, you buy it. You snort it, you bought it. You flash it, I cash it!" Shooting up, wasted away, being stoned, were all hyponyms of sorts, suggesting a down ending for any upstart not named Angeli. TrustNo1 were the symbols etched on the customized plates on the lead red Ferrari 250 GT California Spyder in his garage. The last car in the line was a shiny, black Rolls that said _Trustabusta_. Having no scruples but what effete breeding brought him, and having no faith in anything not named Smith and Wesson, he scratched out an expanding territory in which seed money was loaned to dozens of minions to fashion their own take on how a profitable drug portfolio should be appropriately presented to the public. His loans yielded high rates of return, and he had friends in high and low places to insure the safety of his investments through whatever means necessary. His empire, and that's what it was at the time, netted him tens of millions, no chump change for 1961.

He wasn't married to Mary at the time. He was a considerable bachelor until he spied her playing the piano at a Crescent Club gala later that year. He was touched by her grace and the manner in which her white, delicate fingers sprinkled over the keys with deft precision. He was moved by her sad, lifeless eyes and fragile carriage, but he was most impassioned by the way her head tried to stuff itself back into her body like a turtle. She deplored even the least hint of attention even as her great gift rang out over the banquet hall drawing eyes and ears and loud applause. That appealed to Angeli the most, the fact that she inversely assessed the adulation as a mode of criticism, a fraudulistic form of adoration, a kind of mockery. While Angeli trusted no one, this frail delicacy trusted everyone except herself and her God given talents. She was stained, self-stamped, and anything positive was returned to sender. How perfect she was. "My little turtle dove, my mock turtle," he'd call her derisively, the latter becoming a term of entrapment beginning on their honeymoon in the Aleutians and ending, according to Beck, when he stranded her on Flora's with two kids, a tiny house, a modest income, and a giant drinking problem.

Initially, he made subtle inquiries because he loved what he saw and discovered she was a Flora's favorite, an eighteen year ingénue living with her parents, Miller and Ruthie Wattle, in a giant Tudor just down the road. Sweeping her off her feet was easy. He had every toy in the universe, and, along with the rest of his trifles, he easily purchased Mary for the right price: total domination. Mary was overwhelmed by his rough charm and his generous nature. She admired the way he fretted over every movement of his staff from gardeners to bricklayers to maids and the way he privately handled every aspect of the redesign of the Caldwell estate which he paid for in cash just the year before.

If _Clueless_ had a name, it would be called Mary Wattle. What he saw in her was a perfect front. What she saw in him was the back of his hand. I often wonder what drives a person so low that they need to be punished to keep from sinking into abject misery. Harold could punish himself without any help. He was a master of misery and could minister to all the inflections of his self-inflictions. Mary couldn't. She made a bee line straight to her personal hell from the first day he introduced himself at the club.

I'm no expert in pain, but maybe that pain was a reminder of her place in the world, a servile place of mental mutilation and physical humiliation she couldn't get to without Angeli's insistence that she meet his firm hand head on. Perhaps she saw her subjugation as an act of courage. Perhaps she saw her suffering as the sacrifice one needs to make to level the unlevel playing field of life, or maybe her passivity formed the perimeter of an acute pleasure she couldn't arrive at in any other way. In either case, she never saw it coming, _Clueless_ , from the start.

Moving from the door, Angeli half-skipped in little baby steps over to the bar top and grabbing the cannonball out of my hands, began twirling it in the air. "Take a guess, kid. Is this a cannonball from the Civil War or Revolutionary War? They musta taught ya something at that stinker of a school."

"I don't know," I said, swallowing hard.

"Ya don't know which or ya don't know what?"

I began to sweat. I didn't know which war was which or who fought in them. I was in fourth grade. There were two other kids in my class, Mike Calderone being one of them, and the teacher was still mucking about in the topography of Brazil and the Viking expeditions up and down the Northeast corridor. An introduction to American History, except for an outline of the Constitution and some crap about our early Presidents, wouldn't come until after Christmas. I guessed: "The Revolutionary one."

"Good try kid, the booby prize is all yours. The answer is neither. Eva' hear of Captain William Kidd?"

"Yeah!" I said, "He was a pirate."

"Was he a good pirate or a bad pirate?"

"Pirates are always bad. He was a bad pirate."

"Wrong again, kid. Wasn't even hardly a pirate," Angeli cackled in delight. "He was a privateer, a company man, a good guy. They screwed him in the end, left him hanging by his goodies at the mouth of the Thames over there in London. They left him to rot. There's a lesson for ya. Neva' neva' eva' trust anyone with your cash! Know what I'm saying, kid?"

I'd no idea what Angeli was saying, so I said, "I don't know."

"Kid, are ya saying ya don't know what I'm saying," his voice rising into a shrill ping, "or ya saying ya don't know what I mean?"

I repeated myself not wanting to choose wrong. "Don't know."

"Well I know one thing kid," Angeli said, returning the cannonball to me. "You're a damn big kid for such a little kid. But ya don't talk much, do ya? That's good. Count that as a gift."

"Are you giving me the cannonball?" I asked hopefully, immediately perking up at the word _Gift._

"Kid, the gift of gab isn't a gift. It's a stinking curse. The gift you have is knowing when to shut up. You come work for me when you're older. I could use someone like you. Captain Kidd was a big mouth, but he shot off more than his mouth," Angeli said, pointing to the cannonball. "He used to unload these babies all the time. Target practice mostly. Had dozens of cannons on his prize ship. Had to clean the pipes now and then, if ya know what I mean. The balls would land all over the joint. When I redid the pool, the excavators coughed up a bunch."

"I'm sorry I took it down."

"Look, I'm gonna give ya this one, my gift to you. Tell your dad it's not a problem. Tell him to take good care of it. Tell him to store it in acid for a few months. It'll take off the rust. Won't look like new but what would, being buried like that."

"How old is it?" I asked, turning red with embarrassment.

Angeli smiled. In the fluorescent fuzz of the basement bar, his teeth gleamed, wolf-like, sharp, his mouth oddly dark and purple. "Glad ya asked, kid. Local historian, guy named Webster, seems to think the balls are at least three hunnerd years old."

"Wow, that's old!"

"That's right. Maybe you can make a few bucks selling it when it's all polished up. Pirate booty's one of my favorite kind of booty. Pirates took theirs; we're taking ours. Right, kid? Aaargh...hahaha!"

"Yeah, hahaha!" I repeated, gleaming at Angeli's antic. Then I suddenly paused. "I don't know if my dad will let me take it."

"Don't worry 'bout that, kid. I'll speak to him. He'll be happy to have it. He'll unnerstan' a gift's a gift. And no backsies. I ain't no Indian giver."

"Thanks a lot," I said.

Thanks a big heap. The cannonball set off a fusillade of complaints when it got home later that day. Harold didn't want the thing anywhere near the house. "Angeli's a crook. He's no good. He shouldn't of convinced me to take it in the first place. What the hell was I thinking? 'Take it for your son'," he said. "Yeah, my son. Raney doesn't need these reminders sitting on his bedroom shelf."

"But it's pirate booty," I said, emboldened by my new possession. "It's worth lots of money. Yeah! Aaargh...hahaha!"

Harold took his glasses off, rubbed his eyes. His face had that mashed, sour look to it that always spelled trouble. "It's not funny. It's blood money. Anything Angeli touches is washed in blood. What was I thinking? He's a gangster. I should of said no. I hear so many stories about what he's done."

"He said it was a gift."

"Pipe down or I'll shut it down! There's no such thing as a gift," Harold boomed. "Everything comes with a price."

So it seemed at the time and still seems now, Chippy paying the absolute, highest price. I began crying after Harold's tirade, and Chip began screaming at Harold, and Lucy started to blubber over the sink in the kitchen. When Harold relented, as he always did, having as much backbone as a worm, he said with a stoic's resolve, "You're never going to work with me again. Hear me? Neither will Chip."

Furiously taking the cannonball under his arm, Harold plunged down the steps to the basement. Fumbling about, he soon found what he was looking for. From a debris-ridden corner, Harold grabbed an empty, plastic paint can and dropped in the cannonball. Then, opening the door of a pantry over the washing machine, he removed a full, clear container he bought years ago in a store in New London. The container had a skull and crossbones hazard symbol emblazoned across its large, white label. It also had the words Oil of Vitriol printed in parenthesis on it, as well as the word corrosive and the number 98 as a percentage. In addition, there was writing in fine print, warnings and risks, etc., typed in back. In much larger, dark blue letters the words _SULPHURIC ACID_ were written in capital and italicized.

Carefully lifting the paint can onto the top of the washing machine, Harold slowly emptied out part of the container into the bucket, making sure there were no spills or splashes. When the ball was covered over, he resealed the container, returned it to the cupboard and placed the paint can in another cupboard which had a combination lock on it and locked that door with a flourish.

The can lay there two months. Summer was now in full swing. Inside the pantry, the rust peeled off the fuzzball, microscopic chain reactions boiled away centuries of sludge, things fell apart at a roller coaster pace, time quickened up, reshaping the old back into something resembling the new, not perfect mind you, but close enough to call the iron dewdrop a cannonball once again.

When Harold unlocked the lock, twiddling at the lock like a squirrel busying over an acorn, he took out his creation and showed it some daylight. It was a perfect morning, early July, swimming weather. The cannonball was still half-submerged in the swampy liquid that smelled like rotten chicken. Removing it to the porch, Harold left the paint can on the stoop, went back and poured more of the acid into a green, gallon-sized glass jar that had once been used for holding daisies before Baby Girl died. He brought it upstairs and carefully placed it onto the porch railing near the wooden steps.

Sassacus shook his head, sensing danger. His eyes glittered in the gathering dark. He tapped the stem of his pipe with a long, thick finger turning out the burnt tobacco. It frittered away into the sand. " _You have to figure_ ," I burst out loud, " _Harold wasn't the type to make mistakes_." His to-do list was more of a list of don'ts, one being don't let this acid out of your sight. His goal was to empty the froth from the can, replace it with fresh acid, and then stuff it back in the pantry for two more months. But just then the siren went off five times at the fire station. The siren's song wasn't even on Harold's to-do list that morning though it climbed to number one in a flash. Once he got to the station and learned it was only a brush fire it became a major let down in a string of major let downs. It was dry season and every week there was another fire to put out. Only once did the flames come close to licking anything other than a gardener's ass, and that was when it burned down a shack by the guard house.

As a member of the Flora's Island Volunteer Fire Department and Rescue Squad, it was Harold's duty to uphold the principles set forth in the department's code of conduct. One article was to make haste in arriving at the fire station when the siren sounded. Public safety was at the top of his thoughts; the dress code was second. Moving faster than he normally would, Harold bust through the front door and changed into his ambulance gear, required of all rescue squad members if time allowed. Harold always allowed for time. The starched, blue uniform with its heavy fireproof jacket was his pride and joy. His team hadn't seen action in days. He was only the ambulance driver. He didn't exactly lead the squad into battle. The uniform balanced the ledger and gave him something to be proud of. He knew driving an ambulance was important as any other job. The Island was eleven miles long and since most of the accidents involved Geese, it never took him longer than ten minutes to get victims to the ambulance boat docked at Deep Harbor.

In fact, the only time he gave priority lip service to anyone other than Lucy was four years prior to Chip's accident when Harold was a new driver and when the Marcheses's car hit a pole down by Deep Harbor. The Marcheses, a family of five Turkeys were running late to catch the last Sunday ferry. They had their two Springer Spaniels in the back seat of the station wagon. When the three ambulances arrived, one of the kids and the wife needed first aid and would later be bandaged up and rushed by ambulance boat to the Hospital. Unfortunately, one of the spaniels was driven into the front seat and had gone through the window.

Mr. Marchese, seeing that the other attendants were busy with the human casualties, asked Harold, the driver of the third ambulance, to see what he could do about the dog. It was bleeding badly, but because it wasn't breathing, Harold had to attend to that situation first. There was bloody mucus seeping lightly from the dog's mouth, but he saved it, getting down on all fours and blowing life back into the spaniel by cradling both apertures into his own mouth simultaneously.

If only a picture hadn't been taken by one of the fire truck crew, Harold might have gotten away with his heroic act untarnished. But the picture was printed, set in a glossy 8" X 10" frame and ignominiously presented to him as a gift for his service at the next July 4th fund raiser. Harold took the gag and gibes in stride, never mentioning it, hiding the image of the famous deed in the basement pantry on a shelf right below where the cannonball was hidden. But he never forgot and never forgave and quit the department not long after Chip was blinded and the ambulance he was operating that same day was late to his own son's misfortune.

How was I to know what was in the green glass jar? How was I to know Harold never meant for it to be spilt or thrown? He shouldn't have left it outside. Everything had a specific place in his fabricated world except that jar. His boys played rough. He should have known. Everything not screwed down was a potential weapon. That's what boys did. They hit, they threw, they cursed. Tag, hide-n-seek, one-ups-man-ship always. It was the rule with siblings. There wasn't much going on on the Island. We weren't rich. We were Geese. We had no pool, no tennis court, no tee time, no Crescent Club; the only lessons we had were more primitive and unsupervised. Our camp counselor was Flora and she played dirty.

Our few friends weren't busy that day. Sure, a few were out in New London with their moms shopping for food and buying sneakers. The rest were around somewhere but not with us. A big, burly Island for little boys to roam. We could have been shooting hoops by the school or shooting up the back fields with our BB guns. We could have been fluke fishing by the dock in Deep Harbor. We should have been, but we weren't.

The ocean was too rough to swim that day, so said the lifeguards. They were never on duty. Big-boned, tanned and greased-up Turkeys, smoking weed in the bushes. They were there for the babes and to look cool. They didn't need the chump change. Not a Goose ever got to be a lifeguard. Not even on our ugly pseudo-beach, Little Carnamount, the flat, gummy beach running from the airport to close to town, where the water was always muck, the pebbles sharp like crumbled rock.

It wasn't that rough. The waves were less than medium as far as I recall. There were boats cruising the water. There were surfers on their boards ignoring the warning. Pals, no doubt, of the guards. Nevertheless, there it was, big hand-written signs posted on the three massive lifeguard chairs: _NO SWIMMING TODAY!!!_ We weren't exactly kid kids. We could look after ourselves, but no, they chased us away, cursing and shooting us with their bazooka water cannons. We knew Flora's like we knew the back of our hands. We were free to roam. The Island belonged to us. We were given a long leash. But Chippy was older by two years. I had to get even. It was war on a hot summer day with nothing going on. Only Roberta was in. Lucy was working for the Fergusons, cleaning their palace. Harold had just left on an ambulance run. Roberta was in. Somewhere. So we thought. Chippy shouldn't have hit me with that sock. It was filled with beach sand. He should have known better; he was older. He should have known.

The problem was simply that Harold was alone when the sirens went off. Lucy was employed as a laundress at the Chesney compound and had a passel of clothes and linen to wash and fold. It would take all day. And his boys, his sun-soaked, water-logged boys, were probably fishing or shooting off their BB guns down by the town dump. However, he knew them enough to know they'd go to grandma Roberta's for lunch and by then he'd be back home. A five alarmer on Flora's could mean anything. All alarms on the Island were five alarm affairs as the alarm itself was broken and couldn't be set to anything other than five blasts. It had been like that for years and who needed to mess with tradition when tradition would do. Five siren shots added to the efficacy of the important business at hand, and wasn't all emergency calls important? Harold thought they were, and of such importance, that he abandoned the jar of acid right on the railing to go get his uniform on. He would be back in time, he would.

But we came back early anyway because grandma had an errand to run in town and we were hungry. And that's when Chip hit me with that sandy, wet sock. He pulled it from his beach bag and - _BAM!_ \- right in my face. And that's exactly when brotherly revenge reared it's quite normal, quite ugly head. I was chasing after Chip and looking for a way to get even. We circled and circled the house. We were laughing hysterically. I was looking for advantage. Then I saw the green, glass jar. I ran over to the porch, looked in. It was filled with water. How easy was that? It was just that easy.

#  21

My father, Harold Tables, died when he was sixty years old on a blustery April afternoon two weeks to the day before my thirtieth birthday. Having washed some big panes and scraped some peeling paint off the northern wing of a massive Georgian estate in advance of the owner's spring fling, he carefully climbed down the thirty two foot ladder secured against the brickwork (Harold eschewed scaffolding,) a bucket in one hand, a scraper in the other, breathed a few unnatural breaths, then let go his work tools and collapsed onto the patio, dead before he hit the ground.

There was no warning that a heart attack was imminent. There was no warning if there was a warning because Harold would've kept his discomfort to himself. It was just his sulking way. Lucy, nearing her breaking point, would reprimand him back then with such ferocity Chip and I thought the world was coming to an end. "You're not my husband!" she'd bellow, throwing a flower pot at his head so he got the message. "What's happened to you? Where's my Harold?" she blasted at the top of her lungs.

In their bedroom, unkindly situated between Chip's room and mine, the tirades weren't any friendlier. "Why are you so docile?" she'd howl, her enmity at such a fevered pitch she remained unmoved by the fear of being overheard by her sons. "Say something for God sakes! Get off the floor you horrible man?"

The upstairs retreats weren't the only sanctums where the odd couple could duke it out. Lucy also raked him over in the basement which she thought was soundproof and safe to unload. She'd lead him down there by the shoulder - he knew it was coming, never put up a fight - and then she'd begin as if a switch was flipped when, in reality, all it was were memories; any one of so many awful Lucy memories being activated. "Please, talk to me! Get out of that chair! Do you have anything to say? I need help with the boys." Less ingratiating expletives ripped right through the timbers of our house rattling our youthful constitution and dispelling any notions of familial repatriation.

Harold never used to fight back or defend himself against these barrages. He preferred a more passive role and often ended the group session by dead-man-walking over to Sinbad's to recoup some losses, but when he couldn't take any more, when the beer tasted bitter and the banter became bothersome, he'd return to the house and unleash a batch of epithets that covered bases no ballpark ever contained.

"Bitch of all bitches," he rebuffed, putting a meaty finger right up against Lucy's nose, "Fat rat of a mother fucker of all fuckers!" he barked in his usual eloquent fashion. "I hope you burn in the pit of hell!" was another of his more flattering favorites though why he bothered, I'd no idea. To Harold, the pit of hell was right here on Flora's, so he must have recognized from the get go that it would have to be a group blaze or no blaze at all.

I think often of Halloween and the costumes we were made to wear, the smashed vinyl's, the strategic furniture mis-placements, the broken promises, the insidious sounding but harmless threats, the reluctant trips to the other side when Harold made it clear he had better things to do than spend time with his family now that his days as an ambulance driver were behind him. His disdain for our youthful apprenticeship was striking. If being a father was a deplorable sense of on-the-job training, then the actual art of training his two minions to be just like him must have made his blood boil. The only thing attached at the hip that Harold found reliable was his work belt. To apprehend that his two sons be offshoots of his own seed was to suggest a deed of intolerable inhumanity. He'd rather be dead. It just took longer than expected.

The worst feature of this grudge match was that Chip and I had to acknowledge that Harold was toxic to our development. There was not a day that went by that we weren't aware of his fascination with his own private failures. Every tragedy he took personally. Baby Girl's and granpapa's deaths rocked him to whatever core there was, but the greatest toll was his oldest son's blinding at the hands of his younger son.

"It could have been prevented," he'd blurt out loud when in a more speculative frame of mind, but more often, he blamed himself for the accident because he was in Sinbad's at the time and was in the middle of a toast to the up and coming Carl Yastrzemski, who just hit a grand slam for the Red Sox he and his medical attendants were watching on the fuzz box.

When the alarm went off and when his crew finally reported to the fire station early that afternoon, Harold wasn't in a state to drive but was in a state of rage that there was something going on at his own home. The brush fire they were summoned to earlier yielded no victims and was doused by the fire truck. Their time was their own after that, and Harold saw no reason not to spend it with a drink in one hand and his walkie-talkie in the other. When the call came in and indicated his own sons needed intervention, he must have imagined another bloody nose or bad case of poison ivy. He didn't rush over. The call didn't specify other than to indicate that there was some big emergency. But weren't they all? Weren't they all five alarmers?

Sometimes I wonder if Chip's blindness didn't boost Harold's sense of worthlessness, that it was something he unconsciously craved, perhaps not this exact disablement, but the idea of further distortion of his children, one too tall, one too blind, one too dead, served as a credit to his failure as a husband, a lover and a father. Could he ever be redeemed by such calamity? How could he find such perverse pleasure in Fate's mishandling of life's greatest treasures?

It all became a moot point after Harold croaked, but even before, I sensed a growing pall in our house, a stillness that came like Island fog and was broken only by Lucy's frantic sing-a-lones, when she overcooked the dumplings in the oven and the pancakes on the stove, when she cleaned Chip and then cleaned his room, when she sat knitting without a jacket on the front porch in the middle of a snowy winter, when she worked as a summer chambermaid and dish-rag on summer estates.

Our home had been deflated, had been growing quieter by the years as it was. Louie's suicide at Rosabella Beach twelve years before served further notice that since Baby Girl's death, there was a steep price to be paid for not paying attention to the germane issues of a family living isolated lives on an Island not constructed to provide safe haven for those in havoc. The Geese shut their mouths as they shut the door on discord. Silence was Flora's greatest weapon to combat insurgent hearts. Even brave hearts, like Lucy, who waged war against the arrangements prescribed by the prevailing circumstances of her life. She first scolded, then she sang, then slowly she lost her bearings, her voice dummied down to the remnants of a sweet refrain about lost love, and then, despite a few revisitations of head banging bouts of violence, Lucy ultimately lost. She lost her vitality, then lost her will and, finally, she lost her mind.

I'd been back from college and from my swing around the coasts by then, and for years I saw her wither right before my eyes. I found it pathetic that once Harold died, the tenor of Lucy's complaints changed and Harold was transformed into a practitioner of good works, a Christian ideologue embodying behavior never appreciated during his campaigns to torment. His death was a shock to our system. It signified the death of one mode of existence and the birth of another. Sometimes I think we mark time not in hours and minutes and seconds but in phases and passages and occasions. We become different not as a consequence of the elapse of time's swift ordinance, but as a consequence of the phases of a relationship, the occasion of a birth, a death, or a life gone astray. I can't tell you exactly when Harold died, I don't subscribe to watches or clocks, but I can tell you how it changed our family, how it brought forth a flowering of emotions imprisoned by the constant vitriol of Harold's morbid tendencies. Sure, many of the feelings were negative but time alone, doesn't heal all wounds, and Chip and I will never overcome the rancor of that defining event in our lives.

Still, the bad taste left by Chip's blinding, was given a more acceptable flavor as soon as the news of Harold's death hit the Island airwaves. Lucy found her voice again even as she began to lose everything else. She seemed more at ease and didn't fret over her cooking or worry about Chip. I think she began to forgive Harold as soon as she saw his death as a perverse promise kept, a sacrifice made for the good of the team. She could certainly forgive him for that. And that's why his death, grim as it was that the house had to be sold, sorrowful as it was that the family had to be shoveled into a barracks' apartment, sad as it was that Harold's life insurance policy hadn't been kept up for years, was a positive stroke for all us survivors.

When the ambulance came roaring down Calypso, sirens blaring, all it signaled was an acknowledgement that the three technicians were too late to save Chip's eyes. When I saw the jar, saw what was in it, my only thought was revenge. A cool shot of water in the face would save face, would even up the score from that whomp in the head. A sand sock hurts; I wanted to hurt back.

Chip saw it coming, saw me pause to peer into the jar, saw me grab it up into my large hands. He then raced away around the house, laughing, laughing so large, me chasing him, me laughing, so full of youthful glee, being sure not to spill any of the magic elixir that would even the score, no - up the ante - in our constant game of one-ups-man-ship. Brotherly love was never so clear cut and pure.

I was gaining on him. My legs were long even at nine. We were hysterical, screaming and laughing out of control, feeling in our bones the sweetness of our youth, the elastic freedom of innocence on innocent parade. We circled and circled the house, two cyclones of unconstrained energy, and then, as I think back on it, I think Chip let me catch up to him. I remember he abruptly stopped and turned towards my rapid approach, turned his head right into my path, into the path of the clear, flying liquid as I raised my long, skinny arms and released the acid full force straight into his beautiful blue eyes. Why would he allow such equanimity? Brotherly love was never so clear cut and pure.

Harold stumbled out of the driver's seat of the ambulance and onto the gravel driveway, apparently stunned by the gathering around his son's writhing body and too loaded to get back on his feet. Chip was lying in the gravel in front of the garage where Grandma Roberta, who was called home by a neighbor, had wrapped a cold, wet towel around Chip's eyes. Grandma was on the verge of hysteria but years of hard living gave her a resilience to counterbalance the shock. In the name of a strong functionality, she may have appeared grim and weepy but she kept it tightly bound, and her strong, little body flailing rapidly about on her knees kept one hand secured on the wet towel, the other punctuating her directives. "Move back!" she wailed. "Give him room! Where's the ambulance? Please call for the ambulance!"

Chip, too, was crying out. "My eyes hurt! I can't see! My eyes are burning!" There was blood on the towel. Some shards of face had melted like wax and were dribbling down his chin. The other technicians didn't hesitate when the ambulance arrived and raced over to Chip, cleared the space, unwrapped the towel, saw the puckering blisters, the black and red shredding of the flesh on his forehead and cheeks, the blood and tearing of Chip's gluey eyes.

One of the technicians called for a hose and started irrigation, letting the water stream over his eyes. The technician was prying open Chip's red lids despite his strong protests, and the man told the fierce Roberta to hold back his arms. Even as he watered, he asked us what got into his face. "It was only water," I cried from a small corner by a large arborvitae. Having revealed the secret of the jar and realizing there was something wrong with what I said, I ran with feet of lead, heart of stone, over to Harold who was just starting to rise and I asked for confirmation. "Right dad?" I shouted in fear and confusion, "It was just water in the jar. Right dad?"

Harold looked at me sharply, he gasped, his face looking like a big pimple about to burst, said only, "Oh my God! Oh my God!" and got over to where Chip lay pinned down by grandma and screaming with all his might on the ground.

"It's chemicals he got in his eyes, It's Sulfuric Acid!" Harold shrieked, his bloated face exploded in agony, turning beet red. The other driver, hearing this, bolted back to the ambulance, called the ambulance boat to be ready in ten, unpacked a saline wash and returned to the scene of the crime.

And it was a crime I tell you: a crime of circumstance, a cosmic crime, a crime with extreme collateral damage. I felt I committed a mortal sin, putting out my brother' eyes, and whether accident or not, it matters little. The event altered the dynamic of our family relationships and put out the candle of my youth. It changed the way I viewed the world and made me more introspective and insecure. Sometimes I believe my height was my punishment for my misdeed, always having to look down to see straight, always having to be encumbered by a profusion of a self greater in magnitude than the average dolt on the street. Some may say my height's an advantage. I say it marginalized my life because it magnified my guilt.

Harold, I'm sure, saw the connection as well and would often tie my size in with Chip's deficit. "One rises, one falls," was his way of mollifying himself, his means of achieving an emotional equilibrium. The equation never was successful because he recognized in whatever part of his soul was still operating by this time that it was simply a zero-sum game. For whatever he attributed to one son, came at the expense of the other. No matter how high I rose as an all-American athlete, it was countervailed by the shame of the lesser son. That's why Harold had little regard for my achievement on the hardwood: to laud Raney would be to belittle Chip. He never forgot it was my fault for consummating his tragic mistake. And for this he never forgave.

Harold's take on what he called, "the brutal accident," knew no bounds. He corralled everyone into the courtyard of his guilt. Yes, he tortured himself for leaving the acid on the porch till the day his heart seized. But, as was his way, he blamed everyone else as well. "If the fire alarms worked correctly, we would a known it was a serious matter," he often said, "and we woulda been there much sooner." He didn't stop there. "The dispatcher could a been more specific," he whined. "How the hell was I suppose to know what was going on at my own home?"

And, of course, his own mother and wife were also prime shareholders in Harold's blame game. "Grandma knew better. She knew to be home for the boys. She'd no business gallivanting all over town hunting down gossip. And as for Lucy, the witch, she shoulda been home instead of earning that odd dollar," he'd shout out to anyone within shouting distance. "If she wanted to earn money, she should a got a normal job with normal hours at a normal time of the day. It was summertime, god-damn it, her job was to be home with the boys."

Those wonderful boys of summer.

As it turned out, Harold quit the ambulance brigade soon after the accident. He had planned on leaving after the dog incident and after a copy of the picture was tacked over the bar at Sinbad's. However, his sharp uniform was more than a match for his pride and he hung in, hung in despite the jokes and canine remarks. But he couldn't make it through the litmus test of Chip's calamity. It was one thing to volunteer to do community work on an Island that sustained itself through community service. It was another thing when that participation culminated in human sacrifice. It seems that Harold's balls were sliced off as effectively as Chip's eyes were fried.

#  22

It's Thanksgiving and trouble erupts on the green even before I get to Lucy's. It wasn't a big event but every event now was sparking meltdowns and dissolutions. What I saw firsthand was the smashed front windows at J.J.'s market. During the night, someone chucked a brick through each one as well as through the glass door. The storefront was a wreck. Glass fragments lay shattered over the sidewalk and larger pieces reposed in odd angles along the front counters and bins. The store was cordoned off with two rows of yellow tape. J.J. was out front in grey sweatpants and sweatshirt cursing no one in particular, and Constable Martin and Detective Smitts were both on the scene trying to sort things out. The place was empty and scrubbed down for the season. The grocer was about to leave the next morning for his winter retreat in Florida and now his trip was on hold. His sweatshirt said _NAPLES_ in big red letters across the chest, but it would have been more accurate if it spelled out _MAGIC KINGDOM_ to denote his delusional demands.

The two officers were trying to reckon with J.J. but he was unstoppable once he got his dander up. "And I swear," he ranted to a small audience formed on the sidewalk, "this has gone far enough. We need more police protection. We need more patrol cars. There's a mercenary workin' round the clock making chopped meat of our lives."

Hearing J.J. go off, Smitts threw his cigarette to the ground, took off his hat, put a hand through his hair, and got over into J.J.'s face, urging him to temper his comments. "Now, come on now, Mr. Jameson. Things could be worse. You're covered for the damage. Let's not make a display of it. We got a crowd here."

"I don't care," said J.J., rubbing his neck with one hand, pointing a withered finger at Smitts with the other. "Tol' you someone was watching my store. Now look at this mess. What's next? Gonna to get a bullet in the back? A whack on my head?"

Smitts put out his hands like he was trying to pat down an insurgency. He could see that J.J. was starting to ruffle the feathers of the Geese, many of whom seemed to materialize whenever something was out of kilter. "Please stop, sir. Constable Martin here will file your complaint and his report will include your sense of being watched."

J.J snorted and spat on the sidewalk, mostly for theatrical effect, though I sensed his intransigence building up steam and heading in the wrong direction. "I'm FLITCO's representative. FLITCO's not happy with these goins' on. It's important to repress information that may leak out to the press. But we can't do that unless he's caught."

Martin, used to Jameson's tirades, calmly leaned himself into the proceedings trying to weigh in. "Mister Jameson, if you don't stand down this moment, I'm liable to let you fend for yourself. You like to depart without closure? You like to leave your storefront like this till next Memorial Day? An open sore where kids could get in, animals too? I can hurry the cleanup and insurance claim or I cannot. It's up to you."

"No. Rather it's up to you, Constable Martin!" Jameson thundered. "Trained professionals such as you both profess to be doing lil' to protect the folks. How long's it been? Your prime suspect's that Negro down by the apartments."

"Now look here," Smitts began to strongly insist.

"No, you look here, detective, You got your boy or not? You watching him or not? If you're doing your job right, there's no way he coulda snuck out last night and bust up my storefront. If he's your only legitimate suspect..."

"Who is and isn't under investigation isn't your concern," said Martin. "Mister Brett's our business, not yours."

"Hell he ain't. He's my concern, you're my concern, every one's my concern cause I represent FLITCO and FLITCO is concerned... damned concerned. We only got us three hunnred people on this Island."

"And we plan to interview everyone of interest." said Smitts.

"Well, what's takin' so long? Can't kick a can down the road without it hittin' water. Killer can't be hiding out. Nowhere to hide. He's one of us...you know that. Most likely that Negro fella. Sorry we hired him. Went against my better judgment. Now look at the fix we're in."

"Mister Jameson," said Smitts, ire building in his voice, "we only know what the facts are telling us and they're telling us we have to proceed cautiously."

Yeah, well tell that to your madman. He'd be more'n glad to know how cautiously you two are movin' forward. He'd be glad to know he got all the time in the world to wipe us out one by one."

From my vantage along the perimeter I could see that Martin had just issued himself a personal gag order. His lips were squashed together as if his hairy face was trying to expel a cherry pit. "If you can't compose yourself, perhaps a night at the station will put you in a better frame of mind."

"Martin, you lay a finger on me, your badge is mine."

Smitts again intervened. "Mister Jameson, please. If you can just calm down, I believe we can wrap this up." He put his big hand on J.J.'s shoulder and gave it a strong squeeze. J.J. looked at the big hand, the tight clamp, blew out a deep breath. He looked suspiciously from Martin to Smitts and then back to Martin. There was nowhere to go. His body began to deflate. I could see by the peevish squint in his eyes that the wind was knocked out of his sails. Even the Geese sensed the show was over and began hurrying home.

"I unnerstand you got a curfew planned. Is that correct?" J.J. asked

"Yes, a ten P.M. to sunrise curfew and we plan on adding another couple of units as soon as we get authorization from Southold."

"Well, you gentlemen may not know but the FLITCO board has already allocated funds to support the addition of a private security presence."

"I don't believe that will be necessary, Mister Jameson. We have matters under control," continued Smitts. "Please inform FLITCO it would only confuse the investigation. Last thing we need are more people here. Now, what's a good idea, sir, is if you wouldn't mind going into your shop and making sure nothing of value's been taken from the back."

"I already told Constable Martin here that all my equipment's been accounted for, knives, 'specially, and that my office and storage room's locked tight and'll remain that way."

"Well, then, thank you for your cooperation," said Smitts.

Locked tight... for the night. Been there, done that. Truth is I later found out Jameson lied to the police. Lied bad about what was taken and what wasn't. I left the scene and hurled myself on towards Thanksgiving.

#  23

The table was set for six. Lucy invited Doc for dinner and Doc invited Livinia for dinner and Livinia, feeling bad for our lonely professor, invited Smiley for dinner. Lucy shouldn't have invited Doc who shouldn't have invited Livinia who should have left Smiley at home with his relics, his dreams, and his false teeth. But there we were, all aglow, with the turkey steaming in the middle of the table. We smacked our lips in anticipation. The sweet juices glistened on the brown skin. The stuffing lay thick and moist in the cavity.

"Let me carve it," Chip said from a seat at the far end. He thought he was amusing. He had cleaned up his act. His clothes were clean, his hair was pulled into a ponytail, and his skin was shaved raw red, meaning he did the deed himself rather than relying on Lucy's silky scrapes.

"You must be joking. No one's sticking a knife in your hands, "I said from the other end. "I'll do it." Like Chip, I was clean shaven, brushed down and cologned. I was wearing green corduroys, and my new green sweater. I had it together outside, but inside I was antsy and awash in peptic juices and my stomach gurgled in increasing increments. There were too many premonitions on the prowl. Sassacus was in a piss ass mood last night and so was I. Our bunker conversation was long and lopsided.

Livinia was sitting to my left in a dungaree skirt, and red frilly, blouse. She wore black tights and cowboy boots that clicked on the oak floor. Her lips and nails were painted blood red and her soft hair was pinned back revealing two delicate seashell ears that dimpled slightly in the lobes. In each lobe was a silver hoop from which I wanted nothing more than to sit and swing. We hadn't spoken since that morning a week ago.

Next to Chip another drama was unfolding. "I'm sorry you're feeling so upset," said Lucy to Doc. Doc was in terrible shape, and Lucy, in an odd switch, played the consoler. She had wiped her hands on her soiled apron and hung her large arm around Doc's shoulder. Since the death of Baby Girl, Lucy's mind and her cooking were both marginally redemptive. She had lost interest in pie making, her specialty, and in Swedish meatballs and dumplings and gravlax and blood sausage and pickled herring. Tonight, however, and on some other rare moments, Lucy could be indomitable, her spirit would soar, her mental acuity rolling at fever pitch as if the clock was pushed back twenty years. With no assistance, she cleaned, stuffed and baked the eighteen pounder. She also lit the tapers on the table where she had arranged six place settings.

Earlier, just before dinner and just prior to the kitchen confession, Lucy, dressed in a long brown dress, waltzed like a walrus around the living room singing songs of her childhood, such Swedish delights as _Baka, Baka, Liten Kaka, Broden Jakob, Dinkeli, Dunkeli Doja_ , and my favorite, the metaphysical _Blinka Lilla Starna Dar_ , with the stirring final refrain:

Twinkle little star (up) there,

How I wonder where you are!

Looking for a partner to dance with, Lucy invited me to take a whirl, which I did to humor her and avoid Livinia's disapprobation if I refused. Lucy was beyond jubilant and put her big, bare feet on my boots. Slowly, like a cargo plane staggering forward, straining under its own weight and then rising into the sky, I twirled her slowly around in difficult arcs trying to build as much momentum as gross overcapacity would allow. There wasn't much space in the room to navigate except in a circle and so it went, my feet moving like each was set in concrete, Lucy singing her little anthems until she fell against my shoulder, breathing hard but joyful nonetheless. Just before we drilled ourselves through the floor, I eased her off the ride one lumbering leg then the other. Livinia had been giggling and clapping the whole time like some organ grinder's chimp. She could have cut in at any time, but she was satisfied sitting on the sidelines and watching me make time to Lucy's impossible music rather than sparing me the embarrassment of lurching about like the jolly green giant. As the day wore on, I felt I was growing into my bad mood like a second skin. The incidents of the past few months had bludgeoned their way into my natural neutrality. Mine was a moderate disposition. I made sure my cup was always half-filled. Unless rankled, I preferred to stay in the background - healthy, stealthy, and wise - but this day was starting to unfold like a bad dream. I had no idea what would pop to the surface besides reflux, but another batch of bad acid was the last thing I needed.

This being one of Lucy's lucid days, her discourse ran splendidly hot. During pre- dinner drinks of champagne punch, she spoke with authority about a new outfit she had purchased in Groton, our strange weather patterns, and cryptic gossip she picked up on the village green by anyone not named Beck. Sometimes Lucy's thoughts ran like a clear stream but icy cold and far from the moment: Harold's brutal disaffections, Baby Girl's tragic _birth-death_ , the pests gone ballistic in her garden, the thick fogbank of a failing mind dispersing itself in irretrievable directions. But this latter chatter was usually dispensed when it was just the three of us alone and what began as a discussion of nothing of interest would soon turn rancorous, her words now fraught with deadly intent, earnest words slapped silly, angry words that challenged credible meaning and then suddenly, there'd be a switch, Lucy blathering away in a child's voice a knot of nonsensical Nordic derivatives and finally, hitting rock bottom, there'd come the caterwauling in unknown tongues, fearful grunts and growls that went on for interminable minutes and took some patient cajoling on my part and a strong toddy as an inducement in order to calm things down, help turn Lucy in for the night, and help Chip cope as well which usually ended with me demanding he, "Please shut the fuck up!"

But now, all eyes and ears were on Doc, as we leaned forward in our seats trying to pick up reception on the sorrowful station of her complaint. She was cradled in Lucy's swarthy arm like a favorite doll. "It's terrible, just a shame. It's never happened before," Doc said, picking up her linen napkin from her lap and dabbing at a tear recently removed from her eye. "The devil's in the details. I can't fathom anyone stealing anything from my medicine cabinet. The lock was picked. I'm sure of it."

"Now, now, it's just misplaced," said Lucy. "I lose stuff all the time. It rolls under the bed, it gets lost in the dryer, it runs from the hamper, down the sink it goes."

"But the front door of my office was locked. I'm positive," said Doc again. "I'm careful about my surgical supplies. I lock my cabinet and wouldn't have left it like I found it. Somebody got in."

Lucy removed her arm from around Doc's shoulder and folded them together like Rosy the Riveter to drive her point home. "They are there. They will find their way back, Maria. You'll see," she stubbornly insisted, clenching her jaw like Gibraltar to firm up her assessment.

"I always lock my cabinet," repeated Doc, trying hard within herself to be sure of being sure. "It was ransacked and some items were certainly taken."

"What do you mean? What are you saying? What was taken? Will someone tell me what's the heck's going on?" Chip asked.

"What was taken?" Livinia asked with deep concern. She stroked Doc's head with a gentle hand. Doc looked at Livinia, as if she was astounded by the question, as if the answer remained submerged at a depth that couldn't be plumbed. "I don't really know. I mean I suspect what's missing is missing, but just because I can't see it doesn't mean it's not there."

Smiley, sitting to my right in his black jacket and green Dartmouth tie, and attentive to Doc as always, was stirred to sympathy. "You are quite right my dear, but then, perhaps, Lucille is also correct. Sometimes we misplace things and by thinking backwards, we recall where the missing items were last placed."

"Doc, what can't you recall being in your cabinet that was once there? You can tell us," I said, sensing Doc's reticence as her way to avoid alarming herself as well as Lucy's guests as to the nature of the missing items. For some reason, I thought of Brett and his knicking skills, but I couldn't see him being behind this though his M.O. seemed stamped all over the caper. I doubted the veracity of his illness could overcome the peril of being caught. I also doubted his guilt. I was annoyed at myself for letting Ogilvie placate my anger at Brett's placement of the photograph at my doorstep. I'd never spoke to him about the incident and after three weeks, my simmering resentment finally petered out to the point that I still had the photograph on my coffee table. Lately, I'd even taken to falling asleep on the couch, my tired eyes affixed to Livinia's image like the guiding star of a captain's watch leading me to untold port-o-calls.

Chip chimed in again, "Like Livinia asked, what's missing?"

After a long pause, Doc relented. "If anything's missing, and I'm not saying anything is, it would be a jar of valium, a couple rolls of gauze, some rubber gloves, a small oxygen tank, a couple of bottles of chloroform... and four surgical scalps."

We all froze in our seats. "Oh my God!" stammered Livinia.

"Holy shit!" screeched Chip.

"For Heaven's sake!" cried Lucy.

"Very strange, very strange," mused Smiley.

I said nothing, shaking my head back and forth in reverence to vagaries that once set in motion were impossible to predict.

Then Smiley piped in. "If that's true, that's certainly not a good thing, a good thing." He was moving his dentures around like they were muscles twitching involuntarily inside his mouth.

"Think, Maria," said Livinia, swallowing hard. "You must have misplaced it."

"It's not like that. I'm a trusting person. Who would do this?"

"You know who," said Chip vehemently. " _HIM_!"

Livinia became adamant. Her cheeks flushed pale pink, her chewy chocolate freckles showed in dark relief along the bridge of her nose. "Stop it Chip! Don't make it worse. Maria, you need to report this to Constable Martin at once. Every time there's a theft, something horrible happens right after."

"Not always", I countered. "Someone trespassed at Hammond's Factory. Nothing was taken even though it was vandalized."

Chip was beside himself; I had flipped his switch. "That's bullshit brother. Vandalism and trespassing are not nothing."

"You can't hurt someone with Preparation S unless it's ingested and even then, no ones going to die from it. Besides, Julia said nothing was taken from the shop."

Chip banged the table with his fist. "Don't mention her name!"

"I'm sorry," I said backing off. "I just want to say that one plus one doesn't always equal two."

"Just leave it alone. Carve the stinking turkey will you."

I'll carve it, sure," I said, "but Livinia's right. After dinner, Doc has to call Martin and have him take a statement."

"Boys, please, Can't we be civilized?" Lucy's smile was all but gone.

Smiley added his two cents. "Gentleman, we're here to celebrate America's oldest and grandest tradition. Let's leave our anxieties at the door until we sort this out."

"That's a fine idea, Mr. Webster," said Lucy, giving Smiley a tender pat on the arm. "Shall we pray and thank the good lord for the bounty he's provided? For his divine providence? His eternal love?" Lucy's small assembly replied in the affirmative. "O.K., then: Thank you lord for your bounty, your providence and your eternal love." We all said, "Amen," then held sweaty hands for a moment in silent prayer.

#  24

After the issue of the medical supplies was put on hold, the banter became light and meaningless. No one mentioned hatchets, scalpels, drivers, break-ins, owls, porcupines, fires, or inebriates. Around five P.M., in the middle of dessert - undercooked lingonberry tarts and burnt Pepparkakor - the sirens went off at the fire station. No one made much of it, though I detected slight tremors in the hostess and guests, and no one knew till later that the sirens signaled the start of a massive search for the sad addict who just vacated the _Lily Pusher_.

Smiley left with Doc. Chippy went back into his room to hear the new Stones album. Lucy was exhausted and sipped her chamomile tea as I kissed her good bye, loaded the trash in the can, and waited for Livinia. Night wasn't for the lonely. To be alone after dark was an invitation to your own funeral. Flora's fugitive could only be caught if someone figured out the clues left behind. They say killers want to be caught, but if this was strange theater, than the perp had a different audience in mind, meaning the Geese weren't part of the conversation other than to serve as after dinner mince for the pleasure of _She_ who was being grotesquely honored at the dais.

Walking quickly down Calypso, our heads turning every which way, Livinia said, "It has to be someone who knows the Island like a book."

"What Book?" I asked. "A Russian epic, a Gothic tale?" I was being glib, challenging, still upset at Livinia for remaining distant. "Of course it's not an outsider like Brett. It's someone in the know, with know how, maybe a script."

I could see Livinia shiver at the thought. I felt bad, shifted gears, I put my arm around her soft shoulder hoping she wouldn't object. To my surprise, she didn't and put her arm around my waist. "Raney," Livinia said quietly, "what were the sirens all about? Did something else just happen... something evil?"

"Evil's a strong word, but it fits."

Livinia was even more certain. "Evil's the only word. You said there's a script being followed. To plan such violence speaks to genuine evil in the world."

"Sure. It speaks to a moral breakdown, but it also speaks to the question of who's chosen and who's not."

"Could it be a crime of convenience perhaps, of opportunity?" Livinia looked up at me as we walked on. An appeal for mercy swam about in her soulful eyes. She was looking for the lesser of two evils, an irrational maniac rather than a meditative murderer. She was looking for clarity, for hope, for something concrete. I couldn't spare her anything without appearing devious because I wasn't sure of anything myself.

"Maybe Garba-troll and Blackstone were in the wrong place at the wrong time," I reluctantly said. "But that would negate the planning stage? If you look at how they were mangled...I don't know. If it's truly the evil you say then the victims are picked in advance."

"Maybe the goal here isn't the kill but the suffering it engenders," said Livinia. "Maybe death isn't the objective but like you said, the horror it projects onto others."

"Maybe the plan's not about evil at all but about sin, about fixing the evil and teaching the sinners and the rest of us a lesson."

"If that was the case, the killer could be anyone with a conscience."

"Yeah, that's the point. It could be anyone, but ironically not the damn killer."

The siren sounded again. I then told Livinia about the smashed windows at J.J.'s store. Livinia balked at the very thought. It was starting to become surreal and the last thing we wanted was to believe it was just our imaginations at work because that's when we'd let our guard down and... _Poof!_

"This is all adding up to something," Livinia said, her breath shallow, her teeth lightly chattering. "Why hasn't he been captured?"

"The Island's a sandbox. We're all beach toys being chucked around in the sand. If it's one of us locals, I think we should all be interviewed by Smitts and Martin."

"I've no intention of being interviewed by anyone," said Livinia, huffing and puffing at the mere thought.

"I'm being interviewed next weekend."

"I get it, Raney. But you sound too proud."

"It's not pride, and I'm not a suspect. I'm only a secondary witness."

"What did you witness?"

"Not much. I helped break up the fight the night Blackstone was bashed and I'm connected through Chip to the factory break in and spoke up when the owl was shot."

"So?"

"So, look, if I'm a beach toy, my head's not going to be stuffed in the sand. I want my adversary in front of me, though I'm sure he's hiding in plain sight."

"How can you be sure?"

"I can't be sure of anything," I reaffirmed, "but there's no alternative. He'll show himself for who he is soon, if he hasn't done so already."

"Or she."

"Or she," I agreed, just to be nice.

As we walked rapidly along, I was still aware of the tension between us. It was a a tension highlighted by being alone in the night. It was like standing on one leg on the edge of a cliff. One false move. I just wasn't sure how to catch and hold Livinia before she'd fall away and become irretrievable. I consigned this apprehension to more than the _rigor mortis_ caused by the sudden encounter in the library the week before. There was no follow up on my part. The event froze up in the wake of time and left Livinia with a sense of deep uncertainty. The fact that my arm was still firmly around her shoulder was like a life preserver to me but may have been more like the proverbial cross to bear for her. We were fighting for our survival and we needed each other for comfort and protection at the same time that the fight for survival itself reviled any kind of accompaniment because it might be false or misleading. However, I was sure of one thing: if there was no maniac on the Island, our feelings for each other would have been more reciprocal and, if not that, at least more conclusive. The distraction brought about by such incipient danger both quickened the pulse and quickened the repulse. And there was no way around that.

Just like there was no way around the troop of deer that hopped over the small fence and made its way onto the green we were now approaching. They startled us and we froze, just like the deer froze, in the headlight of all that aggregate confusion. There were six in the small herd, and they hesitated long enough to give us pause in our pursuit of safely reaching Livinia's front porch. The whole scene seemed timeless, as if time ground to a halt and held its breath. The deer didn't move a muscle, their ears didn't twitch, their large eyes remained brightly attentive in the pale moonlight, their frail legs remained planted in the dead earth. Livinia and I were fixed into position too, even though I felt ours was more of a case of mutual inertia then of time's travail against forward motion. The deer were afraid of human trespass and like the deer, so were we. I had once asked Livinia to go with me to Barton's Hill but I never followed up. I had asked Livinia to go with me to my apartment so I could return her picture but I never followed up. I had made love to Livinia on the library rug one morning a week ago but I had never followed up. I had promised to be Livinia's champion, her dragon-slayer, but I had never followed up. If there was a context for action this was it. Every second that I dawdled was a second in which indecision could gain a greater foothold.

Responding to some harsh sounds close by, the deer sprang across the lawn towards the Chapel and disappeared once they swung around to the cemetery beyond. The sounds weren't anything like the clanging of the priest's angry cross. It was the louder, more provocative pitch of the ambulance's sirens as they made their hasty departure from the fire station. The ambulances had a ferry to catch, the _Warner Bee_ was in, and a body hopefully to recover in New London.

When time resumed and the deer lept the railing and gave me a wide berth to work out my longing for Livinia, we crossed the green and I deposited her on the steps of the library. I unhinged my magnetized arm from around her metallic shoulder, she mounted the final steps alone, turned to me, and looked me straight in the face. "It was a great night," wasn't it? she asked, though it seemed more a plea than a question. She was sealed in her coat like candy in a wrapper and smiled wanly, trying to make the last wisp of evening acceptable. We both knew what she needed, what I needed, but the distance between our immediate needs seemed like a huge gulf, much more than something a mere arm's length away. "Your mom's a great cook, isn't she?" Livinia said, trying to say anything at all to get away from the only topic left to discuss.

"Livinia, look," I began. I wanted to be plainspoken for a change. "I have to..."

"Please don't. Not now."

"But when?"

"When the time's right, and now's not it. I can't complicate my life. We could hardly walk home without it getting in the way. I care for you, but I can't make it work now and neither can you."

"But I can make it work for us, Livinia. Let me try."

"You did and I did feel, and now I can't."

And in she went, fleeing like the deer , unlocking the door with the key that had been in her hand the entire walk back. Was the key just something to hold as a comfort item or was it a protective device, a last ditch weapon if I should turn out to be the source of her greatest fear?

I was deeply disappointed in her, in me, and felt my sour mood returning, and when I walked into Sinbad's for some holiday spirit to lighten my lonely load home, the last person I expected to see was Julia Beck. She seemed to be waiting for no one sitting at the bar, dressed to swill, in a casual state of flux. Since the night of the letdown, she let down her own guard and allocated her greatest asset, her formality, to the prodigious winds that blew her secrets and surprises out to sea. It was my understanding she no longer had ample tales to tell, pervasive gossip to spread.

Beck sat downcast, sipping what looked like a pink mixed drink from a beer mug though it could have been cherry water. Her eyes seemed to brighten slightly when she saw me, meaning they became less dim, and she moved her copper hair back from her forehead and meekly smiled, ushering me over with a dainty digit that looked more like a finger pressing a mock trigger on a mock gun.

The bar was packed. The talk was carefree, boisterous, almost rowdy. Peggy and Rhonda were flitting around in their waitress outfits like giant lightning bugs, flashing up food at one table, flashing up rounds of drinks at the other. They worked so well together, worked with such a magical air of indomitable _sang-froid_ , were in such inordinate synch with the perpetual flow and flummox of Sinbad's, that one could speculate that the two fish-eyed, wispy, white-haired denizens were actual demons, demons with grace, but, nonetheless, ghastly hags with a hard, effective edge, the sheen of which was obvious in the way hardly a word ever passed between their frowning lips, the way they took in but never put out, the way their lean, pointy jaws were clenched in severe, witchy determination, the way their tiny musculatures never seemed to relax but moved in tight, precise formation. It was hard to imagine that Doc could suggest Peggy and Rhonda were hearing strange noises in the upstairs attic when they were alone closing shop, much less imagine that they would report it to her in the first place.

The curfew ordered by the town officials wasn't to go into effect until the day after Thanksgiving. What were we Geese to do but to make the most out of our misery, one last spasm of Sinbad's forgetfulness before lights out. It seemed everyone was there except Shep, who I imagined wouldn't show his face till he got back from his aunt in Hartford. I even thought I saw the priest, large and black, nursing a glass of gin in the corner seat, but it wasn't. In the chintzy haze of the bar, it was hard to make out who was who. What I thought was the priest turned out to be my boss Roby Edwards in a black jacket and pants partying it up with some of his crew and some others: Mike Calderone, Marty Redbone, and Oliver Perez. At a table in the rear, near where the old piano used to be and where the new upright now sat (a gift from FLITCO,) I saw Mary Angeli holding court with Gloria Haynes and others. Around the room, I spied dozens of other Geese lounging in toxic stages of misapprehension and incoherence. Up above the bar, a Thanksgiving football game was playing fuzzy on the tube. Tonight, I couldn't care less. Tomorrow began curfew and with it, further restrictions I'd have to ignore. I sat down on the bar stool next to Beck, and Warren Barracuda plunked down my bourbon and lemon, and life, for the briefest moment, resumed.

"Hells bells, where've you been, Raney?" Beck asked, "I haven't seen you since I saw you." She was tipsy like what appeared to be everyone else at Sinbad's.

"I've been working and keeping to myself. You?"

"The same," she gurgled, "keeping to myself. Don't want anyone spreading rumors about my decision to reject Chip's..."

"Go ahead say it," I said dourly. "It's all right."

"Chip's pathetic proposal. There, it's out. Feel better now?"

"Do I? What about you?" I looked at her in faint surprise, laughed in faint contempt and said, "Look, no one even knows; no one'll ever know. Who'd say anything? Chip's shut down about it, and who the hell cares." I studied Beck's blown out face trying to make an assessment of her demeanor. She was hard to decode, practiced as she was in the art of subterfuge. I followed up, speaking frankly. "More important things are going on than you and Chip."

"I suppose," said Beck, her damp eyes flashing on and off and on again like a warning signal, considering whether to tell me a considerable kernel of news she had plucked from the thick smoke of the bar. I could tell it was coming because she grabbed my hoodie and pulled my head closer to hers. "I'll whisper you one thing cause you got discretion, cause you're not apt to blabber it about, but Tillie Ogilvie over there..." Beck cocked her finger and pointed, obviously wanting me to turn.

"I know where she is."

"Well, our prissy Miss Ogilvie may be taking an extended vacation all by herself. I mean she's gonna up and leave, be off the Island for a while and a half.

"What for? I asked with amusement. Jury duty? Is she with child? Got a guy on the side of the other side? Nathan said nothing about any of this to me."

"Wrong, wrong, and wrong again. Raney, guess again."

"Not in the mood for games tonight, Julia. Tell me or not."

"You're no fun. From what I hear, she's been receiving horrible phone calls at their apartment. Her life's being threatened and the speaker at the other end's using some device to mask his voice."

You're making things up."

Hardly. From what I hear someone's been ruffling through the bushes and making noises outside their windows.

"Well, as they say, if you keep digging you're bound to find some dirt. But what do you really think, Julia? What's the real scoop here?"

Beck cackled in rare delight. Ah hah! So you _do_ understand how I operate, how I scratch beneath the surface."

"I can only see what you can only say, so say it, Julia, and let's see what I see."

"But first, you need to understand one thing; Brett's one of her neighbors. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

"Don't start with that Brett shit," I said a little too loud, startling a few of the nearby inebriates. "He's not doing anything but shaking in his boots. He's self-sequestered and won't step outside his apartment. That's what I hear from my sources, and they're damn more reliable than yours. Christ, it's kind of like we got our own little form of segregation going on here."

Beck's face melted, fell hard like it was just about to roll off the table. But she was insistent, which is what we admired. "A bunch of people still think he's behind all the trouble."

"Yeah, and a bunch of drunks will believe anything if they're scared enough. I can't believe..."

All conversation came to a squealing halt. Detective Smitts and Constable Martin stormed into the bar. I saw them from the giant mirror on the bar wall. Smitts wore his stereotypical Dick Tracy detective hat. His long detective coat was open and his gun was partially visible at his side. From the corner of his mouth remained a small ember of his cigarette. Martin was no more subtle in his full police uniform and professional blue jacket and police cap. The place immediately sobered up, semi-stupor replacing semi-stupid, as all eyes, except mine, turned in the direction of the front door. Beck, returning to form, bounced off the bar stool and silently moved to a table closer to the action. Bearing down on the mirror, I could see the two men adjust their eyes in the gloom, squinting and rubbing away the squalor until they could focus and locate their target. Finding it, they walked expeditiously around the tables over to where Gloria Haynes and company were sitting. I didn't turn around; I didn't need to, I didn't want to. I could see Smith whispering to Gloria and I could see her suddenly burst into tears. Then like they were hit by a late wave, Tillie and Angeli began crying. Then, the wave picked itself up and began working the room, working its way around Sinbad's, until it reached everyone, drowning everyone within earshot with the tragic news, finally arriving at my isolated beachhead in the shape of Beck's return.

What I learned from Beck was that one of my best friends, Shep Barone, had apparently drowned earlier in the afternoon. I was shocked by the news and took the rest of my drink down in a swig. Barracuda right away brought me a refill and I downed that one too. It seemed that Shep had been blown off the upper deck of the _Lily Pusher_ when the ferry was half way to New London. There was a terrible wind blowing and he got sucked overboard, and if he did go overboard, he certainly couldn't have swum back two miles to either shore. The water was ice and he'd have to swim through the currents of the Sound. There was little hope.

I began to sweat and hyperventilate like mad but, long ago, I learned from Doc how to reestablish a breathing regimen and soon was back in control. I pointed two fingers at Barracuda and another Jack was soon set out in front of me. I looked up at the mirror again. I didn't want to. It would have reflected myself back at me and this would've made me break down. I forced myself to remain substantially grim for the time being. What I suspected was that Shep didn't accidentally slip into the water. He purposely selected a more expedient course to ward off his despair. I could see Smitts was taking Gloria out of Sinbad's. He had his arm around her and she was leaning hard against his large frame. I could also see that she was shivering and laboring to stand straight. It wasn't till later that I learned she was the last person to see Shep alive, so there were questions she needed to address.

What wasn't clear was why Constable Martin was heading my way, glumly looking at my back, seeing me see him in the mirror, knowing he wanted me to turn around when he arrived. So I did. "Raney, may we speak in private?" Martin asked with the upmost seriousness.

"Sure, let's step outside," I said, grabbing my pea coat from behind the stool and walking along with Martin straight through the cataclysmic ruins at the heart of the sea shell shocked community. All eyes were upon us, suspicious, turbulent wild eyes, documenting the moment, watching another amongst them led away.

Once outside, Martin turned to me, half in wonder, half in consternation. "Raney, I've known you your whole life. I need your help. I need you to help set us straight. We need to see you at the station tomorrow morning."

"Can't it wait?" I asked with strong concern. "My friend's dead. I need some time to, you know...mourn."

"There isn't any. Tomorrow's it. Sorry."

"I got to work tomorrow. My interview's scheduled for next Saturday. Truth is I got no news for you. I got a list of bad guesses and a longer list of questions."

"I said it can't wait." I was surprised at Martin's unusual bluntness. It wasn't part of his profile. He continued on, the strong wind pulling at his police cap making him hold it down with a firm hand. "Listen carefully. Among other things, we found Shep's coat on the bridge where he purportedly slipped and fell. We found only two items inside his right pocket."

"So what's that have to do with me?" I asked defensively. "I was at Thanksgiving with my mom, my brother, and some friends."

"We already know that. We spoke with Doctor Talbot about the break in."

"We told her to report it. But help me understand my connection to this. Why it's crucial to see me right away."

"What we found in the pocket was a half empty bottle of Valium," said Martin.

I remained steady. What was Flora up to? I thought. However, what I said was, "But the bottle was stolen Tuesday. You think Shep stole it?"

"No. Stay with me. That's not what I want to see you about." Martin went on straight-faced and careful. "It's the other item that bothers us."

"Tell me then."

"There was also a note we discovered in Shep's pocket, it was written in large, black magic marker. All capital letters."

"Yeah."

"And the note said only three words: _RANEY WAS RIGHT_ _!_ "

#  25

When I stepped into Constable Martin's office the next morning, I found myself sitting on a short stool at a long bench with Smitts on one side, Martin on the other. The office that served as an interrogation room was white and barren. Shep was dead and I was angry and sad. I took a deep breath and felt just well enough to answer their questions without losing it. I was appreciative that neither officers had the professional urge to tell me to take my time.

"Sorry to have to reel you in this way, Raney, but that note we found is critical," said Smitts. " _RANEY WAS RIGHT!_ has got to mean something. Perhaps you could straighten us out."

"I can't. Shep and I hardly spoke since he stopped working. I called a few times to offer some help, knew he was in trouble."

"Trouble?" Martin asked.

"Shep had a drug problem," I said, "and he drank too much. I told him to see Doc Talbot but he told me to go to hell. Said he was turning to God or something."

"Did you encourage him? Did you tell him it was safe? You must have said something," Smitts said, "because those three words convey how convincing your message turned out to be. Otherwise, he wouldn't have taken the last few moments of his life to compose it, stuff it in his pocket, and leave it to be discovered."

"Shep was in trouble, sure, and began going to mass," I said. "People do that near the end sometimes. Isn't that how it works?" Both Smitts and Martin remained mute, but their troubled eyes were fixed on me like I held the magic key that would unlock the magic clues. "It wasn't my job to turn him in any direction. I only wanted to get him help. He couldn't hold to a schedule. Look at the days he took off work."

"We did," Martin confirmed.

"I didn't believe he could get any comfort going to church, listening to Jacobs rant about sin and redemption, then go to confession and confess his sins to a sinner."

Smitts was perplexed. I could see he was fixing to ask me why I mistrusted the priest. And then he did. I wasn't sure how to answer. I didn't want to tell him about my encounter on the green last month or about his deadwood cross and his own form of redemption. I felt it was a red herring. "As you know, Jacobs shot the owl," I said. "Now, Our Lady of Divine Hope's a bully pulpit where he spits his fire and brimstone."

"Yes, but he still has a small following and their allegiance is total," said Martin.

"Sure, but I hear that it's made of a fragile congregation. All the stuff going on attracts the most paranoid, or guilty, and brings them into the fold."

"That so?" Smitts nodded warily. "That why Mister Barone started going to church? Was Mister Barone paranoid? What was he guilty about? Did he know something; could he illuminate something that he wasn't allowed to? Father Jacobs seemed sane enough when he was interviewed."

"I'm sure he was."

Smitts seemed confused by my response. "Raney, do you mean you're sure Mister Barone was guilty about something or that Father Jacobs was sane enough at the interview? Is there something you're hiding? In other words, what were you so right about?"

I was flabbergasted by the insinuation that what was unceremoniously stuffed inside Shep's jacket were clues. To me, they were no more pieces of evidence to a crime than Shep's bad habits. "Shep was trapped. He had an addiction and a bad attitude. But since Shep took this turn towards salvation, I never went out of my way to discourage him. I just thought it smart if he got some treatment for his dependencies. I tried to persuade him to get help on the main land. I knew he was going to his aunt for Thanksgiving. I told him to stay there a while, not come back."

"Sure, sure, that's all fine. But he has no aunt on the mainland. It was all a lie. But again, tell me, what were you so right about?" Smitts asked, concerned that I was moving the conversation away from the facts in the case.

"I've no idea. I trend secular, detective. I suppose Shep may have agreed with me in the end and unfortunately got what he needed on his own."

Martin shook his head, came quick to the point. "We don't believe Shep stole anything from Doctor Talbot's office. She reported that the theft took place on Tuesday when she was in New London running errands. That's plenty of time then for someone to give him those pills and convince him to down half the bottle and go take a plunge."

"A forced suicide? How's that even possible?" I asked. "Who else was on deck with him besides Gloria? Unless you feel she's someone to die over? Is that what you think? You think she's connected to all this?"

"We're just looking at the facts, Mister Tables," added Smitts. "It's quite a confluence of coincidences to have Mister Barone's pocket stuffed with Valium and that telling note and then have a bizarre rendezvous with his former girlfriend just before jumping overboard. Miss Haynes stated she had no idea he was even on the ferry. Their meeting was purely accidental. And, for the moment, we happen to agree with her."

I was beginning to get the message. Shep may have jumped but it was still a form of premeditated murder because he was supplied with the pills and was given the directive and was even instilled with the mad fortitude to carry it out by someone who was aware Shep's sense of self preservation was all but gone. And I was here because I was Shep's friend and yes, _RANEY WAS RIGHT!_ I was right about getting medical intervention. I was right about Shep doing something to end his suffering. and I was even right about telling Shep to abandon his new religiosity and get off of the Island once and for all. 'You can't possibly think...' I was about to say but didn't.

The detective and the constable remained firm in their resolve to work with the facts. Smitts scratched an expansive itch over a jet black eye and lit another cigarette. Martin's tugged at his loose beard, trying for a sagacious pose but it just seemed like his hand was tucked in there out of confusion. He wasn't as speculative as Smitts and seemed to follow his lead. We were acquaintances, of course, like I was an acquaintance with all the Geese, and I could see Martin was having trouble with the thought of me being a conjurer of spells, forcing Shep to kill himself as part of my mission to carry out mass mayhem.

Smitts was more direct. "We don't think it's possible you're connected with Mister Barone's death."

"Well, I'm sure glad to hear that."

"Don't be wise," said Smitts. "You spent the holiday with your family and you say you didn't see him the day of or the days before his jump. The fact that he had pills stolen only a couple of days before appears to exonerate you. It's just that note, it's a sticking point."

Dumbfounded as I was, I managed to ask what that meant. Smitts continued to deliver. "It means don't leave the Island in case we need you to answer more questions. It means refrain from discussing our conversation with anyone else. It also means everyone's a suspect until we catch the perpetrator. We're dealing with a smart individual, maybe two smart individuals. Who knows."

"I can't imagine that," I said.

"Sure," said Smitts caustically, "just like we can't imagine that you're behind any of this either. We're just following the leads, see where they take us. Have a nice day, Mister Tables. And stay close."

#  26

December 7, 1983: Another day of infamy. We were bombed out of our last sanctuary. Sinbad's was now under attack. It took two weeks but this crime hit us where it most hurt, in our sensibilities. The big bar was now closed until further notice. It opened a week later, but it wasn't the same. The two reigning queens, the crown jewels of the quaff crew serving the three hundred indignant indigents, having taken their vow of sovereignty - and poverty - thirty years prior, the two most _dis-_ figured heads on Flora's, were for all practical purposes, identical twins at last.

I found out the news Wednesday evening. I was coming back from work, another sheetrock job for Jenkins at a monster mansard on the east end, retracing my well worn path home following the setting sun around the sandy belt of Rosabella and then up and around Angeli's estate. Stopping by for what had become my usual at Sinbad's, I was greeted by a hand written sign taped to the moldering door: _CLOZED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICED!!!_

Behind it, four or five murky figures swam about in the dark. I knocked and Barracuda came to the door and pressed his wide, uneven nose against the glass. His breath warmed it, staining it an ugly hue. His whiskered face appeared masked in a shroud, and he stared at me as if he was staring into a void until I hunched down so we could get eye to eye. He opened the door and let me pass, then shut the door with a slam and relocked it. What he told me a few minutes later seemed impossible, but it was true. Both sea hags had been rushed to the hospital. Around the table with Barracuda sat Mike Calderone, my boss Roby Edwards, Oliver Perez and Martin Redbone. The table was littered with, empty beer cans, shot glasses, and a half empty bottle of Jack.

Last night, Barracuda left Sinbad's to nurse his flaring sciatica and wasn't able to close shop with Peggy and Rhonda. He said he, too, "heard sounds," coming from the attic above the second floor landing but ascribed it to the usual herd of spirits rumbling around in the must and mildew. Sinbad's was over a hundred and fifty years old. Every crime ever committed was replicated at least once, sometime, somehow, under its giant, arching roof and more often than not, spirits passed across the windows of the gabled dormers late at night when it was supposed to be empty.

Before the Island became anti-tourist, Sinbad's was the magnet of a bustling seasonal enterprise where Turkey spillovers and day tripping leftovers that missed the last ferry out could find shelter and vice on a warm summer evening. If you cross the nuances of human behavior with such an overactive swatch of time and multiply that number by infinity, Sinbad's is what you'd get. For decades, Sinbad's was a model of excellence for such impropriety and contributed its share of blood, guts and the occasional dissevered body part to the ledger of such collaborations. But last night, after so many years of patronage, extremities were flying again in the manner of a precise, surgical event. The spirits were out in force, rousted from their slumber by a predator that was strategically stashed in the attic, muscling in on their turf, waiting for a chance.

Like I said, Flora's Island's peopled by people with hard souls. Late in the nineteenth century, a banker named John Robertson had his head stove in as he lay sleeping it off on an upstairs cot when Sinbad's served both as a tavern and an inn. The weapon of choice was a splitting maul. Robbery was the obvious motive in the case. Robertson's wallet was gone. All his pockets, like his head, had been emptied and turned inside out. The crime was never solved. In the early part of this century, records reveal a series of fascinating incidents, fascinating in the context that not too much ever happened here except for the brawls at Sinbad's. Three brawls, however, are notable in that they resulted in three fatalities. The culprits, all young Turkeys who were fond of brandishing their personalized pocket knives under tight circumstances, were firmly held in each case until the constable showed because they didn't run, couldn't run, being three sheets to the wind. The fact that they were held but not arrested suggests by the time the constable arrived, deals had been struck or the Turkeys had sobered up and hightailed it off the Island. There also were several cases of prostitution, the specific behaviors absent from all court documents, except in instances where the husbands were discovered - _in flagrante delicto_ \- and no alibis could be manufactured or witnesses turned that could alter the evidence. Arrests were made but arrests were like putting the perps between turnstiles rather than behind bars. Life went on, meaning life, as we knew it, returned to abnormal.

My favorite crime was the 1921 immolation of an old blue blood, Jonah Palmer, a former New York attorney, who was set ablaze in his guest quarters. A few subscribed to the notion that it was the result of a pagan ritual. Some went so far as to say that the victim was a friend of the notorious Aleister Crowley and, together, co-founded a quiet commune on Palmer's property dedicated to primal pleasures in the tradition of Crowley's _anti-monastic_ experiment in Cefalu, Italy. The truth, like most truths, was more mundane. It seems Palmer was more seared than revered, a revenge murder for a particular Prohibition case that went against a Manhattan mobster and given a Wiccan twist to throw off the police. There even was a bloody hexagram painted on a wall. Again, the crime went unsolved but not unappreciated, especially as I was concerned, because rum-running was a big pastime on Flora's and many slipshod crafts came crashing onto the beachheads spilling cases and kegs everywhere.

All this good fun came to a halt in 1933 when a homebody named Marta Tilden shot up the guest quarters where her husband and his preference lay asleep, killing them both, then herself, and forever putting an end to a key outlet for all the wild Turkeys. Not so coincidentally, it was that same year that the bar was taken over by a new order. The management booted the hookers; guns and knives were banned, two, what we now call _Bouncers_ , were hired, and Sinbad's came into existence as an honest eating and drinking establishment. But, like every substantial operation, time takes its share of the profits and erodes the prosperous prospects of these newer, ethical outfits and by the time December 7, 1983, rolled around - fifty years hence - Sinbad's became the saving grace of the Geese and a pit stop for aberrant Turkeys.

With the curfew now in effect, Sinbad's went belly up at ten every night. Barracuda made no exceptions. The curfew was the new law of the land, even though enforcement would be a problem until two more units were shipped over from Southold. I assumed the added help was for show, a way to calm our nerves. I also assumed that Smitts and Martin were closing in on their quarry. The pool of perps was limited on a limited Island like ours; the smaller the size, the greater the magnification.

So here we were now, the six of us, seated and semi-sedated around a table in the middle of Sinbad's trying to make sense of the injuries suffered by Peggy and Rhonda, who were chosen in tandem but not at random, by the Island's madman. "I don't get what happened," I said from my low seat at the high table. "It doesn't make sense."

Barracuda was usually tongue-tied but the alcohol cut him loose. He was close friends with the sisters and particularly fond of Peggy. "You understand, Raney, when I met up with the ambulance at Deep Harbor, the crew was loading them onto the boat. I spoke with Peggy before they took off. Rhonda was out cold and looked dead though it was only her head bleeding from the right side even with the bandages."

"Then what happened?"

"Peggy told me the bastard was making a racket upstairs, scratching at the floorboards and tapping the attic walls enough to make it seem that some animal was trapped or something damn unusual was going on."

My boss, Roby Edwards, a large, blustery type, was more select. "Tha' fuck's gonna pay for this I swear," he promised, ferociously banging the table with his hairy fist and knocking some empty cans to the floor.

Barracuda was not perturbed. He was an experienced bartender and Edwards' stentorian voice and drunken rant hardly registered a tremor let alone a nod. "Peggy said the sounds were just human enough to make her wonder, make her check it out. They got no fear, the girls, 'specially my Peggy."

"What do you mean human?" I asked, pouring some bourbon into a tumbler.

Mike Calderone shook his curly head sideways in disdain. Since we were kids, he had it in for me. He was jealous and aggressive and coupled with a Napoleonic complex, couldn't wait to downplay anything I said, or downsize anything I did. His taunting ways made the locals take a hard look at him twice over. He was an acknowledged thief, and had been accused of off season estate stealing, silverware and jewelry mostly, though it was never proven, except once, but he was young, and had gotten only a slap on the wrist for his efforts. "Human, like noises only humans make," he bristled. "Don't you listen?"

"I only wanted to know how Peggy distinguished what was human and what wasn't." I took Calderone in stride like I always did, a petty nuisance, a flea. Even when he brought his shotgun to the green, I knew he'd never pull the trigger, just like as my teammate, he never shot the ball. He'd make a good show of it, but once he was left alone with an easy two early on, he'd miss, give up the ball for the rest of the game and complain to Ogilvie that I never passed him the ball. Ogilvie often joked, "He was the best sixth man for the other team."

"Wait. Both of you!" the bartender barked, "Let me finish. So she goes up the damn staircase and then opens the door and tries to turn on the light, but nothing happens. The bulb's missing. It's pitch dark, but Peggy swears she sees some kind of faint glow way at the far end. So she goes to check it out, being Peggy's way."

"Man, she's freakin' nuts." Redbone added.

"She got real cojones," Perez agreed, accentuating their size by stretching out his upturned fingers and jiggling them.

"Same thing I'm saying you stupid fajita."

"No!" Perez countered. "You saying she crazy. I'm saying she got balls, something you can't unnarstan' cause you ain't got none."

"Understand this. I'll kick your ass, you little prick," Redbone shot back, giving Perez his own middle finger.

"You ain't got none of that either, pequeno."

"Shut up you two assholes!" growled Calderone, trying hard to impress himself. "Can't you see Warren's talking. Let him talk. Talk Warren."

Though irked, Barracuda continued. "Can't you all just shut up? Let me tell Raney what happened. This is where it gets sick. Peggy says as she goes over toward the glow she begins to hear noises and the noise sound like words."

"So that's what Peggy meant. What kind of words?" I asked.

"Just damn words."

"What words did Peggy say?"

"Look, she was pretty much out of it when they hauled her away. They were a bunch of syllables really, not whole words."

"Another dope," muttered Calderone.

"C'mon," I insisted firmly.

"She said she still couldn't see nothing clear, but the glow in the far corner seemed to talk to her, seemed to have what she called 'a mouth' saying words sounds like a child crying out in the dark _...'mother', 'sanctuary','closer', 'cleaner', 'closer'_."

"Why didn't she just get out of there?" snorted Edwards, adjusting his hefty torso in the chair. "She had a chance."

Barracuda shot him an impatient look. This was his story, his friends. "It was the light. She was hypnotized or something. It was like a shining star in the attic, and the syllables, she said, were said in 'a soothing way.'"

Calderone was livid. "They're words Warren, whole words. There not monosyllables, polysyllables, trisyllables. Where'd you go to school? In a home for the deaf and dumb? Or were you schooled at home cause you were too dumb to get in?"

"I'll school you, ya little twerp!" the bartender said, giving Calderone a menacing look. I could see he was seconds away from reaching over and smacking Mike in the face.

"Go on Warren." I said. Mike's being a dick. Shut up, Mike! Shut the fuck up!

Barracuda waited to see if Calderone got the message. He did. "Anyway, there were these words coming from that mouth in the corner and she couldn't stop going towards it and then she says she saw this shadow rise up outta nowhere. It grabbed her hard and put something into her face. It smelled sweet and was sticky on her chin. That's all she remembered. It wouldn't let go, she couldn't get away and that's it, except for her hand."

"What do you mean her hand?" I asked.

"Raney, that's the sick part. Someone sliced off the last three fingers of her left hand right above the knuckle. Just like her sister's, but Rhonda's got no three fingers similar like that on her right hand and, the ambulance guy told me that someone cut Rhonda's right ear off just like Peggy's missing ear but hers is missing on the left side."

"The bastard. That fuck!" Edwards screamed up to the rafters.

I was shocked but not shocked. I, too, felt anaesthetized. "I thought only Peggy went up into the attic?"

"No, that's not it, Raney." The bartender passed an arm across his sweating brow then reached for his beer and guzzled it, plunking the can back hard on the table. Foam drizzled from his bushy beard. "Rhonda didn't hear the damn noises but knew her sister went upstairs. When she didn't come back after too long, she went to look for her, see what she was up to."

"Why's that so weird, Warren?"

"No, no, no! That's not what's weird. What's weird is that whoever did that to the girls, did something damn weirder, stopped their bleeding, bandaged them proper."

"Like a doctor? In the attic? In the dark?"

"It wasn't dark when I found them. I live right across the street. I was nursing my crappy legs.They're killing me standing all day like I do. I seen a light in the attic which was unusual so I went back with my flashlight find out what was going on and that's when I found them both unconscious, both bleeding but not too much, and there was the bulb back where it belonged."

"I was full of questions. "The missing ear, the fingers?"

"I looked all over and couldn't find none. The cops looked too. All gone."

"Sick fuck!" cursed Edwards.

"I'll cut his balls off when I catch him," said Redbone.

"Now you talkin'," said Perez.

"Yeah, sure, sure .We're all shooting but not hitting a thing," I said, straining to stay calm. "Does Smitts have any leads? Did he find any clues up in the attic? They should be close by now."

"Didn't go that way," said Barracuda, "but Edwards here has his own ideas."

"What do you got, Mister Edwards?" I asked, not sure if I wanted to hear what Edwards got.

Edwards leaned in, lowering his deep voice like he had something important to say and he didn't want the spirits privy to the news. "It's like this," he said in a hoarse whisper. "For a long time, we've been hearing stories about that nigger Brett. I met him once, seemed sane enough, but the more I think on it, the more it's clear that since his arrival, shit's been happening we can't explain."

I became angry but remained composed. Edwards was my boss, I needed the work, but I had to make clear to this outstanding Island jackass just how stupid he was. "Shit's been happening before he arrived. Even Smitts can't find more than circumstantial evidence. I think he's being set up. The reason they haven't busted him is because they're onto someone else." My rebuff seemed to be going nowhere fast. All eyes had been bloodied and called for more blood.

"You calling Edwards here a liar, Tables?" said Calderone.

"Hardly Mike, but I am calling you an idiot. And Edwards, well, I'm just calling his racist ideas bullshit. Brett's been locked in his apartment since Blackstone's got beat. He couldn't have come to Sinbad's after curfew, hidden himself up in the attic, and do what he did. He takes things, dumb things, like you Mike, but that doesn't include fingers or ears. He doesn't even drink from what I hear."

"But it don't mean he couldn't a figured it out," said Barracuda.

Edwards started laughing, a deep sarcastic guffaw, but behind it lay a seriousness that was the projection of built up fear and pain. I felt it welling in myself. After a pause, Edwards said, "I think we ought a pay Brett a visit, make sure he never hurts anyone again. Get what I'm saying?"

"I think we oughta stay put and let the cops handle it." I said.

"They been doing such a bang up job so far," Calderone said, adding, "maybe Roby's right. Get something done here. Cops got their heads up their ass. This has gone far enough." Redbone and Perez both nodded in support.

"If you go near Brett, I'll report all of you. Don't make me say it."

"Say what?" Redbone asked.

"C'mon, Redbone. You know what. You aren't as dumb as you look. 'We're a nation of laws, not men.' Remember that saying? Didn't you learn anything growing up here? You can't go take the law into your own hands."

Barracuda abruptly waved away my comment. "If you break the law, you gotta pay like Roby here says."

"Warren, it's not your call."

"What the fuck you talking about Tables?" Calderone screamed, looking up at me with eyes aflame. Ever since Jacobs killed the owl you think you're better than the rest of us. In fact, you always thought that. Big Island hero. A big nothing you are."

"Why'd you really bring the gun, Mike? Attention?"

"Why don't you mind your own fucking business for once."

"You never would have shot the gun. It was just a big pretend."

"Shut up, Tables! You're a loser, a has been, a never was."

"Why'd you bring the gun, Mike?" I repeated, hoping to instigate Calderone to do something I knew he'd never do. "Poor Mikey. I sure feel sorry for you."

Calderone stuck his face perilously close. "You don't shut your mouth..."

I looked him in the eye. A rage was welling in me that I knew was misplaced. It would prove nothing if I hit him. Slowly, I moved my face away from his sad, little putty head.

"So then you're not going with us?" Perez asked with the utmost seriousness.

"Are you joking, Perez? You're not going with you." I pushed my chair away from the table, reinforcing my position with a hovering maneuver, creating an immense presence over Calderone and the others. I looked down on them as if from a mountaintop. "You have to go home now. This isn't your business. Anyway, how do you all know one of us isn't the murderer? The sisters were alone when they were carved up, like Warren says. Maybe you're just lying, Warren. The words, the lights. Hell, you'll have us believing Tinker Bell was up there with her fairy dust next. The rest of us know Sinbad's like the back of our hands, including me. Any one of us could have snuck into the attic. Maybe I'm him, trying to send you on your merry way so I can follow one of you and smash you. Or maybe Mike here's the one. We all witnessed his decline since his father was found on the beach. Maybe he's gone over the edge. He could have stolen from Doc's office too."

I pointed a menacing finger down at Calderone who was about to protest. "Shut the fuck up, Mike! Don't even start. Look, I'm close with Doc. I could have taken the scalpels and drugs easy as the next guy, but so could have you. And the incident with the shotgun, c'mon, Mike. What's that tell us about your state of mind? And what about both you clowns?" I looked hard at Redbone and Perez. "Maybe it's all just an act with one of you. Laying low, not saying much, pretending to be simpletons, going with flow, waiting for some witless Islander to make a sudden U-turn off the beaten track and then Wham! And then there's you, boss, an established Flora's resident, making good money, living the good life, trying to deal with your wife's unfortunate passing."

"Don't go there, Tables," shouted Edwards, rising unsteadily from his seat. "I'm tellin' ya now, back off."

"Sit down, Mister Edwards." I said, watching Edwards pour himself back down, not so much out of fear - he was practically as wide as I was tall - but in knee buckling fealty to the bourbon he was pounding. "I'm saying we have a lot of our own stuff to deal with and maybe someone had too much and snapped and is looking for a scapegoat, an easy target."

"So what do ya want us to do?" Barracuda asked.

"Warren, I want you all to go home and leave Brett alone."

#  27

Three days after the Swift sisters got butchered, they were back on the job as if nothing happened. A barrage of fruit baskets, bouquets and arrangements poured in by ferry and were delivered by workers from various New London florists. Everyone on the Island wished the sisters well. Sinbad's began to look like an overstuffed Italian wedding hall despite the decrepitude that seeped out of the walls. Somehow, word got out that the sea hags were born in Italy, Florentines on their mother's side, and so everybody made a show. There were links of sausage, hunks of cheese and loaves of garlic knots, jars of olives, artichokes, boxed sets of tiramisu, tortes, biscotti, and cannoli. There were so many Tuscan pastries and so many vases of flowers, there was hardly a place to plunk down a pitcher, eat a sandwich or spread the _New London Day_.

Barracuda told the sea hags to take a few weeks off till they recovered, but Peggy and Rhonda gave him the horned hand, the former with the right, the latter with the left, and decided as one that work was the best form of recuperation so kindly shut up.

On the sixth day after their return, on a weekday afternoon when Sinbad's was empty and the girls were having their bowls of spaghetti carbonara and red table wine at the bar, another delivery delivered another unexpected outrage.

Barracuda received the flowers and the small box with the festive silver wrapping and pink bow, tipped the driver a buck, and was about to place the unusual standing spray on an open space on the bar top when he realized something was wrong. The spray, standing about two feet high in the shape of a cross, wasn't in keeping with the other get well clusters. The cross was embedded with white hydrangeas, white roses, white lilies and white carnations emblazoned with a sash of dense red roses. A wide, makeshift ribbon of scarlet velvet criss-crossed the red roses and draped down to the bottom of the spray.

Barracuda understood the nature of well wishers; some were more spiritual than others. It seems some righteous deity was always looking out. However, not this time. The cream stitching on the ribbon lay exposed and spelled out in no uncertain terms: _REST IN PIECES_.

Shocked but not immobilized, Barracuda grabbed up the insult before the sisters noticed and brought them into the kitchen. As he later told Julia Beck with a promise not to let the word out (which was how I found out later that night,) he ripped the ribbon off the spray and stuffed it into the garbage. Then with the utmost care, he removed the bow and peeled back the silver lining of the box, sliced opened the top with a fillet knife and peered in. The white tissue paper was congealed with dark bits of dried blood. Peggy's three fingers, Rhonda's left ear and one of Doc's scalpels lay jumbled together with a piece of dry ice. Putting the contents into the freezer, Barracuda rang up Martin.

By the beginning of the following week, the Island was abuzz with news of the cynical and clinical nature of the gift as well as the warning inherent in the wisecrack. Bedside prayers were offered in response. My favorite was:

Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord my soul to keep;

If I die before I wake,

I ask the Lord my soul to take.

The Geese were gagging on the most macabre fear imaginable. They were being cut up piece by piece. Doc could barely keep up with the uptick of visitations which she called, "an assault on her professional sensibilities." The waiting room outside Doc's office now partnered with Livinia's aisles as the only place for the meek to inherit, except while the library only offered a minor reprieve, a place to meditate, Doc's became a reckless place to receive, a place to medicate, if the good doctor saw fit to bestow her under-the-counter bounty on an overwhelmed public. Which she wasn't. She understood hers was a case of the cautionary tale gone haywire and no matter what she did, the habits of the population she administered to was undergoing a change that was fairly irreversible. In fact, Doc no longer prescribed breathing exercises and no longer gave out bags of tea because no one cared about her holistic curatives, preferring instead high doses of narcotics right up to the day of the hurricane.

Ironic as it now seems, the night (and day) of the living dead was upon us. No one wished to die before they woke. The answer, then, was simply not to submit to sleep and remain in a constant state of vigilance. The wish not to be chopped up in sleep clashed with the wish to be unconscious if there were to be a chopping up, and this disparity caused a new breed of zombie to be born out of the rampant fear and moral decay. The volume of pedestrian traffic on Flora's Island dramatically increased. No one could sleep, or sleep well, or sleep through till the next morning, nor could one stay fully awake in the induced stupor that was becoming more transparent as the days flew by. It was survival of the fittest in reverse. The fittest were the least fit. The people most out of their heads were the ones able to sustain a balance between caring too much and not caring at all. Cocaine, prescription drugs, liquor, marijuana. The Island was becoming a floating mega-dispensary and the problem was that the propensity of our zombies to be milling about at all hours, clogging up the green and our ferries and our beaches and our library and our sidewalks with their patchwork pacifications and morose, drugged-out visages, went way beyond disturbing. It reminded me of the painting, _The Scream_. It got to where I couldn't tell who was rambling and who was ambling, who was stoned as opposed to who was stained. Being an example of the latter, I was forced deeper into my solitary refuge.

It was the beginning of winter and a hard winter it was. Many of my neighbors were sent home once the police spotlights zapped them because curfew wasn't worth a dime and when questioned about their movements, no one could speak a fluent sentence. Some Geese literally froze up when questioned as if encased in blocks of ice. Some began to chatter incoherently like chimps, some shivering from the frost, some from the fear. I suspect most were just wasted or too choked up in an unsparing agony, like Munch's painting shows, their hands kneading their temples keeping their brains from obliterating, theatrically miming their soon to be demise without realizing they were preparing for the worst possible outcome. What were our Keystone cops to do, arrest the whole Island for curfew violations? Hand out mass tickets for en masse death rattles and oblique guttural disturbances? A muffled cry in the night is far from criminal. Fear's basic nature is feral and the feral sounds being emitted by our local birdbrains were offensive but not an offense.

Unfortunately, since all the Geese were up and about at all hours, the maniac was handed a free pass. All he had to do was fake being unhinged when the spotlight came down. A soporific trance would certainly get the killer a bye. A little incoherent chitchat was par for the course. The deer in the headlight pose was unimpeachable Just pretend you were off your rocker and you were off the hook. The bumbling cops would then drive you home and ask you to abide by the curfew. They might as well have painted their squad cars yellow.

And as Christmas drew close, not a stitch of new evidence was sewn onto the case, not a new clue was posted on the police chalkboards, not a single, distinct, aberration separated our psycho lunatic from all the other lunatics in the asylum. So in effect, the curfew had the opposite effect intended. Our killer could now operate in the brightest of lights just as easily as in the dark.

#  28

Nate the Great has a series of educational proverbs, some of which are pertinent as they illuminate the direction in which we were drifting as December drifted off into space. In that sense, these proverbs remind me of beacons to warn of imminent danger. I present them because Ogilvie's my best friend and, except for Livinia, Sassacus, Louie, and Doc Talbot, the only person whose counsel counts. It's why I lean so hard on Ogilvie who was a great teacher and rare piece of work when he was my age. It takes courage to buck the system, but it takes more. You have to provide alternatives if you're going to tell everyone what's what, and I believe Ogilvie did. To his credit, he never turned against his core beliefs even when besieged by self-doubt and the highbrow critics who pummeled him for putting students at the forefront of his refined, highly humanistic pedagogy. He even once explained to me it was an honor to be an educational burnout. I remember him saying, "It's always better to care too much than to care too little." Did he pay a price for burning out? I think the price one pays for being measured is far greater. And so I try to let go, to think more like him. Inevitably, you have to trust someone or you couldn't, in the best sense of the term, burnout in the first place, even if the only person you could trust is yourself.

Burning out is one of my core beliefs. My father wasn't a burnout because he refused to let go. He may have made something of himself, even if it was only a positive role model for a young son, but he never took the plunge. It's simple, really. Unstrap yourself from the constraints of time, say bye to the past, and jump. Take Shep for instance. Even if you don't make it, at least you tried as you fried, at least you freed yourself for a little bit. But then again, Shep jumped all right, but for the wrong reasons. He said hello to the past instead of goodbye and at the request of a disturbed lunatic who convinced him that a leap of faith was the opposite of a fall from grace and the only elegant way out of the impasse. In that sense, Shep wasn't really a _burnout_. He was just another, what I'd call, _scrapeout_ , a hollowed out shell, like a carved Halloween pumpkin set out on the curbside, mocking the pure yearning of his former self. To have a set of principles, a set of core beliefs, you have to at least have a core. Some of Ogilvie's core beliefs are set below:

1. "The text of a student's life is more important than the life in a student's text."

2. "First commit the teachers; then commit the strategies."

3. "Risk-taking is a higher art form."

4. "Life's as random as the shape of the next snowflake, and we all must take our chances if we're to stick."

5. "The value of a child's education always exceeds the cost of completion."

6. "It's as important to lessen the plan as it is to plan the lesson."

7. "The three best words in education: ANSWERS WILL VARY!"

8. "Fearful teachers teach fashion; fearless teachers teach passion."

9. "New love is not having to finish a sentence; old love is not having to start one."

10. "It may be that a great teacher recognizes the will to control cannot compete with the willingness to let go."

11. "A lesson that begins with clarity ends with redundancy; a lesson that begins with confusion ends with clarity."

12. "It's better to pass the torch than it is to torch the past."

13. "One cannot talk in circles around a person who thinks in squares."

Take Number 12 for instance, "It's better to pass the torch than it is to torch the past." Two nights after the Swift sisters were chopped up, a fire consumed the rectory of our Lady of Divine Hope and nearly burned down the chief chef and the chapel. The fact that it was a stone's throw from the fire station saved the chapel from being engulfed in flames like the rectory. Our parish priest was saved, or rather saved himself, or I'd have the sad duty to report another murder. Fortunately, the priest escaped with minor burns to his hands. According to the town fire marshal, someone _passed the torch_ under the propane tank outside the rectory kitchen at dinnertime hoping to catch the good epicurean busy at work. It wouldn't take much guessing to figure where our priest would be at six P.M. We all knew about his favorite sin - _Gluttony_ \- and how pervasive it was in the planning of his daily agenda. And he was in the kitchen all right, but on the far side of the stove near the refrigerator, where he says he was reaching for a carton of milk - [ _sic_ ] bottle of gin - when the pantry exploded, then the far wall by the stove burst into flames and then the flames fanned rapidly across the floor to where he stood.

Still, it came as a minor bombshell when I made an unscheduled office visit one afternoon after, leaving work early and Doc, pondering the fire, casually commented on how strange it was that the priest's hands were singed the way they were. "How could he be reaching for milk just as the explosion occurred and still sustain second degree burns on his palms?"

"You tell me how Doc?" I asked. I was reclining sideways on her office couch like I always did, my legs dangling like fishing poles over the edge, my mind dangling close to a different precipice.

"My guess is he was disoriented and got his facts mixed," Doc said innocently enough. As usual, she rejected her leather office chair, preferring to sit, legs crossed, on the front of her barren desktop.

"My guess is he got his cocktails mixed."

Doc looked at me strangely, the better word being she looked at me _askance_. There was a funny cast to her hazel eyes, like she'd been puzzling over a question and got her thick brows locked in place. She was the one who was supposed to have all the answers, the one who could channel her energies into a quip or discernment that relieved the built up pressure of day to day life. She was our walking safety valve, our emergency exit, our means of last resort. I don't think she asked to be anything more than a boondock internist, but the deft manner in which she comported herself through any crisis, was unique on an Island whose civilians rarely penetrated beneath the surface.

The spoken word was the Island's source for news, its newspaper, television, radio all wrapped in one. We communicated our gossip like ants, head to head, antennae extended, touching, whenever we met up. The telephone was often the messenger but on an Island such as ours, you had to have face time to lock in the message. This kind of intimacy is dangerous, of course. A message could lie, a face could be duplicitous, a single word could destroy bonds that have been forged decades ago. What choice did we have but a corrupt kind of faith that saddled us with doubt in our private moments. On an Island where the local population was squashed together in constant proximity to one another, we seemed hopelessly separated by the very words that were supposed to draw us in. There were times that we Geese acted as one, but these were supervised events. More extreme events such as murder put us in a serious bind. Words now counted more than ever and we listened carefully because our lives depended upon them. At the same time, words meant less than nothing and, as we listened, we interpreted what was said as if every construct we created was no more than a Tower of Babel. Inevitably, if we were to quell our misgivings, of Beck, of J.J., of Doc, of Father Jacobs, of Ogilvie, of myself, of everyone - three hundred trembling voices rising like a single wave washing over our fading existence on the Island - we had to have the ability to tread water, hang on, until the ebb tide cleansed us of our insolvent fears and we could stand again on a solid surface where withstanding incongruities in our daily lives was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

Doc wouldn't let go the topic of the priest. "In bandaging up Father Jacobs," she said resolutely, "I noticed the front of his cassock wasn't damaged, not a button burned, not a frill singed, not a tie out of place, and I'm sure he wasn't wearing any other vestments at the time."

A wild thought crossed my mind. It came like a twinge that passed down my spine and left no impression except for a vague notion, a flicker flash of an image. I shot up on the couch trying to hang on but it blipped out so quickly, it was near impossible to consciously retrieve. "But Doc," I said, blinking furiously, trying not to implode, "why would he be wearing his cassock at all? There was no scheduled service."

Doc scoffed at the idea. "Don't be silly, my sweet. It's perfectly black and ankle length and holds the weather at bay." Doc scanned my face checking for doubt, for a move towards objections. What could I say? I thought it peculiar his cassock wasn't imprinted with smoke and ash from the explosion's blowback. His palms were charred. Why wouldn't his clothes be?

It was hard to challenge Doc. I was always under her primary care, primary in the sense that her own disposition towards me was mentoring, her feelings for me motherly. "I suppose," I said with a sigh of resignation and a deep yawn, "he could have been wearing a cooking apron or something."

"Raney, Raney. I'm not being accusatory. Father Jacobs is vexed about the fire and concerned for his safety. He's thinking of leaving the Island to take stock of his flock and not returning until the investigation's complete and they restore the rectory."

"Sure, but why would anyone want to hurt him?"

"That's an odd question coming from you. Why would anyone want to hurt anyone? Like the other incidents, there's no motive."

"Let's not go there again," I appealed. "There's motive all right."

"Oh, tosh. Let it go. I'm so happy you stopped by for a chat. I've been meaning to talk with you about our Livinia."

"Our Livinia? I didn't know it was a team affair."

"And I wasn't aware of any affair at all."

"Out of the fire and into the frying pan, is that it?" I said.

Doc became more animated by the second. "Let's put this in the open, my sweet boy. But first, would you care for a cup of tea?"

"I hate chamomile," I said. "Just tell me what you need to tell me."

"Don't be tempestuous," said Doc. "I know we're entering rough terrain." A serious look now passed between us. There was something there, something bordering on tremendous significance, but she couldn't say it. Her eyes said she desperately wanted me to go there. My own battered blues said not today. Doc continued studying my face like I was in pre-surgery lockdown. I felt paralyzed. I couldn't move from the chair. I stared back at her, helpless but calm. I could feel her knowing eyes pouring over every crease, every curve. My face tingled. Then she stood up and walked over from her table, touching my cheek with a tender palm like she was girding me for what seemed a medical assessment. It seemed like she was on the verge of crying, her eyes dampened up, but it wasn't sadness registered. It was just a brief sun shower and cleared the air, making everything come into sharp relief. I stood up, sick of sitting on a low couch in a small room percolating with unanswered questions. I knew where this conversation was heading, and I only wanted to head for the door. But instead I changed the topic. I attempted to tell Doc about my personal brand of magical thinking, but it was half-hearted and she wouldn't buy in. Doc insisted I merely had an allergic reaction to something in what she said was my overheated imagination. "You suffer from a mild contusion of mistaken identity. You choose histrionics over history whenever you can get away with it. My advice is to refrain from casual contact, with yourself."

"Are you advising me to just sit tight?"

"Your life's been overly hectic. Try to find a healthy peace."

"Doc, you're preaching again."

"Livinia's a good woman and she's drawn to you. Maybe you should think about that more often."

"If I thought more about Livinia, there'd be nothing left to think about."

"Then, maybe that's the best answer," said Doc.

"I suppose. It doesn't matter anyway. What you feel is none of my business."

"Maybe one day it will be."

I shrugged. Doc could drone on endlessly. Her words were often idle speakeasy, although sometimes the sharp tip of something resembling a deeper meaning could be seen surfacing from the undercurrent." Hey, Doc, you're a doctor. Here's one: an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure."

"My dear boy, you're seizing up with thoughts of Livinia. Your sneezes and sniffles and waffles and whiffles all point to a distinct distraction, a case of inaction."

"That's it. No more rhymes. I've got to go."

Doc smile was pathetically tender. She unclenched her brows, a charitable air of civility about to be commissioned. "She loves you Raney. Why remain distant?"

I began to feel light-headed and began shifting from foot to foot to find balance and keep me on an even keel. It didn't help. I collapsed back on the couch, my knees buckling up over my face, just enough to cover the red of my cheeks, the spiraling look in my eyes. "Why don't you ask her?" I asked, dispirited and lost.

"I do and often. You watch her from a distance is what I mean. She knows you check on her at night, making sure she's all right. She waits for that knock on the door, that call on the phone."

"Hardly". I said, still focused on the floor.

"Always." Doc replied. "Each passing day draws you further away. She's not in a condition to be opened by just any proposition. Have you declared your intentions?"

I looked up from the rug in weary surprise. "As soon as I figure them out I'll declare them, but to her not to you. This isn't a group workshop. No one's thinking clear right now."

Doc laughed her deep horsey laugh. "Please listen to yourself rant and ramble, now is the best time to think clear thoughts, my dear deluded Raney. Now is the most satisfactory moment to declare your feelings that ought to be overt and full coated, full-throated warbles of love and affection. Believe me, Livinia will be receptive to your declaration. She's giving you the lead."

"Doc, Doc, stop! What I feel for Livinia's between me and her. Don't intervene. And by the way, what's your intentions?" I asked, a hard growl creeping into my throat.

She didn't answer that million dollar question but kept looking at me with those unsparing eyes. It was too much. I sprang from the couch and headed for the door. But again Doc froze me in place. "I have the best of intentions. Further, I'm the most qualified."

Explain that! I erupted.

Doc paused and took a deep, cleansing breath trying to mollify her own runaway emotions. Then she stood up and walked back over to me. That elusive look returned to her face. "Not now my loving boy. But in due course, the truth will be made clear."

"The truth is clear." I surrendered the point. "Maybe, I'll go see Livinia and talk with her, if you think that's the best solution."

"I certainly think it's the only solution."

"O.K. But again, Doc, just for the record, how are you the most qualified?"

"Livinia comes from good people. That's all I want to say. Take it from there, to the moon, to the Milky Way, to the rafters of heaven. That's all I want to say. She's the absolute best."

I finally had enough of Doc's celestial reasoning. I thanked her for her heartfelt claptrap and beat a hasty retreat. Daylight was to expire soon and an imperfect visibility had settled onto the Island. Strips of light fog were traveling from the west and the wind was rising. I neither stopped to check on Livinia or to peer round the village green looking for tendencies of trouble. I needed time to consider what Doc said and to plan my next move. As I skirted the walkway by the low chain fence, I looked around. On the other side of the green, I barely made out the rectory, another _scrapeout_ , burnt black and coreless, windows and doors smashed in by the firemen. Nearby, through the unwashed air, I took note of the plywood sheets that replaced the empty window spaces of J.J.'s market. There were a few homegrown attempts at graffiti dribbled onto the panels. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a shadowy mass hesitate then scramble across the plane of a post office wall. I wouldn't have noticed the vague growth, like a giant spider, plastered to the bricks, but the building had a network of dim lights, on each of its corners. I wondered what predator was stalking what prey, what remnant would remain as the first rays of sun hit in the morning? It dawned on me that the inchoate form could have been nothing more than my overstocked mind looking for egress, some emptying of excess baggage that was rattling around too long. Maybe Sassacus had followed me to town, something I wouldn't normally allow. Maybe it was Louie exploiting my vacillating resolve or maybe it was nothing but some dry sea grass or a shrub blown around by the wind. Then I thought I heard a noise, like the clank-clank I heard the night the priest was toting his cross around town. My senses went on high alert, but after a few seconds, the noise diminished and I put that sound to rest. The priest was recuperating from his ordeal at a parishioner's home and would be leaving soon for some R & R. I couldn't conceive him out and about, his bandaged hands bearing such a burden.

Blackness had laid claim to the Island so I headed towards the beach and then headed towards home. It was Sunday, a few days past the winter solstice and the sky had faded into a nondescript pallor, the color of inconsequence. One last strand of pale ruby light stretched like an exclamation point south along the Sound over towards Orient Point. I secured my sweatshirt around me and put my hoodie up, tightening the cord. The air was sparkling cold and a light film ringed Deep Harbor as I transited around the shadowy piers and pillars. Each miniscule granule seemed to disperse like fairy dust. If it wasn't for a few household lights and puffs of smoke cannonading from the occasional chimney, one could imagine the Island deserted.

I felt like Robinson Caruso and imagined Sassacus as my man Friday. It was a stupid thought. It was also dinnertime. People were starting to feed all over the Island. If this had been Defoe's classic, the fare would have been human, but it wouldn't have mattered. The Geese were consuming themselves as it was.

#  29

Nights were never a burden, never without merit, large chests wide open: something to read, research to do, music to hear. In a couple of hours it'd be midnight. I put my pea coat and sweatshirt back on and set my course. I didn't plan on chatting it up too long. Sassacus would be waiting for me as usual; a dark glimmer, a patch of sea foam to an over-indulgent, distracted mind. But he wasn't there. Lucius Brett was in the bunker instead. He was standing at the other end, his back to me, reciting one of his limericks to the windswept Race:

There was a widow from the Isle de Flor'

Who it was told be a notorious whore.

While the folks knew it'd work out fine,

The widow was found in a state of decline,

_At the foot of the balcony door, hanging from that old oak door_.

Brett didn't hear me slip down into the sand trap. He was wearing a Holden Caulfield hat whose fur cuffs cemented his ears. He wore an old army jacket. The wool of a sweater jetted out of the jacket sleeves as his arms swayed rhythmically from side to side like he was conducting a band, like he was summoning some force of nature. It was hard to tell; nothing was clear. I felt I was intruding on someone in a trance. Even his recitation of the odd limerick had a hypnotic effect like the tolling of a sonorous bell. I imagined Brett's eyes were closed, an ecstatic grin on his face. His khaki pants looked like hand-me-downs. There was a rip along the back of the left knee. He was wearing a pair of gloves, cut off at the knuckles and his fingernails expressed a porcelain glow as they flashed back and forth under the sloppy moon.

Nothing was clear. While there was a blur of perspective there was no blur to the questions that simmered, questions that Brett needed to address. But it had to wait because he repeated his limerick three times then recited another:

The man got caught and pulled up short

When he was captured by the law.

He fought and fought but was all for naught,

Was all for naught cause the man got caught,

With a pair of scissors, a needle and a saw.

I had enough. Trance or no trance, I was about to announce my arrival by tapping him rudely on the shoulder when another set of lines passed from his hatted head:

There once was a boy named Raney

Who was fond of raising the Cainy.

When asked about that dreaded deed,

All he said was Goddy, let it bleed,

Before that poor boy go insany.

I stepped back on the hard sand. "What the fuck! What's that suppose to mean?" Brett hardly jumped in surprise. He knew I was there. He turned, straightened his thin shoulders like he was about to take a formal bow and said, "Finally, we meet again, Mister Raney, a chance to speak of many things, yes, yes?"

Doc had said Brett was in his early fifties but he looked older. And was that a smile? It looked like one coming through his cracked teeth and white beard. I closed in for a closer look. Yes, there were a bunch of broken, misdirected teeth, as indeed there was a beard, weeks old, and spoke to me about how long ago I had last seen Brett, clean-shaven, at Doc's. I also didn't realize how diminutive he was. It may have been the hat, but I guessed 5'5". The other thing that was clear about Brett besides the fact that he was grinning like a jack-o-lantern was that he was all eyes. The eyes were cut deep into his wrinkled sockets like the eyes of an owl and deep shadows were welded scar sharp under his lids. "How did you find me, Brett?" I asked.

"Was lookin' for you so I found you."

"No, you've been following me, that's how. What do you want? You carrying a weapon? Got some tweezers in your back pocket? Should I think my life's in danger?"

"On the contrary, Mister Raney," Brett said, pointing a thin arm at me, panic in his wheezy voice, "we both in danger, but you more than me. Won't be the madman gonna corner me, no sir. I were you, however, I'd be more careful where I park myself."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know I kilt no one or you'd be gone faster than a nigger in Westport."

"C'mon, that's a bit dramatic, Brett. Wouldn't you say?"

"No. Plenty people would say _exactly_ that if given half a chance."

" Then let's not give them one. Anyway, what do you want and why'd you steal that photo and stash it at my door?"

"One question at a time, Mister Raney."

"How about this one: Where'd you get those limericks from?"

I heard him chuckle, self-satisfied. "I make 'em up. I'm not what you think."

"Is that so? I think you're exactly what I think."

"Well think some more. And while you're at it...

There once was a brother called Chip,

Who liked to give Raney the flip.

They duked it all out,

But it was really a rout,

Now Raney gives Chippy the slip.

How you like that lyric?" Brett said, puffed up and proud of his keen skill.

"I don't and they're limericks, Lucius, not lyrics.

"Limerick, lyric...they all song," he reminded with a professorial edge. "Went to college for two years, music major. Got thrown out."

"You? College? What for?" I said, realizing too late I had crossed the line.

Brett paused, then sat, actually buckled, into the sand and leaned back against the short, sand porch. Without looking up he said with a disappointed look, "You're quite the one to talk, Mister Raney. Thought you a bigger man than that. Stole an oboe, dumb choice. Should a gone for the fancy violins."

"Being here's a dumb choice. And I'm sorry about what I said. I'm pissed off."

"Too bad. That's the way shit rolls, downhill like everythin' else. But it's true, I'm a lyin' fool. Can't help myself. I went to college, yes, yes. University of Bridgeport, was a janitor, and cleaned up when everyone else cleared out. Took one instrument a week. Didn't wanna to get greedy but I was found out."

I was surprised by his confession. Then my anger began to wane and a cautious curiosity posted itself instead. I sat down beside him. "Sure you telling me the truth?"

Brett again appeared offended by my doubts and exhaled a stream of cold air that was whisked away by the pesky wind. He then looked up at me, his frightened eyes fixing me in place. "We the same in a fashion, you and me. We both left college after two years and we both got chips on our shoulders. I stole more than equipment. I stole books, lots of them, and read every single one. How's that for gettin' a piece of the education pie?"

"You know a lot about me."

"I talk with Miss Grover in the library, the children on the bus, Doctor Talbot at the infirmary. Mister Ogilvie and Miss Tillie too."

"You do more than talk. You stole the photo off Doc's desk."

Brett shifted uncomfortably, looking to settle deeper into the sand. "Mister Raney, sometimes I can't help myself. Sure, I snatched the photo but I gave it to you straightway to show my good intentions."

"Road to hell's paved with good intentions."

"True enough. But you still have it. Not on Doctor Talbot's desk last I checked."

"You check out anything else like some Valium and scalpels?"

"Heard about that and I'm mighty sorry about them ladies."

"Why are you here? To show me what a stellar wordsmith you are?"

"Mister Raney, they want me dead, all of them. They came for me."

I leaned away from the embankment trying to steady myself on one arm. "Smitts and Martin bring you in for another session?"

"No! No! The lynchin' crew from Sinbad's stopped by for tea. Tell you, I don't deserve this. Came here to get straightened out in the head, not the neck."

"Those assholes. I told them to stay put. What happened?"

"What happened? Tell you what happened. Your brother came to the rescue."

"That's impossible," I said.

"Mister Chip saved my life. He the man. That's why I'm here. Whole Island's out to get me. When they knocked, I stayed put. They was drunk as skunks."

"No."

"Yes. There were six. They begun bangin' on the door and the curly-haired one say, 'C'mon out, Mister Brett, come on out here so we can have us a little chat'. Ain't the first time someone came knockin'. Last time was Halloween, but I wasn't ready for trouble then. This time I was heads up, and made plans to beat it soons they left, but I forgot to shut the light so they figure I was home. Then they start callin' me all kinds of names. Then Mister Nathan came by."

"No. What? Ogilvie came by?"

Yes. Said, 'Gentlemen...' but that's all he could get out. Could tell it was him by his voice. Then they started laughing at him. One called him a 'nigger-lover'. You believe that? On this Island, in these days, some stupid, cracker transplant sayin' that?"

"I believe that," I said.

"Then they begun fightin' and shoved Mister Nathan off the stoop. They didn't care nothin' for nothin'. They wanted me and it wasn't gonna to be pretty."

"What about Chip? How did he help? He's blind."

"Course he's blind!" Brett thundered, almost leaping out of the sandtrap. "But that don't make him useless. You're underestimatin' your blood. We talk a bunch, me and Mister Chip. Pity about them eyes. But he saved my life. Thought they gonna bust through the door any second as they kicked and beat on it something fierce. I looked over from the couch, then I start to pray, hoping they don't make it in cause all five were takin' whacks at the door and if they bust in..."

I'm sorry to hear this, Lucius, I truly am. But I thought you said there were six."

"I saw five but then I saw this other. A big shadowman back in the bushes all hooded up. He was quiet but watchin' the whole operation. Then this loud music comes from nearby. I mean rough stuff coming straight out of thin air, loud enough to wake the dead. Already know the livin' all up and about. And the music goes even louder."

"What the hell was it?"

"It was that Rolling Stone music for sure. It was a song about some street fightin' men but so loud I knew - we all knew - cops would be along any second. Song went over and over. And then I look up out the window and see them all froze up like they was made of ice. They right away beat it and I figure I better run too cause the cops are goin' to be along and they was gonna question me all over again."

"Why?"

"You're naïve, Mister Raney. They're lookin' to put me away."

"I don't know about that," I said.

"Then explain about that hatchet. Found its way onto the bus all by itself? The police or the killer did that. Someone's tryin' to set me up. They all got it in for me."

"No."

"Yes. I left out the back door when things quieted down. Couldn't even check on Mister Nathan. And then... then I saw that thing again."

"Saw what again?" I asked.

Saw that shadowman looking at me from a corner of the alleyway. Damn near pee in my pants. And then he starts movin' like a black truck, movin' and comin' at me, got something in his hand he waved above his hood."

"What he have in his hand?"

"Autograph book, but I had no pen. How the fuck should I know? Didn't wait around to see what. Then I ran over here where I know you'd be hidin' out."

"I'm not hiding." I replied. "I'm thinking."

"You're hidin', Mister Raney. Don't know what from or from what, but I know you're hidin'. See you all the time hunkered down like a baby in the sand."

"Look, just...just, never mind. Did you recognize any of the attackers?

"Not a single one."

"Why didn't you talk to me about this before?"

"Mister Nathan said you weren't sure about me, so I bided my time, but ran out of time this time. I first was goin' to go see some nice women folk who been kind. But, hell! A black man in this town knockin' on white women's doors at this hour of the night with all this going on....shit, be pure suicide. But I feel you can be trusted. Your size and history have a powerful pull. I come to your apartment first, but I expected you'd be here alone or chattin' with your friend."

"I'm not chatting with anyone."

"Sure you are. I hear you chattin' out loud but it don't sound like prayer to me."

"I'm alone. I come here alone. I'm not praying, just talking to myself."

"Yes sir, Mister Raney, yes, yes. Sometime same difference. But I knew you'd be here in either case. Don't get out much because of because, but I like to wander at night. Can't be seen in either case, if you know what I mean."

"I think I do."

"Lots of folks chattin' with lots of folks on this Island, some are dead, some not so. Not surprised if some do the root work. I swear the folks here are nuttier than them folks in a nuthouse."

For some reason I began to laugh hysterically and couldn't stop. Tears began rolling down my cheeks.

"This business isn't funny. If I'm caught, oh man..."

"I'm sorry. It's all morbid crap but I appreciate your honesty. What can I do?"

"Mister Raney, I need you to help me out. Don't wanna to go back tonight because they might return and this time they be sure to finish the job, plus Mister Nathan's hurt. It'd be his word against their word against my word. It's one big mess."

When the morning came with a blazing sun and a clear blue sky, the mess went from bad to worse. Brett spent the night in my apartment and after toast and coffee, I told him to stay put, touch nothing - "Nothing!" - and not show his face in town till I returned and gave him the all clear. I needed to see Ogilvie to confirm Brett's story and to see what shape he was in. Another stop would be Constable Martin's office to clear up any ambiguity regarding the previous night. The last stop would be Calderone's apartment in the basement of a large house near Sinbad's. I decided to deal with him separately. I felt like the Island bully but the truth was I felt like the knight on the art book cover fending off the rat dragons. Unfortunately, I was too late. That rat dragon would never hurt anyone again. They discovered the mangled mass they once called Mike Calderone in the morning when Flora's Waste Management expert, Billy Twiggs, opened up for business at eight A.M. sharp. Calderone had a great fall, fell off the wall. Twenty feet into the cement pit of the town dump.

It was to be a bellwether event on a bellwether day, Monday, Christmas Eve. It was also the first day of the last week I ever was going to see my apartment again. Why Edwards went formal with an eviction notice was a puzzle. He should have fired me the second I told him off at the bar. The crisply folded eviction notice was signed by his attorney and offered further proof that January 1, 1984, New Year's Day, the day I was to move out, was really not a new day by any stretch of the imagination, but an old day - an old, old day - the final reconfiguration of our own emotional evictions from our fragile state of private equilibrium, that last bastion of safety we'd ever know again until the killer was caught.

#  30

It was Christmas Eve. The morning sky bled grey and black. Clouds were rolling in like there was no tomorrow. The weather was the least of it. The only thing coming down the chimney was the Blues. The world could be split in two and who'd notice. A divided planet just served to decorate a divided mind. Like I said, Brett and I talked most of the night. We wrapped navy blankets around our shoulders and in the dusky glow of a living room lamp, he told me about growing up dirt poor on a peach farm in Georgia, and I told him about growing up Goose poor on the Island. He said his hand was in the cookie jar as far back as he could remember and confided that, even now, there were items of little value stuffed under a loose floorboard in his barrack apartment. "Can't be helped," he said. "I'm a chronic case."

I told him I was chronic too, obsessed with Island folklore and had a key piece of history stuffed in a shoe box in the top shelf of my closet. "What's that?" Brett asked innocently enough. And against my better judgment I told him about Sassacus and his wampum belt and the Indian mound up on Barton's Hill.

"Seems we're both takin' stuff that don't belong to us," Brett said.

I explained that I was an occasional artifact hunter and that finding old relics wasn't the same as a five-finger discount. Brett shook his grey head, gave me his gaunt gaze. "That's rationalizin', plain and simple. You can't admit we be 'bout the same."

I objected. "I don't think so. My finds belong to no one."

At first, Brett remained nonplussed, but then an idea burst into his head for he suddenly stood up from the couch and began sniffing around like a bloodhound. "It belongs to posterity. It's about the time frame. You shoplift from the past, me, I go 'bout my business in the present."

"Your only business is to be safe and to leave my stuff alone. Call it a test case."

Brett stopped in his tracks, turned, and softly crooned:

Can a man who's crooked be saved,

From a life that's always depraved?

All the stuff that he knicked

All the shit that he picked,

Only prove he took more than he gave.

I stiffly tapped my hands together. "You're an artist, Lucius, you know that?"

"Only workin' off some energy," Mister Raney.

"Well work it off in your own place," I said, aware that he was on a scouting mission but confident that it was just his way.

I hit the post office right as the fire alarm went off. I started to shake and couldn't stop until I put my hoodie over my head. It seemed like the only place to hide. I saw the ambulance speeding by through the post office window. What was the emergency this time? Who was it now? Anybody I knew? I considered the possibilities, realizing the answer wasn't a who but a how well. The eviction notice in the box changed everything. Moving in with Lucy and Chip for a temporary stay wouldn't be a bad idea. Maybe it'd prove cathartic, a little family face time. I'd break the news tonight at the American Legion Hall where, for the sake of community spirit, there'd be a Christmas dinner for the Geese sponsored by FLITCO. Jameson, I heard, was behind the festivity. I surmised the state of affairs if the grim creeper was still at it come Memorial Day. The Turkeys would spend the season nesting at other roosts and Jameson's market would tank. Christmas dinner at the hall was Jameson's first salvo to stave off the disproportionate sense of dismay that by summertime, the Island would be Turkey free. I looked up at the sky for support. The clouds were still flexing their muscles. Puffs of lighter sections tried to punch through the bigger mass. It looked like a cartoon rumble blowing up in the sky: _Pow!Bing!Choo!_ I saw owls, lions and dragons.

On my way to the police station, I stopped at the Ogilvie's. When they let me in, I saw they both looked shot. Nate had on his pajamas, a series of black three-masted schooners sailing a rumpled sea of beige, and Tillie had on a blue house dress covered with a black sweater and wore fluffy slippers to protect her feet from the cold oak floor. Having coffee in his small, neat parlor it was clear Ogilvie was going to be fine. His left wrist was badly sprained, he had a long cut on his chin and his ego was badly bruised. Doc had fixed his wrist with an ace bandage, patched his chin with a butterfly band-aid, but couldn't alter his ego. His countenance was shattered. "Those fucking lowlifes," he moaned from the leather couch he had discovered at the dumps two years before. "They wouldn't listen."

"Wouldn't make a difference if they had," I said from the only wing chair in the room, a chair imported from the same haul as the couch. "They planned their mission days in advance."

Ogilvie leaned deeper into the cushion. "Sounds like a military operation," he said. He held the mug of coffee in his good hand and kept moving the shoulder of his other in agitation. "It doesn't matter what they were doing, I'm still pressing charges." A disgruntled look came in his hollow eyes. He kept staring at me, trying to force me to look back. He seemed to want to tell me something but was having trouble spelling it out. I think the painkillers Doc gave him loosened his tongue but not enough for him to let loose what he needed to say. Instead, he talked about last night. "Those rejects knocked me off the steps. Your brother was a lion heart. He heard the commotion and let the Stones rip. I could see it was having an impact. Calderone and the other jerks began looking around for the source of the song but couldn't put two and two together. They figured it came out of the heavens - _deus ex machina_ \- and, sensing they were going to hell anyhow, they took off in different directions."

Tillie came in with a tray of buttered toast and homemade cookies. She placed it on the small ottoman between us, then plopped down on the couch next to her husband.

"See anyone else in that group?" I asked. "Anyone different?"

"What do you mean? They all looked like cockroaches."

I patiently drank my coffee, chomped some toast and bided my time. Soon, I lowered my vision to get more in their field, and told them more about Brett's visit and the person who attacked him in the alley. I tried not to omit one detail, except I had Brett's visit staged in my apartment not the bunker.

"And Lucius is still at your place?" Tillie asked, hugging her sweater for warmth.

"He better be, for his own safety, at the very least. I figure when I see Martin, he'll understand that Lucius is a pawn."

"That's right," Ogilvie said, a tepid smile finally appearing on his tired face, a smile hanging not more than three inches above his bandaged chin. "I think he needs to get off the Island, get a lawyer. It's not fair that Smitts is making him stay."

"Smitts seems more of a hard ass than Martin."

"He's harder to deal with for sure," Ogilvie said.

Tillie looked impatiently at her husband. "Go on and tell him."

"Tell me what?"

Ogilvie braced himself, wanly smiled back at Tillie, then turned his head and looked up into my inquisitive yet wary face. "Things have changed. Jameson phoned. He called from Naples. It seems the school principal's called it quits. Said she had had enough, packed up and left. No advance warning."

Tillie stood up, annoyed. "Tell him, Nate. Stop dawdling." Then she picked up what was left of the tray of food, and padded back into the kitchen.

"She's a good woman my Tillie. She rocks my socks."

"I never thought otherwise."

"I was just ordered to become the acting principal for the new semester. They know I have an old administration degree from Connecticut and they can cite special exemption because when the school reopens after Christmas they're going to need someone to run the show."

I laughed hard at the irony. "You're not exactly a fan favorite here, Nate."

"You work with what you got," Ogilvie said. I could tell he didn't want the job but recognized that he was the only qualified teacher to take it.

"I like your sense of duty. Maybe you can get me a job too. I was fired yesterday. Edwards wants me out of his apartment by New Year's Day."

It was Ogilvie's turn to laugh and he made a special moment of it, so much so that he screamed out in agony from the small chasm in his jaw line. Then he began to thoughtfully massage his chin like an old sage and, after a long moment said, "I got the answer. I can't drive the school bus any longer, so as interim Principal, I hereby pronounce you driver extraordinaire."

"I'm honored."

"Wait, it gets better. We'll also need an English sub while I take leave. Think you're up to the job?"

"Up to the job? Hell, yes, I'm up to the job. I could use the cash."

"It's not about money," Ogilvie reminded with a sober air. It's about doing right by the kids. Always remember that."

"My pledge to you."

"Good," said Ogilvie, "and now for the bad news. "I think Tillie and I are leaving the Island next year, that is, if we survive. And I don't mean as a couple."

"I know what you mean."

"The new position's only temporary. They'll soon want someone more to their way of thinking. And besides, I've been thinking of writing a proper book, maybe an adventure novel or a series of essays."

"Well you know you've at least one sale," I said, and then, "but that's not why, Nate. There's more you're not telling me."

"You've always been a perceptive bastard, Raney. I'll miss you for sure."

"Tell me the truth then."

"Last night I had a dream. There was a train running from one end of Flora's to the other. It was an old style steam locomotive, one car in the middle and two cabooses. It ran from Alister Airport to Castle Point and then reversed course and came back. It ran in a straight line and never deviated from its route."

"I'd like to book passage." I joked, "Got a copy of the schedule? Does it make a stop at Sinbad's?"

"Don't be an idiot. The train was painted bright red, had a whistle and steam belched from its chimney in big puffs that made the car and cabooses fairly indistinct. Back and forth along Flora's the train went. I might as well have been counting sheep for all it was worth cause nothing else was happening."

"I'm impressed," I added half-seriously, "one _butcher_ , no baker, no candlestick maker. Just a run of the mill dream."

"I don't think so," Ogilvie said. "Things don't stay the same. After a while, the dream shifted to the inside of a caboose where I was heaving coal into the mouth of one of those giant blast furnaces. Suddenly, the train shot off the track, nearly tipped over, and a landslide of burning coal buried me alive. I began screaming out. But I distinctly remember Tillie was being served tea and little Russian sponge cakes in the dining car and didn't hear my cry for help."

"Where'd that come from?"

"It was an add-on, just like you were a walk on along with just about everyone I know. While Tillie was sipping her tea the rest of the Islanders were watching me roast. In front of this mountain of lava was Franklyn Perricone and Shep Barone and Corey Blackstone and the Swift sisters and Father Jacobs, and the second row were you and your brother and mother and Livinia and Lucius Brett and Julia Beck and Smiley and Jameson and Constable Martin and others. Even the bunch of bozos that threw me down were there. I also gave a shout out to some teachers who had left the Island and some locals who drowned like your grandfather and Carl Calderone and that English teacher I replaced and that pilot and even some neighbors who died of some illnesses years ago."

"What about Doc?" I asked. "Was she at your cremation?"

"Of course. Doc was set off to the side of the steaming car delivering a eulogy though I don't remember what she was saying."

"That's one hell of a dream, Nate."

"It's how mayhem works I figure. The dream was all about mayhem, you know. First, things go along like nothing's going along and then the closest distance between two points become totally irrelevant."

"I don't follow."

"The running of the trains appear flat and even, back and forth, almost two-dimensional, like our lives here, the same routine over and over. Then something shifts and the closest distance between two points become refracted in a way, into something that makes perfect sense because the line was always bent, we just never realized it. Our perspectives were out of line, like wishful thinking, and the new, misshapen course of my locomotive were always the true course, and the original line... an illusion. I've been thinking about this dream all morning."

"I'd say," I said.

"Yeah, and it points to some real concerns I have about Tillie and me and what the hell we're doing here."

"So this is what it's really all about. Tillie wasn't at the service because you want to protect her."

"Exactly. I want to spare her from this stupid cycle of the Island. The incessant nature of the wind and water. Now that this butcher's changed the dynamic, I think nothing's really changed except the spell's been broken and where once we were sleepwalking our lives away, now we've woken into another dream, one closer to the way things really are... pure mayhem."

"Did you die?"

"No, I woke before I died like in all my dreams and now the new reality's like another dream but more vivid and closer to the truth, which is what counts when running point to point."

"So, what's it mean, you think...never trust a straight line?"

Ogilvie slowly shook his head back and forth. "It means trust your dreams but be careful what your senses are telling. I'm telling you there's more going on here than meets the eye, like you always say. You were right, Raney. You were damn right."

"Raney was right. Raney always was right. Just like the note in Shep's pocket. But I'm not clear what I'm always right about."

"Listen to me. The dream I had last night was a wakeup call. I've got to get Tillie off of Flora's or she'll end up in trouble. For instance, Mary Angeli's been, how do I say this delicately?"

"Just say it. Delicate no longer exists."

" All right, then. Mary's been mutilating herself. When she drops by, I see the tiny cuts up and down her arms. I see self-inflicted blows to the head. She's got bumps and scratches on her face and she's been pulling out some hair. Her ex, one of the meanest bastards ever, hasn't been around for months, which is good, but his absence hasn't spared the rod. Mary's slowly killing herself."

"That's nuts."

"I know. I don't need Tillie being a running mate for Mary. She's getting crank calls when I'm at work and doesn't need Mary's shit on top of it. Mary's two kids are at boarding school, the house her husband bought her before their divorce is falling to pieces, just like she is. I got to get Tillie out of here while there's time."

"It's hard enough, but throw the killer in and it's near impossible".

"Exactly." Ogilvie whispered back, rubbing his chin." Exactly right".

#  31

My next stop was to see Constable Martin, but first I swung by to tell Lucy about my new boarding adventure. When I told her, her happiness knew no bounds. I then said it was only temporary but she couldn't hear me over her loud serenade. At one point she started hopping around the kitchen like a kangaroo knocking over pans and plates. She was by now unstoppable, hardly aware that I had left to slam into Chip's room to break the news.

Chip took the information in stride. "It is what it is," he said.

"See you at the hall later for dinner," I said. "And thanks for helping Brett out of a jam. You saved his life.

"Whoopdeedoo! At least someone's been saved."

"Don't get all doom and gloom on me. You did a real good thing last night."

"Do I get brownie points? Are you going to pat me on my head? Good boy, Chip... atta boy. Not a big deal."

"That's not what Brett and Ogilvie are saying. I'm proud of you and so's everyone else."

"I don't care. Be proud somewhere else and close the door on your way out."

And I did. I'm learning at a furious pace. You can only do what you can do with what you have to work with. Take the scene at the station. By the time I arrived, Martin was already out rounding up the unusual suspects. They were to be brought in to answer questions in regard to the attack on Brett. The only one to deal with at the moment was Detective Smitts, and he trusted me like he did all the Geese, which was not at all. Smitts invited me to sit down across from him at the office table. "You saying that Mister Brett was with you all night? In your apartment, trading ghost stories and sipping sherry? This is what you want me to believe?"

"I'm just telling you Brett left his apartment once those assholes scattered."

Smitts looked at me with haughty disdain. "Mister Tables, did you know that one of those scatterlings just had his brains scattered all over the town dump?"

"What do you mean?"

"That siren that went off this morning...

"Yeah, I heard it and saw the ambulances scoot by."

"Well, it was to let the whole Island know another attack had taken place. Mike Calderone either slipped in the dark and fell over the bunker or someone pushed him. What do you think happened?"

"Is he all right?"

Smitts was a study in classic minimalistic behavior. He even looked like what Hollywood would throw up on the screen as a classic detective. In his black suit and blue tie, with his short black hair, peppered white and neatly brushed back, and his stern hawkish face always shaved and ruddy in complexion, he reminded me of one of the characters of the early television hit, _Dragnet_. While he only said what was necessary, his movements were stiller still. In fact, at times it seemed that the only thing moving was his mouth and the cigarette stabbed into a corner. He let out nothing if he could help it, except plumes of smoke, and he was defensive in manner, taking what I learned was great umbrage at the shallowness of the native population. Yet he was circumspect as well, and exuded a refined confidence and superiority that could only have come about through years of total cooperation. Basically, Smitts never took no for answer when he wanted a yes and never took yes for answer when he wanted more. And he certainly wanted more from me today. "You tell me if he's all right, Mister Tables?"

I was taken aback by Smitts throwing back the question. "How would I know," I said defensively, "I was at home."

"Where's Mister Brett now?"

"He's staying at my place till I give him the green light. I wanted to make sure it's safe for him to go back to his place."

"I would say it's safe now, wouldn't you?"

"I think so."

"Well think again!" Smitts' voice raised itself two notches out of the stillness from which it came. "You testifying on behalf of Brett and Brett back here again testifying to your whereabouts sheds no light on the events of last evening. This mutual corroboration won't get us anywhere."

"It's the truth, detective."

"Here's what we know," said Smitts, blowing a ring of smoke into the still air. "Mister Brett was attacked last night by five men. They would have broken into his apartment and hurt him or worse but Mister Nathan Ogilvie and your brother, Mister Charles Tables, intervened. Am I right so far," Smitts boomed, caring not so much about my answer as my reaction.

"Sort of."

"Fill me in then. Sort of's not an answer."

"Brett told me there were six thugs not five. And the dark one at the back of the mob later attacked him in the alley. My guess it was the same one who dumped Calderone over the precipice."

Smitts bobbed his head up and down, but I wasn't sure if it was a confirmation or a reconfiguration of my statement. He put the nub of his cigarette in an overfilled ashtray on the table and lit a new one. "You saying Brett was attacked again after his initial attack, but got away?"

Yes."

"So you're saying this guy, whoever it was, later, looking for a random victim, picked off one of his own?"

"What I'm saying is only what Brett reported to me last night." I was becoming agitated but held my feelings in check.

"All right, then, let's continue. Why don't we fill in the roster. Mister Warren Barakaday, Mister Roby Jenkins, Mister Oliver Perez, Mister Martin Redbone and, of course, Mister Mike Calderone were all in attendance at Mister Brett's coming out party last night. It appears they wanted to have a conversation with Mister Brett about his behavior since he came aboard last September. Am I on target so far?"

"Yes."

"Now you're telling me there's a sixth player and I'm telling you Mister Ogilvie only cited five when we spoke with him at his apartment earlier this morning. How do you account for the discrepancy?"

"Like I said, you'll have to ask Brett. He's the one who was attacked and he's the one who tallied six."

"But I'm asking you. You seem to know a lot about the events of the evening past. You sure you weren't the sixth man? You sure you weren't around the village green last night?"

I remained calm, knowing it was Smitts' way to hassle. "I was where I told you I was," I said with an authority that I hoped would put the issue to rest.

"Okay, why don't we lay that aside for the moment. Let me ask you why you came to see me this morning."

"I came to tell you like I already told you that Brett was with me last night and that he was attacked." I began to squirm uneasy in my little chair.

"Why did you need to tell me that this morning? Where was the urgency?"

"I came here to register a complaint on Brett's behalf. Brett's done nothing wrong. I didn't want you getting the wrong idea. Especially now that you're telling me Calderone's dead."

"We don't know for sure if the victim expired, Mister Tables, but is that what you'd like to have happen?"

"What I'd like to have happen is that whoever did it gets nailed and we can get our lives back. I knew none of this till now that you're telling me."

"Then why are you so interested in Mister Calderone's condition?"

"I'm not. I'm answering your questions is all I'm doing."

"Then how about this one. You both have a reason for Mister Calderone to be marginalized, do you not?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"We know you two have had a lifetime of bad blood and Mister Brett was only a few short hours ago attacked, like you suggest, by a group of men that included Mister Calderone. If that doesn't sound like a motive to me then..."

"Wait a second," I interrupted. "I told you where we were last night. We were on the other side of town. We couldn't have slipped back in past the patrol cars, kicked Mike off the bunker, and slip away again."

"Sure you could; anyone could. The extra cars are there for show as much as for protection," Smitts asserted. "But let me ask you this: explain the sixth man."

"I already told you to ask Brett."

"Speculate!" Smitts loudly commanded.

"I can't do that."

"That answer's not adequate."

"It's the best you're going to get. I'm telling the truth."

"Well then. If our mystery man committed that crime then the mystery man must be the same one who's committed all the crimes here. Don't you think?"

"I don't know what to think right now. It's your job to think and my job to react."

"Well when something comes to mind, then."

"I'll tell you one thing. Father Jacobs has been acting suspiciously. As of late..."

"Hold it right there, Mister Tables," ordered Smitts. "If you're accusing Father Jacobs then someone's also accusing you and someone's also accusing Mister Brett and everyone else is also accusing someone else on the Island. Your people have been calling in with a list of potential perps and sneaking in here namedropping names since the day I arrived. Most of the accused are their own friends and neighbors. That's pretty low in my book."

"Everyone's scared. It's how scared people react."

"So you say. The Island's starting to swallow its own tail, Mister Tables. Everyone's blaming everyone else. It's gotten to the point that it's become inappropriate and dangerous. But I know that trait, that whistle blowing impulse. However, when it comes with no evidence or evidence that's completely absurd like your accusation, it only adds to our workload and takes us away from our mission."

"So you're saying," I said with growing rancor, "that I leave Father Jacobs out of this even though I might offer examples of his outlandish behavior?"

"I'm saying that Father Jacobs came within a hair of being blown sky high and that makes him more of a victim than a suspect, don't you think?"

"I suppose," I said.

"I understand your concerns and your loyalties. All I'm suggesting is that these leads usually go nowhere, are useless and a waste of breath. So how about saving yours? And how about staying in touch? And how about sticking around town?"

Once outside, I saw the clouds rolling thick and rousted about, some like pups at play, some like shades of dark knitting wool clumped together in tangles. I was surprised that there was no precipitation except what my combustible engines were in the midst of manufacturing. I needed to get around, stay in the moment. However, I was betrayed by my heart. My only thought at the moment was Livinia. I needed to see Livinia. "NOW!" I said out loud to myself: "NOW! NOW! NOW!"

Calypso Avenue was empty and would be emptier still once the word about Calderone's fall got around. Suddenly, I got this impulse to run down towards the village green to the library. I'm not talking about a light jog. This would be a sprint, a hundred yard dash between the two careening points in my life. It was Livinia or bust. Livinia was the shortest distance between my past and future. It was becoming clear. I imagine I'd be a sight to see, the biggest creature on Flora's whipping it down the street. I imagined neighbors huddling together for safety or calling the cops from covert corners of their homes in mortal fear for their lives. The beast was back, the hairy hellion. Fuck them! And fuck Smitts and Martin too. They were all clowns and couldn't catch a cold let alone a deranged killer.

Out of breath and a disheveled mess, I reached Livinia's porch by the side of the library steps, the same porch where we first kissed, where we first recognized it was time to make love, where we first recognized it was time to withdraw. I banged on the door with both fists. The building rattled. I screamed into the wind: "Livinia!" And again, "Livinia!" Then I felt the urge to beat down the door, then I felt the engine let go its steam, and the urge to cry was no longer an urge but an inevitability. I gave the door one more boot and took off as fast as my feet could carry me towards the apartment. Without a doubt, an iron wheel was slowly being turned in my heart. I felt the mechanics of it, and I felt the old barriers creaking, then giving way. Then I felt the squeaky, metal gates being torn open and felt a freshet of tears pour out. I couldn't control it. I had no game plan for this incursion and gave up trying.

As I ran, I felt the torrent. As I ran, I cried out in pain, in shame, in fear, fear not so much in regard to the murderer, but in fear that I might have lost Livinia. And so I ran and I cried while I ran, feeling for the first time in years my cold cheeks wet with the burning tears of loss and self-loathing. I rounded Deep Harbor at a wicked clip. I had forgotten how fast I was. I hit the Meadowlands in minutes, scattering the remaining dead leaves on the fairways and tight greens. My long legs ached, my lungs were bursting for air. It felt terrible and wonderful, too, at the same time... letting go.

Terrible and wonderful until I scampered up the steps of my soon to be lost apartment and found the front door wide open - terrible - the empty sneaker box lying on the floor face up in front of the closet- terrible - Brett long gone - terrible - and Livinia sitting on the end corner of my bed - wonderful - in my bedroom - wonderful - looking forlornly at the book of paintings she had given me three long years before.

#  32

When I completed my second year of college and then dropped out (my G.P.A. was a measly 2.1), I told no one except my disappointed head coach, and took off in my used, lime green Ford Pinto Hatchback. I bought the car in New London and drove it to Sparta my sophomore year. I barely squeezed in but I got a good deal from a car dealer, a fan that came to some scrimmages when our team played off Island. The only other person I told was Ogilvie and while his letters resonated with typical Ogilvie angst, he remained stalwart in his conviction that I'd return when I finished finding myself. So when I left Ohio, figuring I'd better start looking somewhere, I peeled off across the big belly of my consternation onto U.S. Route 50 and headed on a fine spring morning for the west coast. Being that my interest was limited to oceanside purviews, I began touring some coastal Islands that had caught my attention.

I find it revealing that in leaving Flora's I was capitulating and returning again and again through regional discourse with her sister Islands. What lonely impulse drove me to this quest? What was the iron in the irony my quest was about? Sometimes I think the gravitas behind learning who you are is learning who you're not. Dropping out of college and Island hopping around the country's crisp edges was my greatest education. Every location was a different classroom and, while I didn't graduate with honors, there was no dishonor in such self-scrutiny, in making discoveries about the affinities upon which I staked my claim for existence. What I did was inevitable. My home had to be made comprehensible before it could be made real. I was merely keeping the faith.

The iron maiden gave me some line and after a while began reeling me in. I could feel the seductive hook from the moment I left Sparta. In the long run, it was pointless to go renegade. I lived in a parallel universe where everything was either personified or gut-wrenchingly real. And the real cried out that I couldn't leave my brother. I tried for two years. I tried for another ten to forget, but it was a weak-willed attempt. All the Islands I scoured from Sanibel to Bainbridge to Amelia's to Nantucket to dozens more, were just reminders of where I belonged. The further I distanced myself from my past, the closer I got. It was only a matter of time not space. And I felt the same way about the librarian. It was only a matter of time and time was up. Gratitude swelled in my heart. So did a strong simmer over Brett's desertion. "Where is he?" I yelled, "You see him? Is he hiding?"

Livinia casually put down the book, gave it a demure pat like she was putting it to bed, and looked up at me. She wore a cream sweater over a blue blouse. Her hair was pinned but it was a soft pullback not the big squeeze and opened her pretty face like a flower in bloom. She seemed exceedingly calm, collected and covert. This was too much patience in her every move. It appeared to me practiced, as if she had been going over the scenario a million times. Looking back at her, direct and lustful, was a mistake. "You've been crying," she said.

"I've been running is all. I'm out of breath."

"I like that about you, Raney," Livinia pointed out, "you're a horrible liar." Then she smiled, waltzed over to where I leaned on the bedroom door and wrapped her arms up and part way around my shoulders. "I've been thinking a lot about you these last weeks. And what I've come to realize" she said, looking me square in the face, "is how much I've missed you." Livinia hesitated only a fraction, then pulled me down to her space kissing me hard on the mouth.

"I missed you too," I said, deeply affected by her kiss, yet holding myself in check, not wanting to falter, revert back. I switched subjects. "How'd you get in? I locked the front door."

When Livinia smiles, her cheeks broaden, highlighting her freckles and small dimples come into view. When Livinia smiles her eyes widen into giant saucers and a light pulses from her face like she's electrically charged. I longed for that bright smile and now it was back, but Brett was gone and he took my prize with him. "Lucius must have let himself out," she said, "and left open the door. But what happened last night?"

"You heard the news about Mike?"

"Maria told me this morning," Livinia said, still holding me close, her fingers tightly tugging my pea coat. "And she told me about what happened at Lucius' apartment. Nathan filled her in when the medics brought him in to get fixed."

"Brett was here hiding out."

"Sort of a safe house?"

"Yeah, real safe. He ripped me off. He stole the wampum belt."

"You always wanted me to see it. Why didn't you?"

"I offered to show you lots of things but things don't always go smooth. The belt's centuries old. There's beads missing and broken pieces. Shells don't last forever."

"Nothing does. Is that why you never showed me?"

"I was afraid you'd think I was crazy and the belt was nothing like I said it was."

"That's possible. How do you know it belonged to Sassacus? Why didn't you show it to Professor Webster?"

"I just never got around to it," I confessed. "I didn't want him to show me I was mistaken. I was happy with my belief. It's in keeping with my ideas about the Island."

"Wouldn't you be happier with the truth?"

"I thought it was the truth. I thought it was the real deal. I..."

Livinia shushed me, putting a finger to her red lips, indicating it would be all right. "But why would Lucius take it? He hardly knows what it is."

"It's just more self-gratification. It fills his need, whatever that is." I stared with deepest desire into Livinia's face. She squeezed me affectionately but firm. I could feel her nails biting into my flesh through my coat. I almost wished she drew blood.

"But you found me instead," she said with a suggestive smile."

"Yeah, I have. So what are we going to do about it?" We locked eyes then kissed again, strong, indelicate, then our lips parted.

Livinia smiled, intrigue and passion on the rise, then she whispered damp in my ear, "Baby, trust me, I have a better mound than the Pequots."

"I know," I panted back. "I damn well know it."

"Lucius can wait, can't he?"

"Certainly, yeah, for sure. He can wait. Let him wait."

"Why don't you fill my need?"

"Yeah, for sure. Yeah! Why don't I."

Brett waited, I didn't. I unrolled Livinia onto the bed, and she raised her arms as I speedily removed her sweater then unsnapped her bra. Moving my head slowly down her flank in sheer rapture, I kissed and licked her body, my tongue flicking this way and that lost in the traffic of her flesh. Finally, I reached between her legs to tug her panties off but there was none. My heart began to pound. Wildly surprised and excited in feeling my fingers enfolded in the moist down of Livinia's sex, I raised her blouse high onto her heaving chest with my other hand and began kissing every crease and fold in an ecstatic bliss. Then it was Livinia's turn and when I stood up by the end of the bed, she removed my pants and shirt and began to do things that were never done to me before. From top to bottom, from front to back, the relentless joy, the letting go, was unbearable. I wanted more; she wanted more. We began tearing at each other, ripping into each other, panting and swooning and groaning like wild creatures. In no time at all I found, almost to my surprise, I had penetrated her in a hard, heated embrace. Time went by slowly if time went by at all.

And after we slowly let go, and after we let the hot fire expire, and after we slowly left the warm embers and steady glow of the bed to redress in the cold room, and after I made coffee, we made small talk the rest of the morning about a range of topics but it was clear there was only one consuming topic on our minds. The killer had so invaded our thoughts that there was no way to shake him loose. Neither the comfort of lovemaking or laughing or lolling about on the morning of a serene holiday eve could decimate for more than a brief interlude the lurking image of the great decimator.

"I'm happy you're here," I finally said, trying to restore order after we dispensed with everything else we needed to say.

"Me too,"said Livinia, pecking me sweetly on the cheek.

"However, there's another reason you're here. Isn't that right? Something else is going on."

Livinia put her finger to her lips again trying to calm me. She then tried to initiate eye contact, but, as usual, I diverted my attention by getting up from the couch to search through the empty sneaker box that had held the wampum belt, looking for some clue that wasn't there so I wouldn't have to turn and face her admission. Livinia had more courage than me. She made the first move, but was there a second? I had asked a question I was sorry I asked. There was only one reason I wanted to hear.

"I missed you Raney, so so much. That's why I'm here."

"I missed you too."

"But we need to take a walk."

"I knew it." I said, letting go of the sneaker box. "Was this the real reason for your visit?"

"You were the real reason. The other reason's negotiable."

"Tell me then."

"To hear Father Jacobs' last sermon. He'll be leaving the Island and this will be his last sermon till the rectory gets rebuilt."

"Oh, yeah. Will he be taking confessions too, or giving one?"

Livinia remained stoical. "Raney...I need you to hear me here. In speaking with Maria, I got the feeling something strange was happening to Father Jacobs. I want to see if it's true."

"Like what? What happened to him already happened months ago. I know how you feel, though Smitts doesn't want to hear it."

"Hear what?"

"Hear that Father Jacobs is lying."

Livinia recoiled, deliberated a moment, but remained on track. "Doc said there's still lots of people going to hear him speak."

I cut her off. "There's still some misfits scurrying about..."

"Raney..."

"Cowering in the dark, looking for miracles..."

"Raney..."

"They're just invested in the wrong savior."

"My point is what he's saying isn't what they expect."

"What do they expect: Comfort? The man's lost his mind."

"What I've been told is that what he's saying verges on blasphemy."

"So what." I remained impassive. "Killing the bird was blasphemous. Spying on us was blasphemous. Who cares if he gives the willies to a few lost souls who can't let go their priest."

"Raney, listen to me. Maria said something else. She thinks there's something odd about that rectory fire."

"I've been through that with her. I thought there was more to it too. But then what? Even Doc brushed off the notion. What makes her suspicious again?"

"Beck says that Martin said they found that cylinder of oxygen near the remains."

"So? It's Beck's word against reality."

"But it means that if he set the fire he stole the tank and the other items."

"So?"

"It means, you know, it means everything."

"You think he set the fire? You think he 'troubleth' his own house? I think Beck's a fool and our Island priest's just a big windbag letting off some steam."

#  33

And like the priest, the warring space clouds began letting off steam. At last, they made peace, returning to form, a purple-ash bruise in a seasick sky giving off a steady downpour in great conciliatory spasms of pounding rain interspersed with unusual, winter lightning strikes and the occasional clap of thunder.

Packaged together under a large umbrella, Livinia and I made short work of our long walk to Our Lady of Divine Hope. We didn't speak a word on the trek. We were both lost in thought about what we would find once we found our seats. I wasn't sure what Livinia was thinking, but something I recently said puzzled me and needed some cross-examination: a windbag wouldn't take up arms and shoot a bird and a windbag wouldn't wander all over town with that guilt stick making sanctimonious claims about deliverance. And most important, a windbag wouldn't blow up his house. Perhaps, I surmised, as we tightly held hands and waited in the last pew, the pious fool wasn't so pious after all, nor a fool. The fire may not have been set by our serial killer. It may have been set by the priest just to cobble sympathy from a cold congregation.

There were about thirty or so Geese in the small, rectangular chapel. Most had taken their seats near the front to catch the full measure of the priest's hot holiday blast. Like tottering birds on a wire, there was space along the rows between the parishioners. No one dare brush against each other just in case. The heavy, wooden cross leered down at the congregation from the back of the unadorned chancel. If only they had known of the stick's odyssey across the Island, piggybacking a ride on their prodigious priest. Most in attendance were seniors, but there was a sprinkling of the middle-aged dispersed among the ranks. As the chapel was damp and poorly heated, the soaked overcoats and sweaters seemed to weigh down the members as they waited for the appointed moment. They all seemed numbed, skittish. They were tucked into themselves for more than warmth. The Geese steamed, then sizzled in their pews, their comportment askew as their garments.

The rain continued to pelt the little building. It thrummed with a nervous consistency off the metal roof. Thunder rumbled in the background and an occasional flash of lightning streaked across the stained-glass windows making the pictures briefly come to life. The chapel's six windows were tall and narrow. Each depicted a different theme from the Bible. One had a dove in flight, another had a tree in bloom, a third had some fish, tails whipping about. Then there was one that looked like Mary. She was smiling and had her arms folded together hugging a bundle, her baby boy of course. Then there was a bright Jesus, head enfolded in clouds, lots of yellows and reds and greens, his hands generously splayed out in forgiveness. Finally, there was my favorite: white hot stars bursting like fireworks in a panoramic, dark blue sky.

Along the side walls there were rows of tea lights set in colored glass holders and more deliberate tapers mounted on the walls around the altar and in tall stands of candelabrum set in a semi-circle round the short, wooden podium in the middle. The single skylight over the center of the chancel afforded the strongest light but Jacobs was playing the crowd for effect and decided to leave the chapel chandeliers off and let his parishioners grapple with the accruing dark. It should have been a warning. Livinia and I fully expected a sermon that tugged at our heartstrings. We never expected one that chewed on our convictions, though the worshippers knew what was coming. They've been through this before. They knew that confession wouldn't be necessary. They knew that wholesale castigation was about to be put on the market in the name of all that was holy. What surprised me was when the priest came out the side door and mounted the platform and walked across the altar to the pine podium, he opened with a line that reminded me of Father Paneloux's invocation from _The Plague_ : 'Misfortune has come to you, my friends, and, my friends, you have earned it.'

As Livinia and I were appalled by what we just heard, his audience seemed relatively unmoved. A few wiggled uncomfortably in their wet wraps trying to make the best of their discomfiture, but most, I imagined, had become used to such tripe and looked forward to the diatribes like a child looks forward to the comforting drone of a creepy nighttime tale. It was a small price to pay for salvation. Somewhere deep, human beings once populated those weary husks. Somewhere deep, twenty sad souls sat, more poop than pupae, looking for a reason to go on. The priest was wearing a new black cassock, and a scarlet cincture was wrapped loosely around his large girth. There was a cross dangling to his chest that emitted an incandescent glow. He was wearing white canvas gloves over the bandages on his hands. His stubby fingers stuck out of the glove on his left hand so he could turn the pages of his sermon. Waiting impatiently for his initial lob to explode among his congregants, he then gathered up his booming voice and let it crash into the rafters.

"Misfortune has a cause and comes at a price," the priest bellowed, raising up his fat, pink face and lifting up his gloved hands like Atlas struggling to hold up the world. "We live in a time of flux and commotion. Evil has been unleashed and we are all to blame. You are here to hear my appeal. You are here to hear his response. You are here to hear the lord's word but his word has fallen flat. You have ears but they hang like dead flowers to the side of your heads. You have eyes but they swim in a sea of self-doubt. But, hear me better, see me clearer. I serve merely at your pleasure and hold myself up as but a mirror to your soul."

The priest paused and pressed the full weight of his passionate intensity down at the Geese in the form of a full-fledged sneer. "Closer, come closer my children. Have you not mouths? I will answer for you. You have mouths to beg for divine mercy, mouths to cry unto him for protection, mouths to feed off our savior's words. But listen closely, for the attending words have not burst the seal of your lips. I hear nothing! A mighty silence sweeps across our Island. _Where_ is your voice?

"God expected Job to speak and he did. In his great complaint was the seed of his redemption. Are we very different than Job? Have we not endured great sacrifice? Perhaps it is fair that you cannot call out to God in this time of need. Perhaps you are not true servants but idolaters, clinging to the material world that offers you nothing but horror. When I called out to heal the afflicted, when I dropped by to give succor to the vanquished, when I kneeled down and begged God again and again to forgive your errant ways, it became clear that forgiveness was not to be forthcoming without hard-earned change. What have you done? Look at what you have done!"

The priest paused, hunting for something that wasn't to be had. No one had moved. Not an eye had been flicked, not a tear had been shed, not an itch had been scratched, not a bone had been shifted, nor a cough, a whimper or a breath. The priest was looking for something resembling human frailty and we could see he was vastly disappointed. The worst response was no response. It was the worst kind of rejection one could have had. Did it make him angry? Did it set his blood to boil? He had been here for years. If frailty was not forthcoming maybe something else was needed, a realignment of purpose and possibility. He could make it happen. If not by word, then by deed. The congregation wasn't looking for consolation. They were looking for indictment. While they expected their priest's contempt, they didn't have to like him for it. Livinia let go my hand.

"In all the world there is but one truth. Faith will enrich the soul. Faith will cure the sick, heal the weary. But faith is not a guarantee, a birthright. Faith must be earned. The enduring flames will engulf the wicked who have no faith, silence the sinners who have no faith, mutilate the munificent few whose pride cannot be mediated by faith. I have come amongst you to heal and restore. I have been treated with disdain and I say unto you, 'The lord knoweth the way of the righteous; but the way of the ungodly shall perish.' Flora's Island was to be a sanctuary, a clear register of God's loving hand. Oh, to mock such embrace, to resist such closure. What have you done, my children? What have you done? You have turned against him who has offered you an Eden. You have turned against that great promise and now a plague is descended, a great wind has swept us towards the edge of the abyss. Below awaits the filthy charnel, below the hellfire waits, below the dominion of evil rises up to assume command of your heart and your hearth."

The priest clapped his burnt hands together so hard, we could see him wince. He then made two white fists and smashed them on the pine podium. I thought I could see tears in his eyes, but then he smiled, pleased with his own pain, and keenly looked around hoping for commiseration. "There are people in this room who understand my sacrifice. There are a devoted few who understand what is necessary to cleanse this consecrated ground of the filth that has imbued itself into our thoughts. Today, on this holiest of days, we have a chance to be redeemed. Today, at this pressing hour, we have a chance to reestablish a righteous kingdom here on our small plot of earth. Tomorrow may be too late."

The priest stopped and looked menacingly at his devotees, then he uplifted his head again and shifted his glare just enough to make it obvious that he was more than aware of our presence. "At this moment, our congregation is filled with lost souls. Some will find comfort in the Lord's words, and address their sins in pious attempts to reclaim their identities. Unfortunately, there will always be those who reject the spirit of the word, find no solace in confession, and make do with shameless calumny, spreading their evil like a blight on the searching spirits that pray for forgiveness. These unrepentant few have forsaken their heritage, withheld their love of God, and aligned themselves with evil. However, they do not withhold their fervor for dissembling. Let me clarify.

"Flora's Island is a very old Island. It harbors secrets and holds fast to its pledge of fealty to historical perspectives as witnessed in Genesis right through the great social documents that have been passed down in history. Our Island's sacred and deserves a place in the holiest of holy kingdoms. At one time savages inhabited this blessed land. At one time, the Island served as a source of desecration where the devil sported with the red natives, and entreaties by God-fearing worshippers of various sects were repulsed with a vengeance. There are places on Flora's Island that serve as ringing reminders of how pervasive is the enemy of the lord. There are people here who are enticed by the raffish remains smattering our sacred trust. In the form of dangerous trinkets - arrowheads, hatchets, shards of the most provocative pottery, the most idolatrous _WAMPUM!_ These horrific artifacts have loosened the scruples by which we are bound and have co-opted a generation of budding neophytes turning them away from salvation and against the promise embodied in the holiest of pacts. Ye of little faith, worshippers of most false Baal, a word of caution...prepare for thy destruction. The time has come for final restitution."

My head began to spin. Livinia next to me was crunching her teeth together and re-grabbed the hand I threw back to her as a lifeline. How did he know? How did he know? I didn't see Brett in the chapel. He had to be here. He had to have seen the priest sometime earlier today. When could they have spoken? And where? And where was Brett? And why?

And then as I looked back towards the front, the priest raised his arms straight up towards the rafters and hit me square in the face with an ironclad threat that no one could understand but Livinia and me. "There are those with eyes who do not see. There are those that are too blind to see the ways of the lord. There is a fragile balance here, an equilibrium. The great leviathan can't be subdued, even by the truth. The greatest beast in our midst will not succumb to confabulations. The Bible acknowledges symmetry as sanctuary, symmetry as belief, the best chance to rebuild Jerusalem. As Jeremiah says, 'Now hear this, O foolish and senseless people, who have eyes but do not see...'

"There will soon come a great reckoning where the sightless will see, where those with no insight will be made blind, and as sister now abides equally with sister, so too will brother be bound to brother in balance, in symmetry. A word, a word. All will be made better, cleaner, closer. I will return in the spring, my faithful. I will return in late spring and set the records straight, settle all scores, close the book on deceit. And, if by chance, foolish urgencies overtake common sense, a warning revisited. A silent house, like a library, sets no other house on fire. A loose lip shall sink many a ship, shall make mothers and brothers cry out in pain, make friends and lovers scream out for mercy. Wherever you tread, your legacy shall follow. Walk softly, like the mendicant I've received. He confessed and was forgiven. His fall was a blessing. What he experienced was the bliss of eternal salvation. Follow his lead and you will be saved. Do not follow and you will be followed and _you_ will be destroyed."

Thunder rolled across the Island. A large bolt of lightning crashed nearby. The candles flickered and danced in the growing darkness of the late afternoon. Livinia and I were practically jumping out of our seats. No one else dared to moved, to breathe. I couldn't believe he was saying this, admitting this, getting away with this.

"And finally," he concluded with a sort of augury, his sense of alignment pure insanity. "A desperate quiet shall come upon the Island. It shall be a good thing. All hands shall be on deck. Two hands pressed together in prayer. Hard prayer. Hard prayer is always a good thing. So as you leave today, take comfort in the knowledge that a respite has come, that you now have a chance to put things back in place. Only the sinners amongst you cannot put things back in place, cannot put back what they have taken, and thus, cannot themselves, be put back, _piece by piece_ , in place. With a renewal of the spring season, there will come a renewal of faith, a perfect symmetry of heart and mind. So softly, I say, pray for recovery, pray for your souls and the souls of your neighbors till I return. Bless you my children. Stay well. Amen."

Now that he was done, the bloated toad didn't dawdle but left the altar and exited by the same side door in which he appeared. I broke free from Livinia's grip and made a dash, hoping to catch up with the priest before he left the chapel. However, the worshippers were on the move too. They were quickly and quietly exiting, and while I tried to squeeze past them down the only, the center aisle, I got buffeted by Geese who were hardly aware of the contact. I had to stop and wait for them to reattach their garments, to button and zip and snap and pass. Their faces recorded complete zeroes, _zero at the bone_ , as Dickenson says. It was like a parade of ghosts, a procession of the dead. I could hear their mournful silence echo through the chapel. I even heard the candles flicker their last displeasures. Their time was almost up too.

When at last, the last zero tied up her rain hat and hunched by, I jumped to the altar in one gigantic leap, raced across its green carpet, leaped off, then ripped open the door of the vestry. The priest was gone, out another door at the back of the room. It gaped open and I could see in the dark the charred remains of the rectory in the lightning strikes over the Sound. Suddenly, I heard a car gun its engines nearby, saw headlights, peered out into the driving rain and saw a police cruiser starting to pull away, tires splashing in the mud. Inside, completely filling up the back seat was the priest, being escorted to the ferry. For an instant he smiled at me, smiled in the most sinister way, a smile full of teeth, of insinuation.

Backing up into the vestry like I'd been shot in the gut, I righted myself and surveyed what was left of my assailant, taking stock of anything I could use against him when the time came. The room itself, sparsely furnished to begin with, seemed sucked dry like a giant vacuum had been at work. When I flicked the light switch, nothing happened. All precautions had been taken. There were no lamps in the room. It was a room full of shadows. The priest's vestments and other church garments seemed hastily draped over a chair next to his desk. The drawers of his file cabinet were askew and appeared empty. Likewise, a chiffonier in a dark corner sat exposed, its own chest of drawers flung open and emptied of all its contents. There were no books on his shelves, no documents in his desk, no Jesuses or Marys on the wall, no glassware or pottery on the side tables, no liturgical evidence that this had once been an office for a parish priest.

Livinia came into the vestry. From what I could tell, she looked spooked and angry at the same time. She was squinting into the gloom and saw in an instant that the priest had cleared out, taking every shred of evidence with him. Almost. "What's that thing on his desk," she asked, pointing, in the corner? I hadn't noticed but a brown paper bag sat silently on the desktop. The bag wasn't tied and there was something in it which we couldn't define until I brought it back out into the chapel. Whatever was in the bag was heavy and solid-like. Under the flickering candles of the altar, we carefully peered in and saw Brett's red hunting hat flipped open and chock full of sand. There were also bits of purple and white shells and strands of torn fiber. I reached in with my right hand and felt around. My wampum belt had been ripped up and blended into the sand like granola. I kept feeling and feeling, squeezing the sand and the shells as if, by doing so, I would make everything go back in place. Then my hand hit a bit of rolled paper and I pulled it out like the prize in a box of Crackerjacks.

Livinia grabbed the paper from me and unfurled it. "Oh my God!" was all she could get out. "Oh my God! Look."

And so I did. Even by the swaying, lights of the candles, it wasn't hard to make out the four scrawled words written in black magic marker wrapped tight in the middle of the scroll. The words were grossly familiar to me in context and a grim reminder of how, for the unforeseeable future, the tables had suddenly turned. The paper said, _"_ _THE EYES HAVE IT!_ _"_

#  34

Our Christmas dinner at the American Legion Post was a disaster. The word was out: Mike Calderone had been pushed to his death. After we heard the news, nothing else mattered. As I looked around, I sensed I was being watched and sensed everyone was going through similar ruminations. And the truth was we were being watched, watched by the same trim sets of eyes that had always been watching, peering out, hiding away. Who was watching? The Geese. Perched in their white plastic chairs at their white plastic tables covered with white plastic tablecloths, they miserably sat back and studied each other closely on the lookout for that which they could hardly identify. If what they saw didn't have a hatchet or iron club or scalpel, if what they spied didn't spout two inch fangs or sport an attending blood trail, how were they to glean in the course of a meal who the murderer was, if the murderer was here, fresh off a kill, sitting opposite, relaxed but assiduous, taking notes, sampling the quiche, putting away some Buds? What drew them together now drew them apart. Distance was the only solution. Space, the final frontier of safety. Only Livinia and I knew the truth. And we swore a vow of silence until Brett was found dead or alive.

The dinner was funded by FLITCO. There were police in blue uniforms dispersed among the Geese. They had flown over from Mattituck Airport to make us feel safer now that another casualty had been posted, but their physical presence made us feel overexposed. Tonight the drinks flowed in a steady outpouring of disaffection. The business of drowning your sorrows in self was never more appalling nor more appealing. And the business of the food, well, the food was marginal, not that it was sub-par, but we were so choked up with fear, we could hardly stuff it down our gullets. We could have chowed down on leather and washed it away with motor oil for all anyone cared.

Going through the motions, going through the motions, the engine was winding down, the windmill was fixed in position, the wheel that made Flora's turn was coming to a grinding halt. Everything stood in limbo. The only people I trusted were sitting at our table. Sitting with Lucy and Chip and Doc and Smiley and Ogilvie and Tillie, it still seemed like we were sitting alone. Even Gloria Haynes came to sit and chat, bathing in the tepid flash of our communal warmth. It was better than nothing and forecast the beginning of the relationship between Gloria and Chip that still blooms today. But Livinia and I couldn't speak about any of this. Who would believe us anyway? Small talk never seemed so small. By the time dessert was dished, we both had nothing left in our repertoire; our reserve of hogwash had been emptied. We remained virtual prisoners of the truth, prisoners of each other. If love was about trust, then we had experienced the greatest love of all. The irony of today was that murder became the driving factor of our affection. Livinia and I now were locked together as a team, for better or for worse.

To me, Lucius Brett remained the core issue, not Calderone. If he wasn't praying for guidance in the chapel and he wasn't meandering and he wasn't hiding behind his couch, then where was he? Detective Smitts brushed by during appetizers and asked just that. "You folks see Mister Brett this evening? He's not home."

Livinia and I looked at each other in controlled panic. Smitts studied me out the corner of his eyes but I gave no signal, offered him nothing but a shrug like everyone else. "Well, if you see him, tell him I'd like a word. And by the way, have any of you seen Miss Mary Angeli? Her husband called the precinct. She was supposed to pick up her kids in Hartford yesterday."

"She's missing too?" Tillie asked gravely. "Have you tried both her residences?"

"We've left no stone unturned."

"Have you tried Sinbad's?" I said.

"You know Sinbad's is closed today. We've had all three cars on the lookout throughout the afternoon."

"That's odd," Smiley chirped in. "Very odd."

"What's odd?" Smitts asked, suspicious as usual. "It's Christmas Eve. People do odd things on holidays. They disappear, they reappear, they get lost, then get found again. It's what they do. We'll find her. Look, I really need a word with Mister Brett. Some of you at this table know him. Let me know if you find him."

We all nodded again. Smitts tipped his hat and moved on to another table. I needed a word with Brett too. In fact, I needed plenty. My wampum belt was smashed and the fact that Brett's hat, the only vestige of the man that didn't remain at large throughout the evening, was currently squatting like a silent indictment in Livinia's kitchen sink, only spoke of more horror ahead. Livinia had privately asked about the sand. "Why would the priest fill the hat with beach sand? Why not the shells alone?"

I knew why but I couldn't tell her. I knew the difference between beach sand and bunker sand and knew what was in Brett's hat wasn't beach sand, but there was no way to explain to Livinia what the priest was trying to tell me. I couldn't risk explaining that an awful gift was awaiting me in my bunker near the ninth green, that my private domain had been violated, that Brett had confessed to far more than just his nitwit sins. He might have confessed his life away and all clues to the facts were getting waterlogged up at the Meadowlands. There was also this. The question of what was deposited and where, offered proof that I was, at the barest minimum, aware of far more than I let out to Smitts at the station, to Livinia at my apartment, and to Ogilvie at his. I would be questioned by them all, questioned to the point that I might have to surrender my main captive and main accomplice, my main support and main hub of sanity. Sassacus, his wampum already undone by a murdering lunatic, was now about to become undone by his greatest ally. One word and I would be as much a defector to the cause of our perfect alliance as the British, French, Dutch, and Spanish. Did Sassacus need to be betrayed by another Uncas? Did I need to be betrayed by unspoken truths dangling before me as clear as glass? I would go. Tomorrow early I would go alone to my safety box and find out what the priest meant by his hat trick.

It was getting late. The police had left the hall and had the lights of the patrol cars standing by. It had stopped raining and the plan seemed to be processional, another ghost parade this time down Calypso Avenue, squad cars in front, ambulances behind, the Geese sandwiched in between. I looked around at everyone I held dear, everyone I loved or had loved at one time in my life. The priest would return and I'd have to deal with him then or appeal to the police now. The sand and the hat and the wampum meant nothing. Brett had to be found dead or alive for me to save my family, Livinia, and myself come spring. Either that or convince everyone to leave at once, abandon ship, as they say. Chip couldn't have been more unhelpful in that regard. "Say something, bro," he said. "You've been exceedingly boring tonight."

"Just lost in thought."

"So, lose the thought. Let's have a toast. It's Christmas."

"Go ahead, Chip. Say something nice, nice," said Smiley.

Chip grinned a rare grin. You never knew what was going to snake out of his mouth. However, tonight, the drinks and Gloria's presence seemed to put him in a mirthful mood. "Let me first say thanks to my mom for bringing us here and for being the best mom on the planet."

"Oh sweetheart," Lucy replied, her cheeks flushed in embarrassment. "Please. It's the most I can do for my family."

"You couldn't do more if you tried," Chip said. "Let me also say it's been one hell of a year and now that's it's almost over, I'd like to offer a prayer for our safety."

"How nice," said Tillie, raising her empty glass high and far from straight.

"I'm not done yet. Here's my prayer. It's a couple a lines from the Stones: _You can't always get what you want. You can't always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, you just might find, you just might find, you get what you need_ ".

"What a strange invocation," said Lucy.

"Wait, I'm still not done." Chip lowered the glass in his left hand, found the table with his right, and carefully put the glass back in place." What I mean is that we all lost or almost lost something this year. What I wanted I couldn't have. What Raney wanted, he could always have had and maybe soon he will."

"You're so funny, Chip. But what I wanted most, I already have."

"What my mother lost can't come back but maybe some of the better parts will reappear. Smiley lost something too. Some stuff from his museum. And Nate here lost his teaching post though he says he gained a better position. And just now, Tillie's lost her friend Mary, for the time being, but I'm sure she'll return. And, finally, Doc lost some patients from her practice."

"And good riddance to them," said Doc with a defiant huff.

Livinia asked grimly, "What have I lost?" I don't think anything's missing."

Chip thought a second." I think what you might have lost would have been the greatest loss of all."

"And what would that be?"

" _Hope_. I doubt that you'd allow it in yourself. But shit happens. That's why my prayer is that we'll get what we need next year and if we're lucky, we'll also get what we want. Now let's drink up. Merry Christmas!" We all touched glasses.

Herded out the back double doors to the parking lot, we followed the three squad cars and their flashing lights down the dark street. The wind had relaxed and it was chilly but without the blitzing rain, our return was bearable. As each Goose or Goose gaggle veered off towards home, an officer accompanied them and then hustled back to the diminishing crowd. By the time we got to Lucy's apartment and to Ogilvie's, the ambulances had left, the patrol cars had returned to cruise mode and the policemen continued marching down to Bottoms Up to catch a special ferry to the mainland where a plane was standing by to take them back to Mattituck.

Livinia and I stayed with Lucy and Chip till the end and then we snuck back to the library. We spent the night clutched in each other's arms like two children. A few times we awoke and thought we heard something padding along the roof. "Santa Claus," Livinia suggested, but even laughing over that only returned us to reality: to the priest, to Brett, to a predicament that had only a few sane solutions. We'd have to tell Smitts or if we didn't, we'd have to tell someone, or if we didn't, we'd have to leave Flora's, or if we didn't, we'd have to protect ourselves if and when the priest returned. Would Smitts believe the hard evidence? He might, but without Brett in tow, Smitts might suspect I was up to something.

At first light I dressed and told Livinia I needed to check on stuff in the apartment. Half asleep, she propped herself on an elbow. "What? What's so important you need to leave?"

"Got to make sure Brett didn't return," I fibbed. I wasn't going to my place but across to the bunker to find out what the priest had left me. Something he said at the end of his sermon: "It shall be a good thing. All hands shall be on deck. Two hands pressed together in prayer." And then the clincher, the rolled paper in the hat: _THE EYES HAVE IT!_ I wasn't sure what it meant but the priest had it planned out. I sensed the violence wasn't random like I said at Doc's party. The priest had methodically peeled off the population of Flora's like layers of skin on an onion. And these were very particular layers, but I didn't understand what he was doing or why? And I couldn't understand why he had it in for me, what threat I posed to him, what danger I represented that made him go out of his way to make me a target if or when he returned, come spring.

As I stepped out onto the library porch, the wind began pelting my face. I wrapped my sweatshirt and then pea coat around me in the chill morning air and popped my hoodie over my head. The sun was a small coin in the sky's dark pocket. The light was more the light of middle Earth than the light of day. My long legs carried me quickly round Deep Harbor, the funk of low tide calibrated into my assessment of the morning. I was getting close. There was turbulence in the thundering Sound. The whitecaps receded into an infinite distance and the waves broke long and hard along the beachfront. The tree limbs of the oaks and maples looked black and hopeless. A few crows hunched on the uppermost branches. I was so close to the ninth hole, I could see the little twigs carefully tied together, prepared in the shape of a cross. It was at the far end so as I stepped down into the firm sand. I had to walk several feet before the final approach. I was sickened by what I saw, but I should have expected it.

Brett's gloved and severed hands were bound together in front of the cross in prayer formation. The surgical procedure that separated the hands from the arms wasn't clean in the manner of the sea hags. The dried blood on the white gloves appeared black and clotted, an ugly black gruel. The scene looked like a child's diorama. The priest didn't have much time to work on Brett or to hustle his hands over and fasten them in place. The only question left was where was the rest of Brett? For now and the foreseeable future, the battle was over. The priest was our man and the evidence was undeniable.

I stepped closer and looked carefully at the hands. Something wasn't right. Where the holes were cut out of the two gloves, ten appropriate fingers shot out and were crisscrossed in perfect prayer. But what dropped me to my knees and made me wretch into the sand was the fact that the fingers were the ten small, brightly painted fingers of a white female and not the delicate black fingers of Lucius Brett at all.

#  35

After I saw Mary Angeli's chopped up hands in Brett's gloves, I returned numb and shivering to my apartment and made some tea. The idea that the priest was a serial killer on a spiritual mission made perfect sense. The idea that he didn't select his victims but randomly butchered them to create a climate of fear for his own disturbed satisfaction made no sense. Each act of brutality was its own correspondence, a public relations campaign displayed for the benefit of... what? Of who? And that was the key: he was out to secure adherents to his outrageous suppositions and that meant he had a need to advertise and engage. Killing poor Mary meant his intention wasn't to impress or elude Smitts. No, this spoke to something deeper, an approval thing that began when he shot the owl. His words: _Symmetry, Redemption, Sanctuary, Restitution_. Buried in the language was the answer to the riddle of his motives. The priest was applying a palliative procedure. In his distorted mind, he was healing his victims, balancing their misfortunes with what he called _Symmetry_ and this applied not only to the Island's people but the Island itself as if Flora was deploying him as a cleansing agent to flush out and refine her existing impurities.

As I trotted out the casualties one at a time, it became clear there was a selection process at work, even in my case where the word Restitution was the only Jacobean term that made any sense. Of course _THE EYES HAVE IT_ unites my brother and myself and hooks up with balancing the Swift Sisters own deformities under the banner of _Symmetry_. But what about Garba-troll? What smooth out did the priest have in mind there? And what about Blackstone and Calderone? Why did the priest have it in for them? And Shep? I could see the idea of _Redemption_ served up in regard to Shep. I even could see how his manipulation of Brett and then his undoing fit smoothly into the priest's dogma. As Flora's singular representative, he was responsible for eradicating what she didn't have the stomach for. Sure, she could mechanically bring them all over, all those storm-tossed weary wretches on the mainland, but when the machinations got out of hand, there was one recourse: oblivion. Unfortunately, the results impugned Flora's impregnability as an independent entity. She needed to get the work done quickly if not quietly. She also needed her own special totem, one just the opposite of me, hence the priest. It was a sort of animism in reverse.

I'd call Martin and then meet them at the bunker. Then I'd tell Livinia, then Ogilvie, then Doc. Lastly, I'd tell Lucy and Chip. This small confederacy of sympathetic souls would be my bulwark and, all the while, the priest would be trapped somewhere on the mainland and brought to justice: Pipe dreamer!

I sat on the couch and put my head in my hands, trying to imagine this organizing principle, this lucid stream of thought actually transpiring: Conjurer!

I squeezed my head trying to keep it on straight. Breathe. Could the worst be over? Could what's over get worse? Fantasist!

There was a sharp noise at the door and then, without fanfare, without any lead-in that something amazing was about to transpire, Lucius Brett casually strolled in, worst for wear, but better than barely alive. "You've been missin' me. I'm sure of that," he chimed. And then this:

There once was a priest on the Isle de Flor,

Made the bodies wash up on the luscious seashore.

When the cops they surmised,

That the priest fed them lies,

They hunt the man down till his breath was no more.

Brett was alive! He was shaking like bag of jelly, cold and wet, but alive. I gave him a rough slap on the back. He almost fell over. I was overjoyed to see him, but that joy lasted as long as the jolt of incredulity lasted, and it wasn't lasting long. I practically commanded him to sit on the couch and start talking, no limericks, no crap, just the facts. I was angry but in complete awe. He was alive. It took only seconds for Brett to come clean. All he wanted was to talk. It seems he went to the priest to make a cockeyed confession but his contrition got twisted into an opportunity for revenge. Brett wanted off Island and asked for help from the priest who, _barring that natural expression of villainy_ , to quote Twain, he viewed as being honest enough. Little did Brett know that stealing away was a different bargain than stealing.

The priest's plan was simple, yet bold. Brett was to stow away under the secured tarp on one of the _Lily Pusher_ 's two lifeboats late in the afternoon while it lay anchored and empty at Bottoms Up Harbor. The whole Island would soon be heading to the Legion Post to desecrate Christmas and while he'd be remembered, he wouldn't be missed. Then the priest would smuggle him off the ferry into a car he had stashed at the terminal in New London. "It was a good plan," Brett said, sipping coffee. "But even God's got no mercy left for me. Good Father, he's no good. He's evil as the day's long."

"Stop whining, Brett! Just tell me what you mean."

What he meant made little sense to him but made sinister sense to me. When the police cruiser dropped the priest off at the ferry after his apocalyptic sermon, he strode aboard the _Lily Pusher_ and sat in the inside corner of the heated lounge. The boat was empty except for the crew and left as soon as he boarded. The last ferry, the _Warner Bee_ , was idling nearby, waiting to take the cooking staff and extra cops to the mainland later that night. It seemed like an ideal setting for murder. Somewhere out in the middle of the pitch black Sound, when the priest felt it safe enough to disgorge his booty from under the tarp, he tapped twice on the lifeboat's hull, the one on the port side as planned, and out rolled Brett.

"Can't thank you enough, father," said Brett.

"Don't thank me. I want you to thank the lord."

"Praise the Lord, Oh, praise the Lord for all his mighty works."

"Come closer my friend, I have something for you."

"What's that?" Brett asked, looking down suspiciously at the priest's bandaged fists which rested at his side.

"What I have will make you better as you make your journey."

"What journey, Father? Only going to New London."

"You're not going to New London. You're going to a kinder place."

"Not hearin' you right. No kinder place then good, solid ground."

The priest raised a fist, opened it, showed Brett some pills. "I want you to take these and think about your departing soul. You surrendered your gloves, you surrendered your hat, now surrender your faith unto me."

"Can't think about the unthinkable."

"It's the only choice you have," commanded the priest.

"Mister Raney, I was so scared, I heard my little bitty knees knockin' together."

Brett, please, knock it off. Just go on."

"But he wanted me to think about the unthinkable. How do you think things that can't be thought? Was a deceit was what it was."

"Never mind Brett," I said. "Then what the hell happened?"

"What happen was at that precise moment, I knew who was behind all that mischief. But I was trapped. I run inside, I'd be noticed. I stay on deck, I'd be killed."

"What did you do?"

"Father Jacobs got this cross 'round his neck and it was shiny. 'Come closer,' he says. He says it with all the sincerity in his sick heart: 'Come closer,' like he's expectin' to hypnotize me with that shine and them words. Then he repeats, 'Take these pills.'"

"So."

"So I say to myself, 'Fuck that!' But I was smart. I pretend to swallow them up. Then he goes, 'Good, you know what to do next.' Then he points overboard. Then I smile big, the pills under my tongue, and try to look like the crazy man at the crazy house and then he says he'll be back to check up. I nod so he thinks I'm ready to take that swim on his say so. Then he goes inside."

"What did you do then?"

"I spit the fuckin' pills over the side of the fuckin' ferry! What you think I did? How you think I'm still here? I'm not smart, but I'm not crazy. I snuck 'round the starboard side and hid in the other lifeboat and stayed put till mornin'."

"But what happened in New London?" I asked.

Lots a commotion when the ferry pulled in. Lights blinkin' on the dock, cops searchin' everywhere but not under the tarp. Then when the ferry got back, I come straightway to you. I swear, whole Island's full a loop-da-loops. I'm done here."

"I don't think so. I'm not done with you," I charged. "You stole my beads, you showed it to the priest and almost got yourself murdered. My life and Livinia's are in danger because of you."

Brett laughed a hard little laugh and shook his grey head with disdain. "You upset? Poor Mister Raney. I come a whit away from bein' murdered. What you think this here's about? Just another lynchin', Island style. I was set up by them all."

"You were only set up by Father Jacobs."

"Mister Raney..."

"It's Raney. Just call me plain, old Raney. All right?"

"Then get some sense into your plain, old head...Raney. I was a damn sacrifice, a dark one, but a sacrifice just the same."

I didn't know what to say, so I phoned Constable Martin, and he hustled out to my apartment with Detective Smitts. Seeing Brett sitting calmly on the couch, I could tell they were surprised but not overly so. Smith appeared irritable as usual, flicking the butt of his cigarette out my front door before lighting another. Martin played with his beard, curling his knobby fingers around the thick tufts.

I said, "Gentlemen, wait till we get to the ninth hole before passing judgment."

Smitts took it as a call to action. "Don't patronize us, Mister Tables. Mister Brett, where were you last night?"

"I was under wraps."

"Under what? Don't get cute with me, Mister Brett. I'm in no mood for games."

"I was under the tarp of the ferry lifeboat. Better than six feet under, yes, yes?"

"I suppose," replied Constable Martin, "what you mean is..."

Smitts harshly interrupted. "Let him talk, constable!"

"I had nowhere to turn," Brett said.

"So you turned to Father Jacobs?" Smitts asked.

"You had me prisoned up with no way out. Only boats in the water were the ferries. Raney, he's a good man, but what could he do? Only man with a plan was Father Jacobs."

"Some plan," said Smitts sarcastically.

I couldn't take any more of their idle prognoses. "Forget that. I want to show you something. It's really important."

"What's so important?" Smitts asked. Then, reflecting: "This better be god damned important."

"It's the most important piece of evidence you'll ever see." I said. "Let's go golfing before the rain comes back."

Surprisingly, neither officer put up a fight. They knew more than they were letting on. We walked down the apartment steps and across to the squally Meadowlands. We walked in silence, in single formation. At one time, Brett and I were considered prime suspects. Maybe we still were. The bunker would settle all complaints. When we reached the exhibit, and it did seem like a deviant three-dimensional collage set out on display by a quirky ten year old, Smitts and Martin looked spellbound, their thoughts racing a million miles ahead. While Smitts dragged on his cigarette and dabbed at the evidence with a cloth he produced from his pocket, Martin lumbered off to the patrol car to grab a camera.

It was then I saw Sassacus sitting half way over the edge. His hands were folded into his dark, muscular arms and his long leggings spilled down into the bunker where his naked feet were dug into the sand. I admonished him to leave, but the sachem remained where he was like a dime store Indian, like a permanent fixture fixed in cement. His entire future rested with me, my answer to a question Smitts would soon ask and my conviction not to allow intrusions to disrupt the flow of our discourse. Sassacus seemed to distrust me with his secret. I couldn't blame him. The wampum was now a symbol of a torn commitment, a broken pledge to honor his memory and the place of his tribe in the annals of a deeply scarred past. Sassacus remained stoically stationed in place. I motioned for him to be civil, not make a scene, let the investigation move forward without incidence. I was thinking hard for us both. If I were to behave, so would he, if I didn't overreact, neither would he. The arrows of indictment softened into pleading, red flares. In all regards, I sensed this would be our last powwow.

I looked away, back at the hands, satisfied that the game was over. Poor Mary. What I didn't know was that the game had ended days prior when Smitts decided the priest was his man and would be arrested as soon as the _Lily Pusher_ docked in New London. "No sense stirring everyone up," he said after they secured the crime scene. "We wanted a clean operation, no loose ends. We now had the right evidence and since we were in the catbird's seat, I felt it prudent to take it slow."

"How did you know?" I asked.

"We knew after Mister Calderone was heaved off the platform that Father Jacobs was our guy. We called him in again for questioning and he had no good alibi for any of his whereabouts. The oxygen tank left near the rectory was a big clue, had his prints all over it, helped seal our investigation."

Martin excitably cut in. "And this morning a couple of surf strollers found Mary Angeli's body behind some rocks on Rosabella Beach, sans hands. Last person with her before she disappeared was Father Jacobs. Plenty of folks would testify to that. Thought we had him too, bring him in to custody for good."

"You thought," I asked, unable to quell the rising sense of dread I'd worked hard to squash. "You mean..."

"Sorry to tell you this, but he got away," Martin said, hunching his shoulders apologetically. "We took him from the chapel to the ferry. He thought he was in the clear. Thought he had us believing he was only leaving till they fixed up the rectory in the spring. But we knew, we knew. Unfortunately, so did he."

"He didn't know shit," added Smitts with surly dissatisfaction, flicking ash into the sand, "until he saw the flashing lights at the terminal. I warned the locals no cherry tops, just unmarked cars. No one listens these days. He saw the lights, knew his time was up and then he got away."

"How the hell could this happen?"

"Easy. Must have climbed down the side ladder at the stern of the ferry as it approached the dock, waded into the water, wouldn't have been all that deep, then hoisted himself up and over the concrete pier at the far end where there aren't any lights. Another stupid move. All the locals were waiting for him to promenade out of the mouth of the transport with his hands over his head. That's what you get when you deal with dolts, when you don't hand key assignments over to the best professionals. It was my fault. I should have been part of the welcoming committee. I gave ground to my regional supervisor. Now, we'll have to apprehend him as he tries to flee. But we'll get him. I promise you that. We may be short in the head but we're long in the arms."

"You better nail him soon for all our sake," I pleaded.

Smitts readjusted his Dick Tracy hat on his head, took a deep drag on his cigarette and looked me squarely in the face. "Mind if I ask you something, Mister Tables?" he asked, not minding at all.

"Do I have a choice?" I knew what was coming.

"One choice only. What's the big deal with the bunker? Why did Father Jacobs choose to set up shop at a miserable second-rate sand trap? And how were you able to walk right in? How did you know where to look?"

I was waiting for this question ever since I felt around in Brett's hat. I explained to Smitts the difference between beach sand and bunker sand and when I told him about Brett's hat wilting in Livinia's sink, he bought in but didn't understand how I knew in which sand trap the priest would leave his confession. That was the sticking point. Brett couldn't shut up and told the officers I held regular meetings there with a boatload of ghosts, but they still seemed dubious until I added that I'd go there, mostly at night, to meditate, let off some steam, and when Brett found me there once, he thought he heard me talking to someone.

"Raney Tables, why he a regular wild man," Brett confirmed, giving me a subtle wink, "but he ain't fully nuts, just half so." This drew a laugh and ended the inquiry.

It was now a fact that just about everyone on Flora's Island was chatting it up with themselves. It had become the new avocation since Perricone's murder. We tried talking ourselves into feeling safe. Who cared who answered. Or what. It was my luck that Sassacus chose to conference with me through the ages. It was my perspicacity that allowed me to be sensitive to his approach. The fact that Sassacus found me in the niche of time wasn't a coincidence. We all knew now there was no such thing.

#  36

When they brought Mary's body to Doc's a day later, she said that Mary Angeli was strangled and her hands removed by a cleaver. There were white flecks of cloth around her neck, peeling remnants of old bandages very much in keeping with the ones wrapped around the priest's hands. Doc, sickened by the whole event and all the ones prior, had to take a week off to recover. "I'm getting too old for this," she cried into her hankie when Livinia and I visited. We brought red flowers and stuck them in a blue vase. Livinia baked a chocolate cake. I ate most of it.

I couldn't fathom the priest getting away, but from the moment he bobbed out of the Thames River, the trail went cold. Cold as the blistering north wind was cold, cold as the moon's naked gleam over Deep Harbor on New Year's Eve was cold, cold as my determination to win redemption for Sassacus was cold. Cold was a hard place to heat up. Cold was winter's mistress and cold was Flora's heart as she went about her business in the next few months to make sure we were aware that even without the priest around, we, _had penance done and penance more will do_.

It was the worst winter on record, and it became the worst record on winter. Winter came like a prime evil blast, a brilliant explosion that titillated the iron needles in the back of our skulls. Just when we thought the worst was over, just as the word flowed out from Sinbad's across the whole Island that the priest was the madman, just when we imagined in our little Geese brains little Geese portraitures of regeneration and hope, Flora reneged on all local contracts and took charge of her own survival. You'd think the priest's unveiling and protracted capture would let us simmer down and come back to normal. You'd think that but you'd be thinking wrong. Until he was actually caught and tried and put behind bars, we were still habitually on guard, afraid of our own shadows and afraid that the new year would somehow bring him back home.

Flora was certainly in her element. She was about to spend the winter picking us apart. It was a miracle that she didn't get us all by the time the hurricane hit, but she tried. It was on New Year's Day that she made her first installment. Marty Redbone, one of the stooges who tried to attack Brett, managed the estates of five or six Turkeys. Checking up, as he always did, checking up every day, and this is what he was paid for, to check up: to make sure the doors and windows were undisturbed, to make sure the alarms was set, to make sure the heating systems were humming away, to make sure no animal had taken animal liberties inside the outbuildings, and to make sure that the pools and statues remained covered and secured, Redbone made a mistake.

It was the final estate in his daily rounds, a large Mock Tudor, half-timbered with giant, decorative beams and grey stucco and overlapping gables on the north side near the Crescent Club Golf Course. New Year's Day had broken, frigorific and clear, with a snappy wind coming down from the arctic. Snow was forecast for later in the week and accumulations were expected to be enough to keep us bottled up for days. Redbone knew it was getting dark and should have made his rounds earlier but he was too occupied winterizing his old Ford pickup. Parking in the rear of the Tudor's massive stone driveway, feeling good about his change outs, sniffing the toothsome goodness of the coolant on his soiled hands, Redbone got out of the truck and right away realized there was a problem. He could see in the dimming distance by the covered pool that the side French doors of the pool house had somehow blown open and some old vegetation had blown in. Reaching into the flatbed, Redbone grabbed a tarp and went over and mounted the small deck separating the pool from the pool house to collect the scatterlings. Placing the tarp flat, half inside half outside the house, Redbone used a leaf rake he found in a nearby shed to corral the loose materials and rake them onto the tarp. Unfortunately, when he pulled the package out to the pool deck, a brass snap on the corner got stuck in one of the door handles. And when Redbone pulled harder, he found to his surprise the tension of the tarp to be more discerning than his concentration, so much so that what he'd been holding slipped from his hands on the last tug and he fell back hard onto the deck and then, unable to balance himself upright, fell back even more and flipped head first onto the pool cover at the deep end of the pool. The icy water covered him immediately- he never learned to swim- and the vinyl nest bound by bungee cords gave way sending him and part of the cover tumbling to the twelve foot bottom. Like Louie, when they found Redbone the next day, he was just another grey droolzicle wrapped up so tidily in the cover that the ambulance transported him just that way over to the Fire station and then on to Doc's.

That incident was on January first, and, as the rest of the Geese were beginning to freeze up, Flora was just beginning to heat up. But she took it slow for the balance of the month. She wanted us out of our element, but not too much, not enough to make us pack up and leave town, not that any of us could ever do that anyway. The idea of a comfort zone no longer existed, but a kill zone would be overreach, so Flora reached for the next best thing: a danger zone, a place where we'd be marginalized if we weren't too careful. And we couldn't be any more careful than we were. Another dead caretaker and no priest to lay the blame on was impossible to comprehend unless one subscribed to the notion that a conspiracy was at play. That insinuation would make the Geese all fatalists, but we weren't fatalists, in the strictest sense of the word. Our belief systems were being tested and we were naturally coming up short. The good news was Flora couldn't identify the one thing about all of us that would help us through the darkest days and she should have. It wasn't the drugs, the alcohol, the self-berating small talk, the aimless trekking, that would make us Geese persevere. It was the irrefutable recognition that total marginalization could only occur if it wasn't expected. But we always expected it. We knew we would always come up short. Ultimately, we were keenly aware we were more like the Island herself than Flora wished to admit or even understand and as the mainland couldn't subdue the Island, the Island couldn't subdue her citizenry. She created us, in effect, and like Doctor Frankenstein, she couldn't keep us under wraps. We were the monsters, not the priest, not Flora herself. We were the creatures that wouldn't die, the zombies, the mutants. We would give in, we would cave in, we could perish by the bucketful but we wouldn't leave. We were barnacles affixed to Flora's ass.

There were reasons for all this, reasons that took a long time coming like the long, twisted lines between two unyielding points. And it was the blind acceptance of this kind of fate that got most of us through the worst of Flora's best shot. And so winter came on full blast. There was no respite from the cold and the slow, steady snowfall that began piling up. The same day Redbone died, I moved into the spare bedroom at Lucy and Chip's apartment. By day, I was a worker bee. By night, I buzzed around Livinia's nectar and cradled with her in our library haven. Sometimes, I felt a little like Cupid winging my way to Psyche, making love to her in the candlelit dark, leaving her at first light to go have breakfast with Lucy and Chip, go drive the bus and then go sub the English classes, come back home and have dinner, grade papers and plan lessons, and eventually wing my way back once again. It was great for now, but I knew it couldn't last, and I knew it wouldn't be plausible come spring.

A week after Redbone was laid to rest in the graveyard out behind the Catholic Church where a plot was cleared by a backhoe and a priest was summoned from Fairfield, a Piper Cub went down in flames as it approached Alister Airport and smashed onto the runway killing both the Turkey and his girlfriend who were planning a weekend getaway from his wife and her husband. Obviously, Flora didn't approve of that kind of shenanigan and, whether Turkey or Goose, it really didn't matter. Nor did it matter where you were either. If Flora could reach you, you were hers. So far the total was one if by land, two if by air, and towards the end of the month it became three if by sea. A small, commercial fishing boat anchored at Deep Harbor went into the Sound looking for winter flounder, American eel, and cod. The two survivors came back looking for mercy. There were five in the crew and they never saw it coming. Heading out towards Montauk, they never even came close. In fact, they had hardly brushed by North Dumpling Island when a Los Angeles class attack sub from the naval submarine base in Groton on a routine emergency surfacing exercise brushed by and overturned the vessel cracking it in half. The two survivors wore life jackets, the three casualties who didn't wore looks of total surprise as the after waves of the passing sub took them under.

The rest of the month, however, wasn't so bad; a few aches a few breaks, two emergency appendectomies, an outbreak of the flu, a broken leg, one failed suicide attempt, one successful hanging by our antique dealer, a couple of brawls at Sinbad's. The emergency technicians were busy, but besides the sirens going off all over the place, things remained steady in a tranquilized sort of way, the snow blotting out any insurgent sounds that could have reached our desensitized ears. Ogilvie's chin healed nicely but it left a cleft-like scar, which Tillie said made her husband look like Kirk Douglas though I swore it just made him look like an ass.

Doc's practice calmed down in January as did Doc herself. While she treated the injured and the aching, sending some home, some to the hospital, there were less minor complaints registered than ever before. Doc attributed it to the lethargic response people have, "when they're in desperate danger of demise." It wasn't worth the effort to bitch about little things. Rather wait for the moment of complete annihilation when there'd at least be something to really bitch about. I still suspect the buildup of snow had a hand in it. As it was hard to get out and about, it would also be just hard for any serial snowman with an axe to grind to get in. There was safety in slumbers, in such radical hibernations, this time of year.

January was also the month when two of our finer known personalities, both who came to the Island about the same time, left the Island forever. Detective Smitts wrapped things up in early January and departed with no fanfare or waves of support at Bottom's Up Harbor except for a fleet _Bon Voyage_ from a very relieved Constable Martin who went back to his office and practically disappeared from sight until the great Hurricane. And secondly, there was Lucius Brett, who went back to New Haven deciding to drive hearses for a funeral home, having taken the appointment, as he said, "Because livin' here I'd come to know dead people as well as the livin'." Ogilvie later joked that given Brett's irrepressible penchant for knicking, he ended up, "...working for pennies."

Now came February. Then came March. With still no word about the priest's capture, the Geese were muffled and hardly a feather was ruffled but rumors managed to leak out and swirled at a furious pace all over the Island. Julia Beck was fighting back from her months of depression and, as she was in her prime, was keeping pace and even surpassing every idle piece of scuttlebutt within earshot. It seemed around every corner lurked the besotted, diabolical prince of darkness in his lurid black attire and shiny cross, his mummy hands gripping a bloody driver much like Smiley Webster's nightmare at Doc's Halloween party pictured Sassacus gripping his grim hatchet.

February was both a back breaker and a heart breaker. My old boss, Roby Edwards, broke his back in early February when his Jeep overturned as he was leaving the icy driveway of Harvey Angeli's estate. The owner was beyond bereft over the butchering of his ex-wife and wanted Edwards to keep the place tiptop so he could return to grieve in peace. That meant everything had to seem like a summer's day. The driveway had to be constantly cleared of snow, the rooms had to be methodically dusted and vacuumed twice a week, the wood floors had to be stained and waxed, the silverware had to be polished weekly, the eight cars in the massive garage had to be buffed, the walls painted, the seventy six windows washed, both Steinways tuned, and the jumbo backup generators in the basement fueled and ready to go whenever. Harvey Angeli also ordered bundles of fresh crème rose and had Asiatic lilies brought over every week and mixed in elaborate Chinese porcelain urns in Mary's study and in her music room. He also insisted that Edwards have every light on the property blazing away twenty four hours a day, both inside and out, as a tribute to his Mary. It was a known fact that she was afraid of the dark. It wasn't before long that tankers and tugs and cruise liners recognized the estate as a marker in their travels to and from NYC, as much as any local lighthouse.

Angeli even went as far as to repackage his twin daughters, returning them stateside from Oxford and shipping them off to Fordham because he spent so much time in the city now trying to find the priest so they could discuss the nature of his wife's disposal. Towards this end, Angeli's massive resources were put to work, connections were reestablished and private detectives and public thugs were hired to scour the country. Angeli offered a $250,000 reward leading to the capture of the priest, and made it clear if found, he wanted him brought before him alive and kicking, not a scratch was to be inflicted, not a glove laid on him in any way. It was a known fact, Angeli was an artist and liked a clean canvas on which to work.

The big problem with March, unlike January and a little like February, was that there was no problem with March at all. It was too quiet and problem free. It had come in like a lamb and would go out like a lion. Some would call March, March Madness. Some would call it the calm before the storm. I suspected most of the Geese felt that way. In some ways, it made matters worse. It's one thing to go stick your neck out the front door expecting it to get whacked, but when the only thing snuggling up against your exposed throat is the stiff March winds, it only makes you curious, it only makes you want to venture out a little further into the emptiness because retracting was only an interlude, shutting the door was only like putting off the inevitable and having the consequence of thinking about your neck garroted was about as bad as the awful deed itself. Where was she? Where did Flora go? Not a thing happened on the Island practically the entire month. The Geese enjoyed almost a whole, problem-free thirty-one days but they really weren't appreciating a moment of it. If you went to the half-deserted Sinbad's for a beer or took a conciliatory lap around the green, or spoke with neighbors at the post office, it became obvious that it wasn't only the rapid March winds that changed directions, the entire local population had repositioned themselves and had gone deeper into the direction of what I could only describe as mass extinction. Like the ruins inside a demolition site, the will of the people had totally collapsed. It was clear as the freckles on Livinia's nose. If there was a word beyond zombie to describe the Geese, I couldn't find one. And I looked hard, right into their eyes, all of them, and what was registered was not just zero but a pandemic of zeroes, minus zeroes, a contagion of fear not just to the bone but all the way to the marrow.

I tipped my hoodie to Flora. I had to give her credit for the sharp analysis of her citizens. The preemptive strike we had expected came and never went. We just didn't see it coming. The shortest line now between two points turned out to be no line at all. Flora recognized we would create our own line, line enough to hang ourselves, if she just did nothing.

Not much later, making my ponderous way down to Rosabella Beach , marking time by making time, marking good divots in the sand as I worked my work boots east along the edge of the rough and tumble waves, wondering where this was all going, how this would all play out, knowing it would, knowing the priest would have to be caught and punished, knowing he may not be, never be, knowing he might ultimately evade justice because justice is not all that common and never a guarantee in any case, I spied Louie sitting on a driftwood log twenty feet from the shoreline taking hard pulls from a bottle of whiskey a little way down and a little bit under the rising sun. As the day broke sharp like an unexpected thunderclap, and the morning light broke raw and unfiltered, I wasn't sure about what I was seeing and rubbed my eyes and cupped my hand over my brows to minimize the glare.

Louie wasn't paying attention to me as I approached, and he kept fidgeting with the shiny strands of kelp that were wrapped around his shoulders. It seemed to bother him as did the lines of drool that leached from his bottom lip forming baby _droolzicles_ that festered on his chin. Louie kept looking out at the choppy sea, ignoring me even as I sat next to him on the smooth, bleached log. He took a drink from his bottle and the whiskey leached out of the holes, giving his drool lines a temporary amber hue. I suspected he knew I was there, but I wasn't sure till he offered me a taste, but I wasn't in the mood. Then he began mouthing words and started thinking about his last days as a living being and why he did the terrible thing that he did.

He was sick with a cancer, motioning to his neck with a finger. Throat, jaw stuff. Too many cigarettes. For months he had a notion of how to end it before he became a nuisance to Roberta and an eyesore to everyone else. His plan was to disappear and never come back. " _Who needed it. Take a dip in Rosabella. Swim over to Iceland. That would be the end of it_." The family had enough troubles with Chip. Didn't need to waste away before everybodies' eyes. He could hardly talk anymore as it was, and now with the cancer, it was an embarrassment, but not so much when he was younger. But once you compound one illness with another, who needed it. " _Iceland, here I come_." He again offered me a swig, and again I told him not to bother.

Granpapa indicated he'd always been a rambler, a loner, a loose cannon, easy to rile, hard to file. As an only child growing up in Downeast Maine, North Sullivan to be exact, just outside Ellsworth, he taught himself to hunt and fish and fight. His own father, tall and austere, was a wayward thief of sorts and stole lobsters right out of the pots, always living like a parasite off some other guy's living. Louie's father was a drunk and a gambler and often a bully and the harder life came down on him the harder he pushed back. He had no sense of humor (they say personality traits skip a generation) and went about his robbing ways with a gruff etiquette, never taking all the lobsters from any one pot, never taking more than what would lead to suspicions on the part of the multitude of lobsterman out on Frenchman's Bay.

" _Why didn't he just get a boat and some pots of his own?"_ I asked out loud. He did at first, Louie acknowledged, but some other fellows kept cutting his lines. Professional lobster pots weren't cheap. He kept thinking he would make his own, but there were tools to buy, skills to master, and he really didn't have the patience. So in a nutshell, that was that. He kept the boat. It was the only thing he owned. That and his wife. Truth was, he wasn't all that nice a man. Saw him only sporadically. He worked his trade only at night. A dangerous occupation if ever he was caught. He always preferred to work alone. Louie didn't recollect his father ever speaking all that much. Louie knew his father was just the opposite of himself: gregarious, fun-loving, warm on his own mama who taught him just enough how to live within the borders of a backwards civilization. The excesses he learnt on his own. He knew Maine at the time was just an outpost of America proper, a backwater backdrop simmering behind the scenes in its own dangerous deficits. There were laws but it was like the Wild West. _"Laws, like tourists, were there just for the scenery."_

After learning to hunt, fish and work the fields - blueberries, potatoes - and out in the bay fishing and worming and clamming and lobstering, the next best thing was to learn to defend yourself. You knew it was coming, would come one day. Always did. Did with his father. And it did with Louie as well. He then looked back at me, the crashing waves on the beach no longer holding his attention. He wanted me to remember something: _"Remember, never let them take you by surprise."_

" _You never told me what happened to your father?"_ I asked, but he did. I remember him telling me he woke up one day and his mama was crying and pulling out her hair. The police found him stuffed into a lobster pot, carved up a bit, but all in a piece. There were sea crabs attached to the body. There was no investigation. Country justice was what it was. Wild West downeast. Louie admitted he lived a wild life when he was young - called it an " _Abbondanza_!" Wanted me to know he took great joy in loving women, all sorts of women, and gambling, and fighting and roving about, enjoying the many privileges that come when extreme heartiness is applied to extreme appetites. " _Was winner takes all was what it was_ ," he recalled.

After the incident - and that's all he called it, _the incident_ \- things started to change. He didn't necessarily want to leave but he himself was taken by surprise. He was forced to kill a man in self-defense. It didn't matter after that. He punched a man into a tree and the man died. He couldn't reconcile himself over such a thought and took to drink. The three holes kept leaking, shame and grief and whiskey, three fluid reminders of his one mortal sin. He soon ran to the Flora's Island for cover. She had heard of his goings-on a long way off and received him with welcoming arms. A year later, convinced he was a keeper, she introduced him to Roberta at a social gathering at the Legion Post. And that was that.

I told granpapa, _"I was the one who found you on the beach."_ I told him how much it scared me. _"Half the locals were scouring the stormy coast for days. They thought you'd be halfway to Montauk Point by now. Drifting, just drifting. The storm had other ideas. She threw you back into the bushes like a missile."_ Granpapa pointed east down the beach. Was about there, he reckoned. Told me he remembered it like yesterday. How happy he was I discovered him. I told him, _"I was happy too."_

Then he said he was tired and wanted to go home. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his black pea coat, the same one Harold gifted to me after it was all said and done. _"Don't let anyone take you by surprise,"_ he cautioned again. And then, just like that - _Poof_ \- he was gone.

#  37

I never saw Louie again after that, just like I never saw Sassacus again. What I did see was Livinia, in my mind's eye, when I wasn't with her and every day, in my arms, when I was. When I was with her life became bearable. In fact, there were moments where life became unbearably beautiful.

Late March had been blustery and damp. Howling sheets of banshee wind blew along the beach fronts and inlets, ripping boats from their moorings, knocking dead trees to the curb. Picket fences turned into pick-up sticks. Deck chairs and lawn props like gnomes and whirligigs became short range UFO's. The ferries were out of service for days. The wind got under our skin. It slammed against the walls shaking loose the siding. It tore roof shingles to the ground and confused the gutters, funneling water that wet the basement floors. The wind got under door cracks and window seals. It rolled through rafters and hurried down hallways and climbed staircases. It followed us through all the rooms murmuring its sorrowful sound, an intonation that came like an echo, touching us along our most vulnerable part at the back of our necks.

Then, without warning, everything changed in a twinkle. The weather broke in our favor just in time for April Fool's Day. So did news about the priest. The had him cornered in Juarez and were closing in from all sides. The long wait was finally over and we became overjoyed. Everything was like a sunny day. The sun paid us long visits when there were breaks in the clouds. So did the animals. They were back from hibernation and back on their beaten path, continuing their outlandish consumption that began last fall. As there were no predators for most of the animals, the Island began to take on a quasi petting zoo mentality. I say quasi because not everyone took kindly to seeing things so unpretentious hunting for food and nest scrappings among the vegetation that sprang up overnight.

Just outside our windows ventured the squirrels, the deer and rabbits. It was Disneyland in La La land. Not used to seeing anything but damaging winds and grey snow for months at a stretch, the idea of colorful fur and feathered creatures hopping about was a shock to our systems. We peaked out for a look. Were we to feed them or eradicate them? To some it was a nightmare. To others, it was pandemonium reaching Biblical proportions. Hence it became a call to retaliate in Biblical fashion. Jared Dickey, one of our ancients, stuck his shotgun out his window and blasted a rapacious fawn and two cottontails to kingdom come. He thought it was the beginning of the end. Fortunately, Constable Martin was back from his furlough and carted Dickey off for evaluation. Dickey wasn't the only miscreant. Young boys shot at the smaller animals with BB guns, slingshots and rubber-tipped arrows. Some threw rocks. One old maid, a Miss Tabisher, slathered a jar of peanut butter into her fanciest tureen and left it on the front porch. No one guessed she mixed it with a heavy dose of antifreeze. It was pure carnage. A badger, two squirrels a fawn, and various birds lay dead in the flower garden at the bottom of her steps. When Martin came to investigate, Miss Tabisher was indignant. "Serves 'em right," she sniffed. "They've no business being here. Tell them to please go home." Doc said Miss Tabisher had more bats in her belfry than anyone she knew, but Doc didn't know too many people.

You'd think the blue bloods would be spared the indignity of the past year because they were off Island, but most of them were aware of what had befallen their fiefdom. If they weren't, bi-weekly newsletters from FLITCO and personal calls from J.J. made it clear this was to be a long remediation. Most of the Turkeys avoided the Island like a plague. From their selective holdings, they chose instead to seek their felicities at other outlets, other ports of call, which were safely removed from this little glitch on their summer schedules. Most had the resources to play anywhere they liked. Still, a few were compelled to try their hand because the weather was so strangely pleasant this time of year. They also knew the priest wasn't around, and they weren't about to let the decimation of the plodder population spoil their plans.

So it was on Sunday, April eighth, two weeks before Easter, that the first pheasant hunt of the season took place out behind the Crescent Club lawn that stretched its open arms down towards the sea. Oliver Perez and other Geese were hired to collect the gaming birds at Bottom's Up. They were stored in wire cages and sat row upon row in minivans brought down from Peace Valley Farm in Pittsfield. Peace Valley Farm bred the chicks in cramped quarters, sometimes eight to a cage. After months of intense feeding and minor mutilations where the growing chicks furiously peck away at anything in sight, they're released, wounded and discombobulated, into closed pens where the terror escalates. Overfed, wings shattered by mob violence or clipped by farm hands, the survivors are at last packaged back into their cages and shipped all over the northeast for sport.

Shooting pheasants is illegal in New York State in the spring. It's mostly a fall to early winter sport. But who abides by rules on an Island so far out to sea. The only rule was that the bird beaters release the birds low enough so the hunters, and that's what they liked to be called, had a clean shot, as if the spray of a 28 gauge shotgun wasn't clean enough. On each drive, there was one other golden rule to which the hunters had to ascribe: there was to be no shooting of the help who risked life and limb by flushing the birds out of their cages and chucking them above the ten foot ridge line thirty yards away. The members, decked out in khaki hunting caps and bright orange vests, flasks tucked away in back pockets, were spread out in a long row and were asked not to venture more than a few paces from their appointed spots on the shooting line. When the signal was given, three pheasants, ranged thirty feet apart, were flushed from their cages and tossed above the protective hillock and three hunters at a time were authorized to shoot them dead.

For decades, the mechanized division of firepower worked admirably, but this time there was a gross malfunction on the line. It was a known fact in Club circles that Judge Cheney was an avid but poorly-trained hunter. He claimed he bagged game for over fifty years in a clamorous life of adventure and today he insisted - because he could - that his pheasant be the first kill of the morning. Mister Claymore and Mister Branch further down the line would have to wait a second and admire his adroit move. Blinded by the sun, Judge Cheney shook his head left (his arms and shotgun moving along in synch,) took careless aim, fired, and tore pieces of Mister Arnold's face clean off. Arnold was at the end of the line. He survived but wasn't the same. I heard later he had a couple of _droolzicles_ all his own. And Judge Cheney, well, what could Martin do? It was just an accident. But what happened later that night was something else altogether.

T.S. Eliot believes _April is the cruelest month_. I wondered if Eliot spent time here. It'd be right up his alley. Flora played a cruel joke all right, at the Crescent Club, of all places. After Mister Arnold was shot in the face, the hunt came to an immediate end. The shooters retired to the club where drinks were served and a meal was waiting in the billiard room adjacent to the main banquet hall. Judge Cheney was taken by his bodyguard to file a statement with Constable Martin and never returned to the club. Later that day his private plane picked him up at Alister Airport and he was never seen again. By Monday the Crescent Club was empty except for Oliver Perez who had been a worker on the premises for over a decade, caretaking the large facility and supervising the periodic maintenance needed at the world famous Crescent Club Golf Course, ranked fifteenth in the world according to a recent issue of Golf Digest.

Perez was married once but his wife left him when he refused to leave the Island with her four years ago. Perez had dark skin, jet black hair, and dark, flashing eyes. He was easy to anger because he was so hard to please and he was harder to forgive because of his multiple dalliances. Of course, he was no Corey Blackstone. That level of improper conduct was way beyond his level of incompetency. Plus, Blackstone was never married. In that sense, he could be excused. Perez was a hard worker, a level-headed outcast from the other side who preferred the company of strangers to the company of friends. His last affair was with the art teacher and that went nowhere but persisted for years too long. Perez's wife was nice, had a nice figure, but never really trusted him. This mistrust, he believed, was at the nature of their problems. Had she trusted him to be faithful, he would have. But she told him from the start she didn't trust men. He told her he was different. She told him all men were the same. Perez was convinced, therefore, that his behavior was her fault and not his. If his natural proclivity was towards infidelity, like all men's, then she should have forgiven him his trespasses.

Unfortunately, the art teacher's husband didn't see the frivolity in such an arrangement, his own natural proclivities aside, and slapped Perez with an Alienation of Affection suit that didn't suit Perez's wife at all. She demanded he leave the Island with her and when he said, "Nada!" in return, she vacated the apartment and split to Norwalk. He continued to say Nada right up until he looked around at his shattered life- his wife gone, the art teacher gone, the apartment gone, his cash depleted - and then he finally said something. He said, "Algo es algo," which I took to mean, 'Nothing on Flora's was still better than something on the other side.' My interpretation could have been off, but Perez's meaning was clear. Like any Goose gobbled up by Flora's will, he had no intention of going anywhere fast.

It was early evening and the stars were blazing overhead. Perez was ready to leave for Sinbad's but he wanted to check out the boiler in the boiler room at the Crescent Club. The boiler was in the dark, brick basement that ran the whole length under the massive structure it supported. Part of the flooring was cement, part dirt where the original foundation joined the contemporary world. There also were numerous crawl spaces set behind square brick openings where old lead sewer lines and galvanized plumbing lengths teamed up with an assortment of PVC pipes and where armored cable wires indelicately crossed with Romex creating an unholy grid of power. Perez hated everything about the Crescent Club basement. There was once plans to partition it off and make it habitable but FLITCO decided the beams were too low at the ceiling and not worth the cost of repair. To raise the entire facility was out of the question. To raze the facility and start fresh was more appealing, but why bother.

Perez went down into the labyrinth only because he heard knocking noises and suspected the boiler might need bleeding. There was no margin for error at a place where any error was human error, especially at his level. He was replaceable and knew it. He used to work for Blackstone and work with Redbone but since Corey was infirm and Marty was dead, he was now solely responsible for the upkeep. It was a long winter and imagined the system needed servicing before being shutdown in May, but he'd rather not have a problem develop when he could nip it in the bud. There were three staircases that went into the basement. One came from the pantry in the big kitchen area, one came from the billiard room at the far end and the final set ran down to the boiler close to the steel cellar door. The only light switch was at the bottom of the pantry steps. Perez thought it was the dumbest idea yet. The staircase was long and plummeted at a steep decline into a blind world of rancid basement sounds and smells. He hated the dark and hated the rank odors even more.

The noises kept coming but now that he was close to the switch the noises seemed less of a _plink_ - _plink_ and more what a sound makes when someone sips too hard on a punctured straw to catch the last drops of fluid in a glass. Perez thought there was a leak in one of the steam pipes, or more than one. The sound was high-pitched and seemed like it was coming from multiple sources. As Perez flipped the switch, he was stunned by the light. He should have stopped walking forward when he had the chance but he knew where the boiler was. He was temporarily blinded, not crippled.

As his eyes slowly adjusted, it was his other senses that compensated for the deficit. And what these senses were telling him, wasn't very good. His nose told him that there was the distinct smell of meat decaying somewhere, a smell so putrid that Perez imagined a sewer line had backed up and discharged its contents. What his ears told him was that an explosion was imminent because the shrieky treble sounds seemed close and not close at the same time like the acoustics were all out of whack. What his mouth told him was that there was a distinct flavor of death in the air, an unsavory umami mix of fur and fat that he could feel on his tongue making it itch. But the kicker was the dozens of common brown rats moving towards him like a chocolate wave rushing at his boots, their grinding yellow rat teeth moving loose in their jaws, trying to nip at his legs, taking hold of his legs, climbing up on his legs. Perez flailed back onto the hood of the boiler and screamed, but he had been right. The acoustics were way out of whack and his screams boomeranged back into his mouth so the more he screamed the more the screams choked him till he couldn't breathe. There was no surface not skimming with the tawny pelts. The rats flashed their long tails like puppies and wriggled closer, climbing up on each other for a cleaner bite.

Another old, Island bastard, Perez was a fighter, and with his last bit of energy he kicked back on the boiler and then thrust his body headlong towards the bottom step of the cellar staircase. The rats were on him at once. The rank swill and carcasses they had fed on drifted into his nostrils. There was still a chance. Laden as he was by the brown cargo chewing at his flesh, he began crawling up the stone steps. Unfortunately, he never made it out of the cellar. He banged and banged but it was no good. Until the final moment, he'd forgotten that he himself had double locked the cellar door from the outside just one day ago.

The shooting of the blue blood and the macabre death of Perez rocked us back on our slippers. If there was any hope for a reprieve, that sealed the deal. We were to forget about second chances until whatever was playing out played out to the final whistle. The burnt out rectory hadn't even been demolished yet. Not a piece of rotting timber had been hauled away to the dump. Its ruined face bore down on us like a wild-eyed symbol of self-reproach. Every time we dare leave the relative safety of our premises, its looming specter reminded us that what had collapsed was more than a priest's house and what remained presaged more collapse to come.

And then the smell came, slowly at first: sour milk, rotten egg, cat turd. And then quickly, when the wind shifted and floated the news to the whole west end. It took days before anybody knew. It took days because we weren't looking for trouble. We weren't even looking. Putrid. Offensive. It took four days before anybody realized there was the carcass of a finback whale rotting away on Little Carnamount Beach. Chip complained bitterly about the smell because the housing units were directly across Calypso Avenue from the beach, but who cared what he thought. He was an angry thirty-three year old blind man living with his mother on disability. His room smelled worse than the whale, so what he thought didn't count, and Gloria Haynes didn't mind so what she thought didn't count either. Even Lucy started complaining about the whale, but as she was chatting with her dead husband more and more, everything she said was also suspect. Besides, who cared what an old, debilitated widow thought except me.

Half the high school, meaning eight students on their way home from school, skipping out on the school bus I drove, discovered the whale. Or rather the great leviathan discovered them. Because the wind had picked up and was blowing from the northwest, the stench didn't attract their attention right away. The bottle they were sharing and the weed they were smoking seemed more of a magnet. By the time they realized an unusual, black lump had risen from the chunky Carnamount sand, it was too late. As they drifted closer for a peak, the smell came on them like a massive sea wave. One girl threw up her lunch, which made another girl throw up too. Because they were stoned, two boys started laughing hysterically and one became bold enough to fetch a driftwood stick and poke it around the monster's thick, moldy fins.

The whale was gargantuan, at least fifty feet long. It cast shadows on the eight students simultaneously. The whale's cavernous belly was bloated and seemed stretched to the point of splitting open like it was pregnant but wasn't. The giant tail was all out of the water but the bulk of the beast was partially submerged. It had been dead for days before being cast ashore. There was an open seam along its tail where the whale had been struck by the propeller of a large ship, maybe a tanker. Lines of blood were still leaching into the sand. Its cavernous mouth hung open and from a short distance, the furry inside plates that it used to rinse and swallow looked like a giant, white mustache.

Constable Martin's office wasn't too far away over on Calypso Avenue. But the students had to straighten out first. An eleventh grade girl pointed to the humpback's blowhole and when she said it, "Blowhole!" they all thought it was the funniest thing they ever heard. Then the levity started fading. A ninth grade boy began hurling big beach rocks at the whale's head, aiming for the mouth. A tenth grade boy tried to set a piece of tail on fire with his lighter but burnt his hand instead. A senior girl, the one who held back her lunch, held her nose and had her boyfriend take a picture of her posing like a starlet with the whale's pectoral fin serving as backdrop. It wasn't too bad, the smell, as long as you were on the airport side. The orange windsocks at Alister were blowing hard, but not so hard that they were fully flush with air. The only thing flush with air and putrid gasses was the carcass itself.

The boyfriend had an idea. He later admitted it wasn't too smart. He would get out his knife, which had a good blade and carve some vulgarity on the white of the humpback's belly where he could reach without getting too wet. It would be the greatest joke in the world. When all the Island gawkers came, there would be a surprise in store. It'd be a riot. The other surprise was obvious. On the far side of the whale, just above the surface of the receding waves, a floating seven-foot penis protruded like a weathered log. When the girls saw it, they gave one, short communal gasp and then started giggling out of control. None of the boys thought that a riot, particularly the boyfriend who worked the knife into the belly's tight fold of flesh at a more furious pace. Suddenly there was a large eruption and noxious steam began foaming from the wound, the incision opening further and further like the whale was starting to carve itself up from the inside. The bottled gas knocked the boyfriend into the shallow surf, covering him with a creamy layer that took days to clean off, and it was a week before he smelled decent enough to return to school.

When the Geese learned there was a humpback on its shores, it didn't come as a surprise, but they chose to look anyway. This was the first dead whale they recollected ever. The smell was a non-starter till later. They were so used to death by now, a ripe body of any kind, in any stage of decomposition, was just more decoration, something to serve as an example of how they could be put upon in another creative way. Some took pictures. Some sobbed, some wailed. No one laughed. Some did a quick once around before returning home. Everyone had towels wrapped around their faces because of the smell. The show along the shore was more a reminder than a distraction. The somber march to see the dead whale was not quite the same as the march to the green to see the living owl. There were expectations in regard to the owl. The Geese were flocking to the owl in awe. There was nothing like that with the whale. If there was an inherent message, it was that the total repugnancy reminded them of the shooting of the owl. The owl's flight to the fire station had been no accident. Neither was the owl's death. What they finally came away with was that what was good for the goose was good for the gander meaning owl or whale, man or beast, nobody would get out unscathed. This notion put the Geese in serious lockdown. They stayed indoor after that and wouldn't open their windows even if they had wanted. It took all the way up to the day before Easter Sunday when the creature was finally buried deep in the sand that the windows could be cracked a notch and catch a breeze of something that wasn't offal.

#  38

Livinia and I were among the last to see the whale. The smell had subsided considerably. The tide had taken care of the blood. Neither of us was much impressed. Neither of us took pictures, nor did we steal away with a chunk of flesh as a token. Memory would serve. Livinia and I left the beach hand in hand, determined to get over the humpback and not let it get us down. Back in her apartment later that night, where the bedroom candles had been relit and a bottle of merlot had been emptied, Livinia capitulated on that promise. "I can't believe it's still going on," she said out of nowhere from her side of the bed.

"What's going on?" I asked, rolling on my side to face her. I knew this was coming for a long time. While I faced her, I didn't necessarily want to face it, the idea of having to open up now about the deeper implications of sleeping together every night. We had just made love and I wanted to sleep.

"Don't play dumb."

"Livinia, we talk all the time. It's still going on because we like where we are and like where we're going. Why else are we together?"

She shook her head in frustration. "I'm not talking about us. I'm talking about it, the other it... the _it_ at the beach."

"It's just a dead whale," I said, getting it now, putting a consoling hand on her leg and rubbing it gently. Her leg stiffened.

Livinia, as I had learned, wasn't one to toy with words. "You know I'm not only talking about whales. I resent that comment."

"I thought that's what you meant?" I stammered, withdrawing the hand.

"No you didn't. You just don't want to think about things in a broader sense."

"That's all I ever think about, things in a broader sense."

"Then tell me what you think. I need to hear you say it."

"Say what?"

"Are we going to be all right?"

"I swear we're going to be perfect,"

Livinia bundled her pillows to raise her head higher. "You got to stop feeding me these lines. You know more of what's going on than anyone. You can't say you don't when you do." Livinia got up from bed in a huff to wash off. In the flickering light, she looked like an Indian princess. I don't know what made me think that, but there was a dignity in her lissome strides, her lovely ass swaying free, her back thrown back straight as an arrow, her brown hair unleashed from the prison of clasps cascading over her smooth, round shoulders. Coming back to bed, Livinia repositioned herself away from me, just enough to let me know this conversation was about to take off. She ruffled the covers over the tops of her breasts and morosely stared at the peeling ceiling. "You have to talk," she said, still looking up, "You have to tell me we're going to be all right."

"We're going to be perfect," I repeated. "Absolutely perfect."

Livinia sighed, expelling more than just air from her lungs. She seemed about to surrender something important that was weighing her down. I shuddered and clenched my jaw. Things became quiet for a while, and then she breathed back some of the air and began to tell a story. "When I was younger, I think I was nine, my mother took me to the circus. It was a beautiful night but we were sad because my father had a stroke and was recovering in a New Haven hospital that specialized in that. My father was too young to be sick. He was 51 and just had a major stroke."

"I'm sorry," I said. She had told me about her father's stroke before.

"I know you are." Livinia said, still looking away.

"But why weren't you and your mom with him?"

"My mom told me we needed a break. She was an administrator at a senior center at the time and knew the value of stepping back and taking a break. The carnival was in Groton and was advertised in the papers and had a good reputation."

"Amazing. I once went to that carnival myself."

"It was a good carnival wasn't it?"

"It was real good."

"A few hours away from the hospital was a good thing, right?"

"There was nothing you could do anyway but worry, so you might as well worry in a good place rather than a bad place. Yes, it was a good thing."

"It seems like a long time ago. It was a long time ago, but I mention it because it reminds me of something that happened while we were there."

"What was that?" I asked, gently putting my hand back on Livinia's thigh.

"My mom had gotten me a funnel cake and as we had just finished it, we started heading back."

"To the hospital?"

"No Raney. Back to where most of the rides were. We had only gone on a few rides. The truth was we weren't up for rides. We wanted to get lost in the commotion, the noise, the lights."

"Looking for distraction?"

"Yes. I was just a kid and my mom wanted to stuff me with food and make me laugh a little and there was this one ride I never went on, the Tilt-A-Whirl and so that's where we headed."

"Great ride," I said. "It made me dizzy and kids like dizzy but you know, it never did anything for Chip. I suppose because he couldn't see, I think it affected him differently."

"How so? "

"I think it made him testy. He was testy all night after that ride. Maybe it was the Bumper Cars too. Did you get dizzy?"

"We didn't go." Livinia put her hand on my hand, giving it a tight squeeze.

"Why not?"

"Something weird happened which is what I can't figure out."

"What happened?" I asked.

Livinia turned and looked at me. Our faces weren't more than inches apart. I wanted to crush that face with kisses, but she wanted to talk. "What happened was that out of nowhere a basketball, of all things, a stupid basketball, whizzed past my head almost knocking it off. It came so close."

I felt like I was just smacked in the face. "I can't believe this."

"I couldn't either," Livinia said with her little giggle. "I don't know who threw it or if it was intended for me, but I'm reminded of it because it reminds me of the idea that you never know what's coming your way at any given time. Life's so random. It makes me wonder if there's meaning in anything we do."

"Livinia, this is incredible! My brother threw the ball, but he didn't know where he was throwing it."

"Don't be silly."

"I'm not. I remember that moment clear as a bell. I don't know why but I remembered the little girl's face so perfectly. Livinia, holy shit! I can't believe it. That was you."

Livinia was left momentarily speechless. Her mouth hung open like a weight was attached to her jaw. "I can't believe that was you either. I didn't react to the ball as it was there and gone before I could. My mom was looking away and didn't see it go by. But I saw you both, I remember what you looked like."

"What did we look like?"

"Like dopey kids."

"We were."

"Raney, the point is that it points to what we're truly trying to understand here."

"What's that?" I asked. "That we actually met? Actually, we didn't meet but I saw you decades ago before we ever got to meet. And you saw me too."

"That's not what I mean but the fact that the basketball was thrown by your brother just illustrates what I'm getting at."

"Which is what?"

"I wanted to say before I knew this that life makes so little sense. It's just a series of random moments with no meaning like a ball swishing by a little girl's head, like a whale dead on a beach, like a priest killing people randomly."

"I don't think what the priest did was random," I said.

"It's random enough so we can't say it's all premeditated."

"Yeah, but some of what he did was."

"Up to a moment ago, I could hardly find meaning in anything and now everything's changed. Your brother was meant to throw the ball at me so you could see me for the first time."

"And what?" I interrupted.

"I don't know what. Perhaps seal the imprint forever. Maybe that's why you showed up at my door. You were predisposed to show up. You were meant to be there when and how you did."

"But what about why? I can understand your desire to say it."

"To say what?"

"You know, Livi, the word, the word you were dying to say before you knew my brother threw the ball."

"Which was?"

"Coincidence."

"But I see it now as the opposite of coincidence. Something more beautiful's at work, like something serendipitous is driving us together."

"Please don't get all religious on me."

"I'm not trying to."

"Look, Livinia. I can understand your feelings but I don't believe it's got significant meaning and I don't believe it's a coincidence and I don't believe it's serendipitous."

"Then what is it for God's sakes? You going to tell me or not?"

"It just is, that's all, and the more we try to think through the moments we live, giving it a thorough wash in the old brain tub, all that happens is it gets cleaner, not clearer."

Livinia was getting more exasperated by the second. "Explain how we could meet over twenty years ago and then meet again. Don't you think it's more than nothing? It's got to have meaning?"

I wasn't sure what to say. I wasn't helping. "Does everything that happens have to have a meaning? Did your father's stroke have a meaning? It had a consequence. It left you without a father. But a meaning? Is there deeper meaning to genetic predisposition? Was the broken vessel in his head random?"

"What's your point, you bad man?"

"I'm not bad and I'm not being mean," I said. "I'm trying to be honest. The point is that whatever's driven us to the Island didn't do it, if there is a whatever, in order for us to meet up no matter what happened in Groton twenty years ago. Sure, it's not random and I feel there's a reason but the only thing probable here is we won't ever know the truth. And besides that, it most likely's incidental, you know, by an uncaring God if at best, meaning in the end it's probably insignificant."

Livinia stared at me disappointed, heart-broken. I hadn't told her what she needed to hear. "That's not romantic," she said.

"I once told you we assign meaning to things that are important to us but not meaningful or important on any bigger scale. The only thing's got meaning now is that we're together. I'm no Romeo, but I think that's romantic."

For a long time, Livinia studied my face. Then she seemed to relax. "Baby, sometimes I think I could fall in love with you."

"Awesome," I said. "Me too."

"Did I ever tell you what my father said when we got back?"

"No."

"My mom and I were sitting on the edge of his bed and he wasn't looking so great."

"I know," I said. "You told me there was a nurse who told you he wasn't going to last the night."

"She was a fine nurse, a real good nurse," Livinia said, her eyes moist, her shoulders beginning to quake. "The doctors were lousy and being evasive. My father lifted his head from the pillow and somewhere through all the tubes he started mouthing words at me. I couldn't hear him so I leaned over practically sticking an ear inside his mouth and he said to me, and I swear this is true, he said 'Livi darling, I may not be your dad, but we always loved you like you were ours'. It was so weird."

"Sure, but he had a stroke, probably didn't know what he was talking about."

"My mom somehow heard him say what he said and pulled me off real fast and wouldn't let me talk to him anymore."

"And then what?"

"And then he died."

"I'm sorry."

"I know. Later, back home, I asked my mom what he meant and she said the same thing you said. My mom cried the whole way back to Narragansett. She had to make funeral arrangements, but she kept sneaking a hard look at me out of the corner of her eyes even as the tears rolled. I didn't know what to make of it."

"There's probably nothing to make of it. Nada," I said, peeling away the covers and rolling over on top of Livinia, hugging her till she quit shaking. But again, I was wrong. It seems there's always a little something to make of a little nothing, as I keep on learning. But is it better?

It was May and like the explosion of flowers on the village green, the Geese were starting to poke their heads out their windows to take a hard look at the lay of the land. They weren't sure what to make of it. The familiarity seemed to drift away in less than a year. What was left was contempt. Most weren't sure how they were going to earn a living. Even though the priest was on the verge of being apprehended, most of the blue bloods were abandoning Flora's for the season and that meant fewer jobs. Even despite everything Jameson tried to do. Sure he was the pink bunny again for Easter, but the Geese meant less than nothing to him and what was he doing it for anyway? Only about five families showed up for the egg hunt, and they never once shopped in his produce store. It got to where Jameson considered packing it in for the summer as well. The only reason he stayed on was to serve as FLITCO's eyes and ears. If he left, they'd find another lackey. The other reason Jameson stayed on was because the priest had indeed stolen something from the store. What was missing was the Browning HP semi-automatic pistol Jameson's father had used to shoot Shep's grandfather back in 1930. The crooked cop had bequeathed it to J.J. It was hidden, had always been hidden, in a locked box under a floorboard at the back of the store. In the box was a small half-empty case of 9mm Shorts. Jameson never mentioned the theft of the Browning because it would be an admission of his father's guilt. Besides, it wasn't his business what his father had been up to so long ago. He still had it around for protection, he kept telling himself, to protect his groceries not his ancestor's good name. With Shep dead it didn't make a difference anyway. There wouldn't be any more questions. He recalled confiding the news to the priest one day in confession during a moment of spiritual weakness when he kept asking himself what he was doing selling squash and avocadoes to those rich sons of bitches in the first place. If he left, no one would buy his store if he decided to sell and if he left, they might start asking questions if the priest was caught with the gun. Better to play it safe and keep his options open.

At long last the bulldozers came and hauled away what was left of the rectory and construction began on a new home for the young, new priest who had started to introduce himself around town. He drove a shiny, blue Jeep and had a smile to kill for. He was as modern as modern could be. Many of us met up with him at the post office where he handed out fliers that had his impressive resume on one side and a doctored photo of what the new rectory would look like on the other.

"It's important to keep things in perspective in light of the enduring pain of the populace," said the new priest passionately. The rectory was to be complete by late June. Until that time, the new priest was asked to set up shop at an apartment in the barracks, the same one Brett had occupied. Lucy offered to bring him occasional lunches and dinners and even got paid. The new priest's sermons were basically love-ins, life-affirming and smart, intended to win back the hearts of the Catholics who had shied away from the church after the owl was blasted. It wasn't like the new priest didn't have great material to work with. The Island was constantly flush with new material. His verbal alchemy was starting to take effect, already bringing some Geese back into the fold. The new priest arrived on the Island for mass on Easter Sunday and within a day, Flora, too, was back on the job.

The day we got back from spring vacation, a twelfth grader shot a tenth grader with a flare gun in the gym right after lunch. It was the same boy who had taken a picture of his girl friend sitting on the whale. It seems she had been too flirty with the younger boy one night on the beach and rumors began to fly. The senior went to his locker at lunchtime (he was in my class earlier failing a test on _Macbeth_ Ogilvie gave me to administer) to go get his lunch where he had packed a red plastic Orion breech-loaded single shot flare gun next to his tuna fish sandwich, his dill pickle, and his Strawberry Yoo-Hoo. When he shot the other boy they were just entering the gym for badminton. The senior came up behind him, the weapon at his side, and screamed, " _Turn hellhound turn!_ " As the younger boy complied, the senior aimed at his scrotum but blasted a fiery hole that made the boy's right femur catch on fire.

When Doc came to the scene and stabilized the victim, he was transported by helicopter to the Yale-New Haven Hospital's trauma ward where he remained in intensive care for two weeks. The senior, was also shipped to the hospital, its psychiatric wing, where he remained for two months, continuing his rehab closer to home, getting his GED and then volunteering for the Marines, being rejected, but then, after a few strings were pulled by a FLITCO saint, getting accepted into the Coast Guard.

Then there was this. In early May a lightning strike set the castle at Castle Point on fire. No one was at home but the flames reached far into the sky and though the structure was made of stone and brick, the interior was all wood and the entire castle had to be gutted and rebuilt. Time was not an issue. There was money to burn. The castle was owned by a wealthy financier who invented Kingcondom Kong Prophylactics, the world's largest selling condoms. He had made his fortune stretching his empire into a wide variety of latex sheaths. Some varieties glowed in the dark, some came in as many colors as a box of Crayola, some were ribbed with coated wire like a Slinky toy, some were tipped with a strategic, plastic marble, some had a blunt tip called the _Extender_ _Bender_ that added an inch or two of glory to the action, and one, bought only on special order, called the _Signature Series_ , was imprinted with the name of the wearer.

As the two hundred and fifty or so April fools watched May come and go, we were hardly better off than when the priest slipped off the Island. A wooden raft floated in on the tide and parked itself at Rosabella Beach just around the bend from Angeli's estate. It wasn't a remarkable raft except for the fact that it was wood not fiberglass, and slapped together with tar and bound by rope hitches, but there were chunks missing where an animal, a shark, tore into it in four or five places.

Everyone left on the Island was accounted for, so nobody could figure out what had happened or to whom it happened. The raft was soon put on a flatbed and hauled to the town dump. It became the biggest attraction of the season, bigger than the whale. We all know what happened to the whale, but the mystery of the raft was inspirational and kept the Geese coming back day after day looking for evidence of foul play, but more than that, basking in the glow of a non-specific tragedy. It seems we couldn't get enough. All the carnage we endured was starting to become our legacy. We felt we owed it to ourselves to be there like pilgrims at a shrine. There was something deeply visceral about it that was hard to define, and until the morning Billy Twiggs set it ablaze, it had become the Island's most treasured landmark.

That was then, this was Zen too. Smiley Webster swallowed his false teeth in one swallow because he somehow forgot to remove it from his mouth one evening before bedtime. He had been rereading his dog-eared copy of _Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee_ , and reading led to dreaming and dreaming led to nightmares. He shouldn't have been reading a book in bed without removing his false teeth. He knew that but had become engrossed in the text and one thing led to another and when the nightmares came he swallowed it all in one gulp. The teeth got stuck in his esophagus while Smiley was dreaming about massacres and he woke up with a start, thinking his throat had been slit by a savage. Realizing the nature of the painful lump made his heart race which made his breathing near to impossible. Hiccupping and grasping for air both at the same time, Smiley went running through the black night, slipperless, in his Dartmouth green long johns down Calypso Avenue and barely made it to Doc in time where she calmed him down and made him drink a quart of warm water. The fact that it worked offered little comfort as his set of false teeth was now in his stomach and soon would be chomping at his asshole like some Pac-Man.

On the last day of May, Smiley accompanied by his best friend, Doc, had to take the _Warner Bee_ over to New London to see a specialist in Norwich to get it surgically removed. When he returned Smiley told Doc he was feeling poorly in his belly. Doc responded by saying, "Don't worry, you're just long in the tooth," and prescribed some peppermint tea with honey to make him well. Smiley slowly got better but didn't get a new set of teeth till long after the hurricane came and went and changed my life forever.

#  39

The hurricane of '84 was a tall order. It hugged the coast like I hug the walls, except this hurricane was starved for attention and moist, tropical air. Once deemed a major depression, our mini aggressor ripped into Bermuda, not exactly shredding it to bits but inflicting moderate damage. Then it turned its attention west intending to march like a ragtag army over to Charleston. The great hurricane of '84 slowly grew into the sixth event in an active season of hurricanes and tropical storms. The first two hurricanes in early June made their way to the mouth of the Gulf and then fiddled around in the muggy waters scaring the workers off the oil platforms and halting commerce for days, but it was a false read and the expected turbulence never amounted to much. The next three made a play for the Caribbean but it was a dodge. They soon curved northeast into the Atlantic and vanished. That should have been the fate of our hurricane but ours was different. It nosed its way out of Africa, a wave so full of itself that forecasters predicted a quick petering out, ending it's blustery career as a bully that once kicked little Bermuda's ass but couldn't compete with the fierce winds coming from the west that were going to shoo it away.

And then, somewhere along that line, the little storm that couldn't, could. Stalling and re-stalling, devastated by vertical wind shears, _Old '84_ was suddenly blasted by steamy hot love from air masses rising from the south, restarted its engines and changed its identity. The it became a _she_ , the depression became a tropical storm, then a full-blown hurricane, and headed west to greener grounds. Though it remained far from the continent, the hurricane's mindless teething churned up sand along the seaboard north of Florida causing flooding and erosion. No fatalities were reported, no boardwalks were bombarded, and even as the millibars were dropping, the forecasters weren't paying much attention and predicted it would soon be cast out to sea, another washout. North of Charleston, however, somewhere outside the Outer Banks, our soggy urchin decided to become great. It seized the day and headed straight for anything in its path which happened to be Long Island and Connecticut with our tiny Island sandwiched in between. It was such a helter-skelter ride with such surprise flip flops and massive turnarounds at every bend in the satellites tracks, the geniuses at the NHC in Miami had no choice but to name this sixth major weather event of the season: _FLORA_.

It was near the last week of June. It was the last full day of classes with graduation temporarily set for sometime after the weekend. There were three graduates. There would have been four but the senior with the flare gun was still in therapy and wouldn't be released until late in the summer. It was turning dark and a mist was settling over the Island. Sweet smells sifted through the air. A million roses bloomed along the bluestone paths on the village green. Sweet mock orange was blossoming in broad bands as were the sumptuous lavender bushes bordering the west side sending its locks of purple-tipped shoots up into the night air. Fresh mown grass, grouped in scented piles waited for pickup. I smiled at the thought of all this beauty being hand-delivered by Franklyn Perricone. Someone once said they should name the green in his honor.

Thanks, I thought, but no thanks. The idea of a permanent commemorative faded as the list of victims increased. If we gave Perricone his due, we'd have to name the town dump after Mike Calderone and the ferry terminal after Corey Blackstone who wasn't even dead, and Sinbad's after the sea hags who were still kicking, and we'd have to rename both ferries - _Shep 1_ and _Shep 2_ \- and the Meadowlands would certainly be renamed in honor of poor Mary. Then we'd be setting about naming incidentals after other current and former residents. For instance, why not name some of the greater estates after Marty Redbone or rename Deep Harbor after the drowned fishermen that got blitzed by the sub or rename the Crescent Club after Oliver Perez or maybe after the old guy whose face was shot off. And if that, why not take it a step further and name the school after Lucius Brett, our Island scapegoat, and then go wild and name the Navy barracks after Chip for helping to save Lucius or offer a dual tribute with Ogilvie named as co-hero, and why not name Barton's Hill after Sassacus or Alister Airport after the drowned pilot or name Rosabella Beach after all the victims: natural, unnatural, suicidal. We'd need at least three plaques to cover that list.

Finally, how about renaming Flora's Island something else too, something less foreboding, less memorable, or maybe not rename it at all. We could call our Island: _Our_ _Island_ and leave it at that.

Livinia and I were talking in her living room. I sat on one end of the couch, she sat on the other with her bare feet wedged between my knees. It was late and time for bed. We were sipping a single barrel Jack I bought special last Christmas, and she was fine with it as long as there was plenty of ice. We were talking about Hurricane Flora. "I can't believe they're calling it that," Livinia said. "It's weird."

"What's weird? It's the sixth of the season so it had to begin with an _F_. The fifth was Eli so the sixth has to be female, Flora."

"I know, but there's lots of other choices."

"Like what?" I asked good-naturedly.

"Faith or Felicity would've been suitable," she said, throwing her head back and polishing off her drink.

"Good point. Another?" I asked, holding up my glass.

"Not in the mood. You think we're going to be evacuated?"

"I spoke with Ogilvie," I said. "He's in touch with the coast guard and they told him there's nothing mandatory."

"But they say it may be a Cat 3."

"It may be just playing cat and mouse."

"You're so cute. Where'll we all go if we have to go?" Livinia asked.

"We'll be sent to the school gym. I've been through this before. Carol and Donna were doozies."

Livinia regarded me with a cagey smile. "Notice, no men's names. That tells you something."

"It only tells me mens' names weren't instituted until a few years ago. What's it tell you?"

"It tells me men blow."

"You're so funny," I said, pretending to laugh.

"Is that why you hang around?"

"Yes, for that and other things," I suggested. Then, despite Livinia's mild protests, I reached for the Jack and poured us another small round.

"Are you trying to get me drunk?"

"No. I'm trying to get myself drunk so you can take advantage of me."

"You need to be drunk for that?"

"I just want to be ready when the opportunity strikes."

"Well, you better get ready then."

"For you I'm always ready."

A serious look suddenly came over Livinia's face. It came from far inside and then drilled its way to the surface. "What about Chip and Lucy?"

"They're waiting it out at home. Chip's gets what he needs at home and to transport his equipment would be a pain."

"He doesn't have equipment."

"Tell that to Chip."

"Like what?" Livinia asked.

"Chip told me he's not leaving his music collection. Says he got them squared away and doesn't want anything stolen, especially his Stones albums."

"Who would steal his Stones albums?"

"Tell that to Chip.

Will Gloria stay with them?"

"No, why would she? She's got her own mom to worry about."

"Chip always seems like he doesn't want help," said Livinia.

"Doesn't matter what Chip wants. I've learned that the hard way. But we'll have to stay with them in case the power goes?"

Livinia chuckled. "Sweetheart, if the power goes, Chip'll be better off than us."

"I suppose, but I'm more worried about Lucy than Chip."

"I know," said Livinia, her warm smile lighting up the room. "Let's say we go to bed soon so we can worry together."

I removed Livinia's feet from between my legs and moved next to her on the couch. I put my hand around her shoulder. We were tired and the thought of the hurricane was a tiring thought. I patiently sipped my Jack and let the world spin. After a while, we both became worried by soft knockings at the door. When I answered it, warily sticking my head out sideways to see who was there, I was startled to see Doc. She was covered in an oversized, brown Mackintosh, and wore knee length, red rubber boots because of the rain. Pink, cotton pajamas were visible just over the boots and along the neckline above her Mackintosh. She also wore a pair of blue surgical gloves because of I don't know. Water dripped down Doc's overcoat and yellow scarf onto the kitchen floor. She looked like something out of Seuss. Doc apologized for making a late house call but, "I just received word that Hurricane Flora's definitely's going to become a Cat 3. There's a mandatory evacuation for seniors."

"We're not seniors," I said. "Do I look like a senior?"

"That's not why I'm here."

"Don't take him seriously, Marie. He's just being a big baby," Livinia said, getting up from the couch to give Doc a big hug and put water on for tea.

"No tea for me please. I'm only staying a moment," she added, shaking her wet head and readjusting her scarf under her chin. "I was supposed to be in the gym, but soon, I'll have to be on the last ferry out tomorrow. It's at noon. The Ambulance squad will be in charge of medical issues."

"Who's in charge of everything else?"

"Mister Jameson's in charge. He's been authorized to make decisions when the hurricane lands."

Who gave that crazy curmudgeon the authority?" I asked.

"FLITCO, I suppose," said Doc.

"But there aren't any summer people here. He may be FLITCO's eyes and ears, but he's not their brains."

Doc turned to me. "Don't be uncivil."

"I'm not. I'm being honest. I remember what he said the day the owl was shot. Sometimes I think none of this would've happened if he just shut his trap."

"You don't believe that, do you?" Doc asked, looking at me with urgency in her eyes. "How could Mr. Jameson live with himself if it were true?"

"I'm just saying. The priest was going to do what he did one way or another. I'm so glad they got him."

"It's not true about the summer people anyway," said Doc. "I actually saw one or two at the office today. And I even heard that Mr. Angeli's back on the Island."

"Poor Mr. Angeli," said Livinia. "I'm sure he's not staying on."

"They'll probably all be gone on the last ferry with me. After that, there'll be no ferries until the hurricane passes." Doc paused, then looked up at me and then looked over at Livinia by the stove pouring the cup of tea she didn't want. She seemed disconsolate, almost droopy, like a sunflower bearing too much moisture. Water dripped in big droplets from her Mack. "You must take care," she urgently said to Livinia.

"Don't worry. We're going to be fine," Livinia replied.

Doc came over and tenderly began stroking Livinia's head. She seemed far away, her thoughts so consuming that for a second I thought I saw her grimace in pain. Forcing a smile, Doc said, "You both mean more to me than all the trouble I foresee... more to me than anything in this whole wide world."

"Doc, that's sweet, but there's nothing to fret about. The hurricane will pass before we even get started," I replied.

"Can you give me a guarantee?"

"In writing if you want. I'll write you a ditty: 'Dear Flora, please go away. Don't come back for another million days.'"

Doc perked up, apparently relieved by my jackass assurance, but it wasn't that. It was something I said that made her remember. "Oh, by the way, this is why I'm here." She reached in and produced a letter from an inside pocket. "It's from someone on the Island. It was sent to you care of me for some reason."

"Who sent it?" I asked.

Doc shrugged. "I guess whoever sent it wanted you to get it sooner rather than later. The post office brings mail directly to my door because of the medical deliveries."

"Thanks," I said, taking the letter from her blue hand.

"Who's it from?" Livinia asked, "an old fan or an old flame?"

"Doesn't say. Probably another bill."

I left Livinia and Doc and went over to the couch and sat down under the floor lamp. The letter was in a plain, white envelope with my name on it care of Doctor Maria Talbot, Flora's Island NY 06390. There was no return address. The stamp was a standard 20 cent 1983 Madonna and Child Holiday issue with the round Flora's Island postmark that spared the Madonna but completely ringed the Child's face. The date on the postmark was today, A.M. Friday, June 22, 1984.

I tried to open the letter from a corner but my fingers were stiff and my forefinger couldn't get under the seam. Instead, I ripped the corner and pared it open with my pinky. I took out the single sheaf of unlined paper inside. It was folded in three. I began to feel queasy. It seemed like I was having a Déjà vu moment. I turned my body away from the kitchen to make sure nobody would see the content of the letter. Already, I could see through the paper because there were letters carved in unforgettable black magic marker, two lines of capital letters that didn't touch, very large letters. There also were two almond-shaped glyphs, symbols of some kind I couldn't decipher until I undid the folds. Carefully, I curled back the page and saw:

AN EYE FOR AN EYE.

I felt the blood drain from my face like I was split in two at the neck and very quickly I became light-headed and dizzy. I retreated to Livinia's small bathroom behind the couch before anyone noticed my shaking, and locked the door. I was too big for the bathroom and no sooner had I got in then I began getting claustrophobic. I couldn't leave and I couldn't stay either. I started sweating and I began to feel nauseous making me want to double over on my knees in front of the toilet. If I got on my knees it'd be a nightmare. My legs were too long for the space between the bowl and the wall. Instead, I leaned over the sink and waited but nothing happened. I continued to wait until the feeling passed. I took lots of deep breaths. I felt like I was sucking out all the air. There were no windows. The fluorescent light over the mirror of the sink made me look purple and green. The words _Ghastly_ , _Ghoulish_ , _Zombie_ , came to mind.

I had the letter in my hand and stuffed it into my back pocket. I'd say to them it was a notice from the electric company wanting me to close out my account from when I rented at Edwards. But this couldn't be happening:

...How did he get back? He was captured in Juarez. What the fuck! What could Jacobs want? He wanted my eyes, that's what he fucking wanted! Well, he wasn't going to get them. He wasn't going to get jackshit! Why didn't anyone see him? Where the fuck is he? Where's he hiding? Bullshit with all his symmetry, all his salvation. I'll kill him if I see him. I swear to God. Even God. I'll swear to. I'll kill him. My mother, my brother. Livinia and Doc. My eyes! Where is he? What's wrong with the cops? Maybe he wants nothing. Maybe that's his game - terror. No, he's killed. Lots. And wants to again. How did the bastard get back? To Flora's? I'll find him. I'll kill him. I'm bigger than him, stronger. Younger. I'll make him die, go away. He was caught. What the fuck! If I only knew where the fuck he was hiding...

There was a Knock on the bathroom door. I jumped, almost bashing my head on the ceiling. "Are you all right?" Livinia asked, her voice full of concern. "Maria went back home. You can come out now big fella."

I hesitated. Livinia was too smart for duping, but I didn't want her to know yet. There'd be no point. "Don't worry. I'll be right there. Just brushing my teeth."

"Hurry up. I don't want to worry by myself."

"Believe me, baby," I said, pretending there was a toothbrush stuck under my tongue, "you won't be."

When we finished worrying, Livinia lay up against my back warm as toast and sound asleep. I carefully rolled out of bed and went to sit on the couch. I had my hoodie over my head and had the letter in my hand. I had worked hard to get to a place of feeling secure. It was all based on the presumption that the priest was caught. I felt betrayed by my people and myself. I rigged the system to survive the indecency of blinding my brother. Having gotten over that blunder, I then overcame the indecency of hosting fallacious relationships with figures from the past. Then at long last, I had to deal with something real for a change. If Livinia ended my terrible years of yearning and brought meaning into my life, it was only the priest who could take it away. Was it that simple? Cherish those you love; destroy those who take it away? Perish the thought. But not the deed. I could destroy if I had to. And I had to. No I couldn't. It wasn't in me. But I couldn't let him. I wouldn't.

Sitting on the couch, I stretched my long legs and raised my long arms as high as they could go to impress myself back into a place of passable confidence. The priest may be a killer but I was bigger than him. I also knew something about him he didn't know about himself. In his passion for violence, he had given up a key element of surprise. Perhaps he didn't care. He had to know the letter he sent spelled the end game. He knew I'd report it to Constable Martin. There was no way he'd get off Island this time except in handcuffs or a body bag. I had long given up on the _Why_ (insufficient evidence) of his psychotic game and since he had exposed the _Who_ (him) long ago and had now just surrendered the _Where_ (here) and the _What_ (eyes) the only power that remained his was the power of _When_ to strike. But I had him now. It was artificial power because the answer to that question was simple: Soon. He snuck back to exploit us, to make us part of his demented vision of the Island's legacy, but now that I knew he was here, I'd make myself ready. The hunted would become the hunter. If only I knew _How_.

It was Saturday morning and I stayed up thinking all night, planning my strategy, organizing my routes, reshuffling my routines. Hurricane Flora was expected to hit Sunday sometime late in the day. The priest wasn't planning to leave till after _IT_ was over. But there'd be no way off, and he didn't sneak back on to give a diabolical threat and then vanish into thin air. I wasn't sure what the _IT_ was for the priest, but I knew what the _IT_ was for me. I wondered if he was planning to ever leave again or use this storm as a platform to make some sort of final statement. He already had taken leave of his senses. Now, he was back to take leave of his life. And I was here to help, if I could find him. To that point, I planned on devoting my most ardent hours.

That's why I didn't rejoin Livinia back in bed. As the kitchen clock ticked away, I listened for unusual noises. But I didn't hear anything other than the wind getting lost among the thick-leafed branches of the silver maples and sycamores outside the door, a door I checked and rechecked five times during the night. I had even put a chair under the knob like they did in the movies. I also examined the windows and made sure they were locked tight. If it became too warm, then it had to be too warm. That was the least of it. Livinia would survive a little heat.

As daylight poked its cheerless face through the pale curtains, I dressed: white sweat socks and my white Purcell sneakers (boots would weigh me down,) my Sparta sweatshirt under my pea coat (heavy, yes, but easier on the arms tracking quarry in the brambles,) my white baseball cap (to soften, albeit slightly, a sudden blow to the head,) and my white washed Levi's (cause that's all there was.) And so I was off, but not until I came back by the side of the bed to tell Livinia, who was semi-awake, "I'm going for a morning jog. Don't open the front door until I return."

"Why not?" she asked in a sleepy whisper.

"Because of the wind. It's picking up. Don't want the door flying off its hinges."

"Huh?"

"Also, stay here and don't go out. There are branches flying everywhere."

Livinia opened her eyes wide and gave me a charitable look. But looks could be deceiving. "Are you crazy?" she yawped, but in the sincerest way possible.

"I swear I'll explain when I come back."

"You're not a jogger."

"I jog, then I walk, then I jog. Just trying to get healthy. Today's a jogging day."

Livinia's look was full of a mocking disdain. "Well then, have a pleasant tour of the grounds, dear Lord, and please let out the hounds, dear Bard. And would you mind if I got up to lock the door after you, dear Fool?"

"Please Livinia. Do what I'm asking," I insisted a little too intensely. "It's no joke. You've got to lock that door."

"And you've got to take your leave, dear one, and don't come back without a reason for being so, so... _Dicky!_ You're scaring me."

We stared into each other's eyes. I gave a tentative smile; none was returned. "Thank you, thank you so much for locking that door... and for understanding." I felt I couldn't wait a second longer. I turned and left, waiting outside Livinia's front door until I heard the deadbolt snap into its hole.

On the other side, I heard Livinia say, "Raney, sometimes you can be such a jerk."

#  40

It was good to be out in the soft rain, to feel the invisible strength of something brewing so far away growing larger by the second. I remembered like yesterday the priest's surprise exit from the fog on Halloween. But today was almost crystal clear, the light precipitation doing little to reduce visibility. A tropical breeze was blowing north and slanted the rain and you could smell the brine and decay borne in each drop, the rain coming from so far away but getting closer now in its tingle and bite, the excavation of a space so deep in the marrow of your bones that you recognized instantly the missing half of yourself in whatever was filtering through. I had to be keenly aware. I couldn't afford to relinquish control, to let down my guard, not now, not when every second counted. I found it odd that I had discounted time for so long and now it was all that mattered.

I moved ahead in the soft mist, jogging, of all things, in a semi-circle twice around the village green before heading west onto Calypso to check on Lucy and Chip. Everything was deserted, as if everyone had already abandoned ship. All the planters and placards and storefront displays had been thrown back inside the shops. All the awnings had been curled up. All the store windows were boarded except the fire station.

The three ambulances sat side by side in the driveway next to the flagpole. The stars and stripes was blowing hard. So was my memory of the owl. Three siren blasts would tell us it was time to head to the school. The sirens would go off Sunday morning unless Hurricane Flora suddenly changed course and tacked to the east. Calypso Avenue was empty and slick with rain. It looked so smooth and slick and hard, so like black ice, I imagined I could skate down to Bottom's Up Harbor, the _skkklitch_ of the blades shaving up ice, the blades flashing in perennial light.

As I jogged along the barren stretch of road, I studied every hiding spot. I passed the police shack where the action with the hatchet first began. Nothing moved behind the hollies except the holly tips when there were gusts. Carnamount Beach now swept into view. The long sweep of ugly on ugly. The breakers were rough and tumbled, and along the wide stretch of sand to the water, I could see iron waves pound ashore in a moving line that diminished then picked up again further on. Nothing lay on the beach except broken seashells and rotting wood and memories of sand being collected in a sock.

On Calypso's better half was the long strip of brick barracks. The stoops were empty, the porches were empty save for an occasional rocker that swayed when the wind picked up. There were no cars lining the street. Each apartment had a garage in the alley out back. I passed Brett's apartment where the new priest now lived. Between the rows of each barrack I could see a bit of garage. I remembered it was right about there that Brett was attacked by a then unknown assailant. All was barren and quiet. Not a single dog barked, not a seagull was in flight. Turning from the road, I bounced up the steps and banged on the door of Lucy's apartment. No one answered. I banged harder until Chip squeaked opened the door. "Yeah, who you?" he asked sleepily. He had his Martian sunglasses on. His bathrobe was partly hung open. He was thin as a rail.

"Rise and shine cupcake," I said. "It's your one and only. Everything safe here?"

There was a long silence then, "It was, dick wad, until you showed."

"Is Gloria in there with you?"

"None of your damn business! You coming in or what?"

"How's mom?"

"You mean Lucy? She's still sleeping. So's Gloria."

"And are you all right?" I asked.

"Same. I'm was in the middle of _War and Peace_ until you knocked."

"I mean it. Are you all right?"

You taking a survey or what?"

"Then you'll be all right for the hurricane?

"Now that we learned you're joining us, what could be better."

"I'll take that as a yes," I said.

"Take it any way you want. Just take it outta here."

"I'm here to tell you to keep your doors locked until I come back. You got me?"

"Yeah, you want me to keep the doors unlocked until you come back. Then lock them so you can't get in."

"I'm serious," I said. "It's important to do what I'm asking."

"What for? Who's busting in?"

"Keep the door locked and next time ask who's there before you open it."

"Why? Who'll be there, Jacobs?"

"Maybe."

Chip's laugh was full of scorn. "Bro, you're getting some paranoid in your old age."

"Just keep the door locked and call Nate and Tillie and tell them to keep their doors locked too. I'll explain later. And tell Lucy we may not be there for dinner tonight."

"Don't matter. She's cooking for the priest. Why are all priests morons? Didn't even show up last night to get his meal and didn't even bother calling. Probably figured out what Lucy sticks in her stew."

"The guy's busy," I said. "He's got stuff to do. Probably out helping the seniors who aren't sticking around. But you're right. He could have called ahead anyway."

"Anything else?"

"Please do what I ask is all I'm asking."

"Gotcha. Have a good night."

"It's morning."

"For some it is," said Chip and closed the door hard.

I refused let Chip reduce me further. I was on a mission and continued jogging down to the ferry terminal. Everything felt barren and lonely and I was getting out of breath. The _Warner Bee_ rocked in the silver foam at the end of the pier. The _Lily Pusher_ had already gone. I wondered which ferry brought over the cargo I wanted to destroy.

All along the dock, there wasn't a dolly cart or wheelbarrow or hand truck in sight. They were all stacked in the storage pavilion next to the office building. The office windows had been boarded up with plywood. Some crewmember or other had sprayed in neon green the words: **Where ready for you, FLORA!!!!** I appreciated the effort. I started running again, setting my sights on the town dumps and the airport. I knew they'd both be shut down but I needed to see anyway, just in case there was movement somewhere, anywhere on the western tip.

The fat lump had to be somewhere. The only thing moving at the airport were the orange windsocks. At the dump, I looked over the edge and saw ash pooling in little eddies, residue, perhaps, from the burnt up raft. I looked over the edge of a second precipice. Calderone was pushed over right around here. I made sure as I looked one way, I was mindful that not looking the other way was risky business. I vowed never to be taken by surprise, like Louie warned. I was making vows by the second. One, I was getting tired of jogging and would have to find some means of transport. Two, I was getting tired of being defenseless and would have to find some means of protection. Three, I had better get back to Livinia soon.

Back on Calypso Avenue, I walked through the improved rain to the village green, past the post office and the library and then up around Doc's. I continued walking, but came back and took a detour around to the library again, making sure Livinia's door was still locked. It was. I was going to knock and apologize, but thought better of it. I was on a schedule. She'd be safe. She had to be. I know she would. I'd explain later. There was little time left.

It was when I hit Deep Harbor that I truly sensed the hurricane's slow approach for the first time. The boats that had once lay at anchor out in the harbor or lashed to their moorings along the rows of piers had all been brought in and dry docked behind some decrepit buildings and barns that hadn't been used in years. There weren't that many boats. The blue bloods had taken all their nautical toys with them when they vacated. These were just local boats - small fishing vessels and dinghies and runabouts and such. It was a scene: late June and not one boat in the choppy, black water. The rain now was starting to ease as I finished my assessment of Deep Harbor and the outbuildings beyond. The outbuildings were so empty that an echo would be brought back home if I chose to holler. I didn't. I looked everywhere, in every workroom and loft. It was stupid. It was dark inside and I was defenseless. But that was about to change.

Jogging again past my old apartment at Edwards's place across from the Meadowlands, I hung a quick left and walked around and down the little driveway to his warehouse where he stored all his tools and supplies. It was deserted but I knew there were some golf carts stashed next to the storage shed, which housed all his landscaping pipes and wires. Since the Meadowlands was a public course, Edwards rented golf carts to the Geese for a reasonable rate. Most Geese walked, but not all, and every once in a while a Turkey or two needed to polish up some strokes they had learned at lessons and needed a cart and a caddie. I knew this because when I was young, I served as a weekend caddie at The Meadowlands to earn some cash. The keys were always in the carts. I got in one, a tight fit, and turned it to _Forward_ and did a once around circling the trucks and vans sitting idle in Edwards' rain-soaked lot.

Then I got out, went to the storage shed and began looking for a weapon, turning over this pipe then that pipe looking for just the right thing, something solid and sharp, until I settled on one eight foot piece of one inch steel rebar and a one foot piece of half inch rebar for combat in closer quarters. Armed and dangerous, I squeezed back into my cart, put the smaller rebar next to me on the floor, set the long piece out the front of the cart like a lance, turned the key to _Forward_ again and rode back up to Calypso to find the dragon before he found me.

I was heading east in my cart, the rebar poking long through a slot under the front window. It began raining steadily again, heavier this time, but the cart had a roof, which deflected the rain. I rode past the guard station intending to drive to Castle Point and then back. I knew I wouldn't find the priest hiding among the dense growth of vines and brambles along the sides of the road and I didn't expect him to take temporary shelter in one of the estates either. But I needed to be sure. I had to be sure. From the guard station, it was six miles to Castle Point and six back.

After I completed my circuit and drove past the guard station again, I stopped, realizing that the priest may have gained some sort of sanctuary inside one of the cement bunkers up at Barton's Hill where he had sacrificed Garba-troll in one of his sick ceremonies. I reversed course. One of Rosabella's entrances was just across the way on the south side. I angled the cart over to the right of the road just enough so a vehicle could get by if it had a mind to. I didn't expect any traffic. The rain was getting heavy again, the drops thick like oil and the wind was picking up and the sky had a pearly grey hue with dark pockets extending here and there with some baleful clouds heading out over the Sound towards Connecticut.

The walk up Barton's was slippery and I fell twice in the dark mud but didn't slide more than a foot. It wasn't that long a walk but I was weighed down by my soaked clothes and waterlogged sneakers. It wasn't cold out. I wasn't cold at all. In fact, I was sweating under the garments because of the humidity in the air. I even saw steam rising from my shoulders. I took off my pea coat and sweatshirt and left them in a pile on the path. All I had on was a plain white tee. Then I adjusted my white cap so when I looked up towards the hilltop, the rain wouldn't pelt my eyes. Slowly, I made my way to the top. In my right hand I held the smaller rebar like a knife. It felt good holding it. It had been cut at one end with a saw and was sharp and the built-in ribs made for a solid grab even though my hands were wet.

At the top of Barton's Hill there was a palpable fog like a sheer curtain that draped the cement bunkers and dwarf pines and scrub oaks and vines and obscured the farer terrain. There wasn't much to see in the distance to begin with except for more trees and a couple of old Indian mounds, one of which had contained Sassacus's wampum belt.

Holding my rebar before me, I lowered my shoulders, entering each bunker looking around for any signs of anything. Each bunker was empty except for some cement rubble that had broken off in the corners. There was also some flattened beer cans and squashed soda bottles and cigarette butts and other Geese shit. In the empty space through which the big guns were once positioned, I could see rectangular bits of greasy sky. The priest wasn't around, wasn't lying in wait. I never expected him to be but I had to be sure.

Part of me suspected, however, that I'd find Sassacus sitting on some felled trunk somewhere, smoking his nasty pipe and giving me his old familiar look. I didn't see him. I didn't have time to see him, nor did I have the inclination. There was neither hide nor hair of the priest and that's all that mattered. I half walked half slid down Barton's Hill to my mechanical steed and rode back to the village green in the driving rain.

It was only after I parked the cart behind the library and knocked on Livinia's door that I remembered that I had left Louie's pea coat and my Sparta sweatshirt lying in a puddle near the top of the hill.

#  41

At first, Livinia refused to believe me. Even when I showed her the letter, the four words and two symbols, she was dismissive, and told me it was, "a dumb mistake, maybe a practical joke." It was only when I explained that this joker wasn't joking and insisted the threat was real like an erupting volcano, it was only then that she finally had no recourse but to buy in, collapsing into a wailing heap in the middle of the living room floor. After that, it wasn't long before I joined her.

Livinia and I were layered together on her rug in the middle of her room, me on top of her, then she on top of me, then sideways, then apart, then positioned together in inconsolable angles of despair that lasted for a good part of Saturday afternoon. At some points we might have fallen asleep. Sometimes we lay silent, folded like twists of taffy, listening to the hammering wind and the rain. At other moments Livinia would stop crying and then she'd start again and then we'd hug, then she'd start again, and soon her tears melted into our hair, cheeks and shoulders.

Towards the evening, we slowly rallied and by suppertime, had regained sufficient composure to the point that we could form words again, then whole sentences, then after a while, words and sentences that soon began to make some sense. We needed a plan but first we needed to leave her rinky-dink library apartment and spend the night at Lucy's brick barrack. It wasn't safe here. We couldn't just hang around waiting for the hurricane and the big bad wolf to make his final move.

The ride down Calypso Avenue was a wet fest. It took some minutes but seemed to last forever. We were soaked beyond soaked, drenched beyond recognition. Dirty water splashed off the golf tires onto our clothes and into our eyes. It was getting dark out and the cart headlight was merely a faint reminder of what visibility meant. As we took off, the headlight snagged the new priest as he was heading from his Jeep to the chapel. It wasn't clear what we were seeing or what he was doing, as he disappeared after only a few seconds. Even in the storm, the new priest appeared to look dapper. He was wearing a black cassock with a black cape that snapped wildly in the wind. On his head he wore a wide-brimmed black cap and around his neck, just like his predecessor, the headlight caught a shiny cross that seemed to hold its own light. To me, in the dark, the new priest looked like Zorro. To Livinia, he looked like nothing because she was more concerned with the length of rebar. It was rattling and sliding under the cart window and she had to hold onto the piece with two hands just to keep it from sliding out. At one point, she asked me, "What's this spike for?"

"Ballast," I told her, but she knew I wasn't being honest.

The wind and the rain were starting to tear pieces out of the landscape. The wind was groaning in anticipation of the banshee shrieks that would come later. It got to the point we couldn't hear each other gripe. Occasionally, leaves came sailing by, sticking to the cart window like beach stickers and we heard branches snapping in their limbs. We heard that and then we heard other sounds like acorns and pinecones banging off the cart roof. And there was rain, so much rain. Water started to roll down the street, loitering in low spots, pooling together where the terrain was level like on the sidewalks in front of the stores. From what I could tell, it seemed like the Island was one long canoe starting to take on water and Hurricane Flora was still a day away.

When we appeared at Lucy's front door like steamy apparitions rising from the earth, Livinia holding the short rebar by her side, me, the eight foot lance upright like a soldier, I could see she was happy beyond happy to have us but Chip wasn't.

"Is that Aquaman and his wench?" he asked disdainfully.

"Glad to see you too."

"I bet you're glad. I bet you're glad as hell."

"Calm down!" I said. "It's what it is." Chip's face was rock solid and pale, his lips locked together in their usual conspiracy. His demeanor wasn't hard to gauge behind his shades but I didn't need his attitude today. Chip halted his rocker and threw me the bird. This one missed by sixty degrees.

Lucy handed us towels to dry off. She said she had clothes that would fit Livinia more than enough, but Livinia brought spares in a bag. I had spares in the closet. When we changed and reclined uneasily on the couch, I chanced another look at Chip. As usual, he was brooding, his rocker rocking again at a fierce gallop. As it careened back and forth, it dawned on me that no matter how much gas he gave it, would ever give it, the rocker was always going to tilt towards an unsteady retreat. The faster he pedaled, the greater the emotional surrender. Sometimes I didn't know what was eating at him. This time it was easy. He didn't like being without Gloria. She was at the gym, setting up makeshift beds and organizing supplies for tomorrow's encampment. Chip wanted her to himself. He knew he'd never win that battle. And he continued whining about the new priest. "That guy didn't show again. What's with that guy?"

Lucy, sitting on the second couch was chatting with Harold, explaining to him how she had gone earlier to the new priest's apartment to bring him supper but the new priest wasn't in. "Don't be so suspicious, dear," she said to the empty space. She kept squeezing her apron as she talked and banged her heels continuously on the rug. She wore no slippers and her ruddy feet looked purple red. "Stop saying that." she scolded Harold, "He's not wasting my time!" Then she turned abruptly towards the rocker and said, "And please, don't call that gentleman 'that guy' He's a man of the cloth and deserves some respect."

"So do you," Chip said. "I don't care what you cook, he got no right to have you cook for nothing."

"It's not for nothing," I shot back. "She's being paid."

"Coolie wages at best."

"Don't worry. I saw the priest at the church. He'll get here."

"Not the point. It's hard enough she's cooking for three."

"Three?

Yeah, you, me and... him." Chip pointed towards the vacant spot next to Lucy. "We even have a place set out."

"I know. I live here too."

"Marginally."

"Boys, please. It's fine. Don't upset your father."

I looked hard at Chip. Chip looked hard at nothing. We both knew we had to shut up. And so we did and dedicated ourselves to behaving for the balance of the night. We ate Lucy's dinner. Even she totally couldn't deconstruct macaroni and cheese though the cheese was seared, the rolls burnt, the cake black and she had dribbled some Chianti on the tablecloth. Harold wasn't complaining though, and that made the evening work.

Livinia tried to read a magazine. Chip went to his room after the cake was dished and left untouched. Lucy went into the kitchen to set aside food for the new priest and then sent me back into the storm with a bagful of cold Mac and Cheese, some burnt rolls, and a hard piece of blackened sponge cake she was pleased to call _Madeleine_. I banged on his door, the same door I banged on not too long ago, the same one that Brett chose not to answer. I thought it odd no one answered. Maybe the new priest was still at the rectory, or maybe he was smart. He knew what was being sent over. I left the bag by the front door and left fast.

That night Livinia and I chose to sleep on the two couches in case the priest attempted to violate one of the doors. But we couldn't sleep because the couches were hard as iron depending on what part of the body was where. We also couldn't sleep because we couldn't. Instead, we whispered about our plan of action which amounted to pretty much nothing. Lucy's apartment, like each in the barracks, had a door in the kitchen leading to the back where the garages were. And of course there was the front door with its porch and concrete steps. The back door was locked shut and the front door, a sturdy six paneled wood door was going nowhere. If those fools who came for Brett couldn't bust it in, neither could the priest. The Island phones were out. We decided if I could get over to the school in the morning, I'd break the bad news to Martin and hope he'd have better luck than me in tracking him down.

Through the night, as Hurricane Flora intensified and set her sights on making landfall, the rain became unmanageable and I could hear the wind whistling down the back alley. Pulling apart the front curtains in the early morning, I could see the Sound creeping over Calypso in a series of wavelets that portended rougher surf later in the day. A small oak lay across part of the sidewalk, upended at its root. A few shrubs rolled by and some plantings, liberated from their containers, cartwheeled towards Bottoms Up Harbor. Broken branches, some small, some formidable, littered the street. A long piece of copper gutter banged against the barrack next door. A roof shingle glided to a stop against the steps of another barrack. A rocking chair was capsized on a lawn. Porch lights swung like piñatas waiting to be busted. Visibility was poor but not impossible.

When I peered through the window to the alleyway in back, there was still no Jeep. I guessed the new priest had put it in his garage. The rain beat furiously on the panes of glass. The wind was relentless. Trees limbs tore helplessly at the brick facade. At one point, I told Livinia I should head over to the school. "There's safety in numbers," I said.

However, Chip overheard me and told me not to be, "such a bitch," meaning he wasn't going no matter what.

I then told him it would be better for Lucy and then he said, "Take her and Harold and Livinia and clear out." Then I tried another way. I confided in him that it wasn't safe on the Island and it wasn't necessarily the hurricane that I was worried about. After that he told me to, "Shove it!" And for that matter, "Jacobs could shove it too!" so I had to give up on any repatriation with the Geese at the school, and I had to give up taking him into my confidence.

At exactly 10:00 A.M., the alarms went off at the firehouse. They were tremendous blasts. If you weren't at the school, it was the last warning till the hurricane rolled in. A few minutes later, the three ambulances slowly drove by like a processional, their own sirens wailing a clear reminder to any slacker that now was your last chance. They were heading east, down the Island one final time, just in case.

Lucy said, "Harold wants to stay," and I said, "So does Chip so there's no sense doing anything." Livinia urged me to try again and I told her there was no point. "I come from a family of jackasses," I said, so that was that.

By early evening, I was becoming stultified. I couldn't think of a better word: _Stultified_. And I couldn't wait any longer. I had to get over to the gym. Livinia pleaded with me not to leave, to wait till it was over. But I couldn't be persuaded. "I'll be back in a flash. We can't sit and do nothing," I said.

Livinia was steady but on the verge of tears. "I thought you said that nothing's sometimes better than something?"

"Not in this case," I said. Then I went and put on my green slicker, the large spare I owned, kissed Livinia, who wouldn't kiss back, took my rebars and went out into the rain. The wind was super severe and the wind drove the rain and hurt like pebbles in the face when I peeped my eyes up from under my baseball cap. The golf cart was safe in the alleyway but the front seats were full of leaves. Small branches were stacked on the roof like a campfire. I brushed off the seat and wiped away the branches, put my long rebar back in position, placed the short rebar next to me on the other seat and was gone. As I was leaving, I noticed the wet bag of food still out on the stoop. I figured the new priest spent the night at the chapel and would be in the gym now putting his consoling ways to good use. He had big teeth and a white smile and would certainly be a fan favorite after their last priest.

The golf cart was shaking in the wind like a roller coaster. It was a short ride to the school and the headlights made it clear that the best path wouldn't be the straightest, just like in Ogilvie's dream. Debris littered the alleyway and, back up on Calypso, debris lay all over the street. It'd be impossible for a small vehicle to get by. Maybe a pickup or a truck could smash through. The golf cart was thin enough so if I was careful I could navigate around the branches and high water. It was the wind that was problematic. It was blowing through the cart and lifting it into the air. My bulk kept it from takeoff, but it was listing to the right and I had to lean to the left to keep things almost level.

There was still plenty of light left in the day, but it felt like midnight. The weak beam from the cart was just enough to get me past Bottoms Up Harbor and around to the school. Though the buildings and sheds remained fairly intact - just some shingles blown off the roofs - the harbor itself was in bad shape. The foaming water line surged above the ferry dock, fell back, and surged again, and pieces of planking were torn away from the wood jetties. The _Warner Bee_ banged hard against its mooring. I couldn't understand why they didn't dock it on the mainland. I didn't understand a lot of things. Wave after black wave boiled in, scuttling the ferry parking lot, retreated then rose again. Soon the water would pass the lot and reach the street.

The school sat on a little hillock and its parking spaces were still clear enough. I stopped the cart right in front of the gym. Through the pummeling rain, I could see through a window of the safety glass door how packed the place was. The Geese were not taking their confinement lying down. They were milling about like windup robots spinning around every which way, sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups and cans of soda and bottles of water. There was a lot of cigarette smoke curling high to the rafters.

I knocked at the door but no one paid attention. I saw lots of mouths moving. I knocked harder and then saw Gloria who saw me standing outside in my slick green slicker and let me in. "How's everyone?" she asked. "How's my Chip?"

"Your Chip's great. They're all great and safe." I ripped off my slicker and was given a towel by one of the technicians. They all wore bright, yellow armbands to indicate their status. I was offered a cup of coffee but took a can of Pepsi instead. "Where's Constable Martin? I've got to speak to the constable."

Gloria pointed to a corner. Martin was sitting in a plastic chair. He wore his uniform, but had no gun. I wish he had. Gloria said, "Good luck," and left to make tea."

Constable Martin saw me approach and got up to meet me half way. "How are you, Raney," he asked, and then realizing I was alone said, "What are you doing here, where's your family?"

"They're all fine, but we got a bad problem."

Martin tugged at his bushy beard. He seemed tired and beat. In looking up at me, his eyes narrowed and he studied me through swollen, pink lids. "We sure do have a problem. We're in the direct path of the hurricane. The reports aren't encouraging. The hurricane's moving fast. We're supposed to get hit later in the evening."

"I understand all this but..."

"There's lines down as I'm sure you know, mostly phone lines. We still got power for now anyway. School's got backup generators so we're all right."

"I know that but..."

"Can't get through to the mainland, so it's up to us. We'll be safe. Who knows what'll happen later on."

"No, that's not what I mean. I got worse news than that?" I was trying to make him focus. He always had trouble focusing. He was a good man but he wasn't the multi-tasking sort like Smitts. "Father Jacobs is back," I whispered, not wanting any rubberneckers listening in.

"Back where? In Connecticut? New York?"

"Constable, he's on the Island."

Martin's eyes exploded. The pink lids slipped behind the new craters." He can't be. He was captured in Juarez."

"Says you and who else?"

What the hell does he want?" wheezed Martin.

"Your guess is as good as mine." And just to be sure Martin was with me, I produced the damp letter from my back pocket. He watched as I jabbed with my finger at the postmark and the four words and the two symbols of the eyes.

"Good God, he's here for you. He came back for you."

"Well, what are we going to do? This isn't good."

Martin thought a long second. "You have to go back, bring your family and..."

"Livinia's there too."

"Go back and bring them all here. It's the only way. All the ambulances are at the firehouse. I thought it better that way. I can't call them back."

"Okay, I'll go now. I'll do that."

"Go quickly. Don't know how long we'll have power across the Island. I can't say I expect it to be much longer."

A sudden thought hit me as I looked around. "Hey, where's that new priest?"

"I don't know, haven't had much time to think about him but now that you mention it..." Martin again stroked at his beard with his little hands. "He promised to be here with his parishioners. Said he'd be here last night."

"You think he might be back in the chapel?"

"Can't say, but if he is that's not good."

"I know. It's not safe for him there. Can I..."

Martin sensed where the conversation was heading and cut me off. "I got my squad car out back but I can't leave the gym and can't give it you in case something goes down."

"There's only two things going down," I said, coiling in anger, "the hurricane and possibly me."

"Sorry you feel that way, Raney. But, it can't be helped."

"I rather you'd be less sorry and more helpful," I said loudly, reminding him of the gravity of the moment by pointing a useless finger right down at his eyeball.

Martin wasn't put off by my daft posturing. He knew my ways and knew I wasn't being aggressive, just scared. "Raney go. You better hurry. I can't do anything about anything until the storm passes. But you know you'll all be safe here."

"I'll go check on the priest. He's got a Jeep. If he's there, we can make it back with everyone aboard." Resigned to my fate, I put my wet slicker over my wet shirt, waved to no one in particular and went back out into the rising fury of the storm.

The whole plan was unreasonable, but the only one I had. Martin had to do what he had to do. So did I. I navigated the little cart with extreme care. The roadways were almost impassable. Big branches and now bigger limbs were flying every which way. Phone wires were down and roof antennas were down and the lone Island traffic light by the post office swung like a trapeze artist. Many of the electric poles had lost their vertical composure and their lines dipped dangerously close to the sidewalk. The rain was torrential and slanting down in punishing bucketfuls. The village storefronts appeared to pucker in then out like they were drowning, like the very wood shingles and plywood boards that kept them together were drawing their last, splintered breaths.

I didn't see the Jeep but that didn't matter. It could have been parked anywhere as I could hardly see anything anyway. Outside, the small chapel was a wreck. Inside, most of the stain-glassed windows had been shattered and were lying in big colored slivers along the pews. Water gushed from the window spaces down the side walls and tracked deep into the room when caught by the severe drafts. Water also leaked from the roof and dripped from the crossbeams. The wind had scattered papers, Bibles and the big candleholders into every corner.

I went further into the room just to make sure the new priest had left. He hadn't. He was hanging by his neck from a hook at the back of the altar where the big cross used to be. His tongue was slit in half like a snake's and stuck severely out his bloody mouth. It looked odd sandwiched between his big teeth. His hands were tied together with a scarlet cincture, the same kind used to hang him from the hook. The new priest's eyes were open wide and were staring blankly at the far wall, near the front door where I was standing. I bolted over and hoisted his legs onto my shoulders and carefully lifted his limp body off the hook. He fell in a heap to the floor. I felt nothing about this and felt bad that I felt that way. I left him there. I had one thought only. The old priest had taken the Jeep and may be somewhere he shouldn't be, couldn't be. I ripped the white wet altar cloth off the altar and draped it over the new priest. The center of it was embroidered with complex stitches that formed a cross. The stitching made points at each of the cross ends. It made the cross look like sharpened spears. It made me think of the rebars in the golf cart.

My ride back to the barracks was treacherous. The wind, being at my back, tortured the little cart forward and then sideways. I had to throw the long rebar to the street just so I could keep both hands on the wheel. The other rebar rolled next to me on the passenger seat floor. That piece was going to be a keeper.

The rain pelted the cart roof, slashing down from every direction. My baseball cap blew off my head and flew away like a seagull. The puddles on Calypso were like roiling lakes. I drove through them creating big wakes as I passed. I was amazed the electric poles were still holding. They looked old and fragile and I sensed their time was coming. My mind was blazing with nothing good. The new priest was dead, the old priest alive. It was a nightmare and at the heart was expediency. "Faster! Faster! Faster!" I chanted out loud. Brett's limericks flashed through my mind, Brett's poise and Brett's humor. I also considered his instinct for survival, some of which I needed now.

At one point, as I was about to reach the barracks, a giant gust of wind reached under the cart roof and picked up the cart like a toy just enough to tip the whole thing over and send me flying onto the flooded street headfirst. I lay there, stunned, but knew there wasn't time to ponder the damage. I had to get on my feet. I tasted blood in my mouth, felt some pain, acknowledged the bruises and welts in the making. Reaching over to right the cart, I saw my worst fear appear in the headlights just down the road. The Jeep was parked right in front of Lucy's apartment. I righted the golf cart, left it where it was, picked up my short weapon which had bounced out of the cart and rolled nowhere. And ran! And ran! And ran! I sprang over the stoop in one giant leap and landed on the porch. There was no sound but the driving wind and the torrential rain. The sky wasn't black yet but iron grey.

The front door was closed. The thin shades had been drawn. I could see the silhouettes of people inside, but they weren't moving around. I didn't hear any sounds. No one was speaking. The ceiling light in the living room was on. Pausing, I considered how to do this. A bust in or a sneak in? A frontal assault or a measured creep? Slowly, like the proverbial thief in the night, I squeezed the rebar, slowly pushed opened the door into the living room and knew in a flash that the game was over and my only recourse was none of the above. My only recourse was surrender.

#  42

The priest was standing behind one of the couches with Jameson's gun aimed at Lucy's face. He was wet in his big black clothes and had a towel wrapped around his neck like a prizefighter. He looked too at peace with himself. Chip sat next to Lucy on his silent rocker. His thin lips were trembling. I couldn't tell if he was planning to say something or to just sink back in abject fear. Lucy was whispering a question to someone close by on the couch. She smiled when she got her answer. On the opposite couch sat Livinia staring up at me, tense, pale, terror in her eyes. She had her fingers tightly folded together like in prayer. The priest was smiling too. "Where've you been, Raney?" he asked in a mild tone, taking sinister delight in his victory. He knew he had won, whatever that winning meant to him. He was enjoying the game. "We've been waiting. You're a bad boy, leaving these good people alone."

I wiped the damp from my face with my left hand, while I tightened my grip on the rebar with my right. "Let them go," I begged. "It's me you want. They've done nothing to you." Whiny, dumbass clichés. It was all I could think of.

"Come away from the door," The priest said, waving at the couch with his gun. "Put your puny sword down and sit next to Miss Grover. You make a divine couple, HaHaHa! Flora's Adam and Eve. Charming really."

I sat next to Livinia and kept my eyes on the priest, hoping for a second when he'd let down his guard. I needed to buy time. "Help me understand what you're trying to accomplish."

"Didn't you like my little epistolaries? I do get to the point. An eye for an eye! Wonderful. I should write a book."

"How about you write your obituary," I whispered through clamped teeth. "None of what you did makes any sense."

"Now, now. Don't upset the ladies. I'm here to _fix_ you and fixing you will fix the Island."

I appealed, but knew it was useless. "Please, don't do this."

"Why not? You're one of the final pieces."

"To what?"

"To uniting the Island under God's province."

"Why did you hurt all those people?"

The priest shushed me with his gun, bringing the barrel to his lips and then pointing it back down at Lucy. I stopped talking. "Everyone that passed was given passage, except for an imperfect few. It was ordained."

"By who? By what? That's not what I see," I said, trying to stay in control. My teeth were chattering now. I tasted more blood in my mouth. "You just like killing like that priest you killed."

"I thought that's where you strayed. Spreading the gospel and spinning the gospel aren't the same. He told hurtful lies." The priest began shaking with rage. He unwrapped his towel and hurled it at my face. "Fool! Don't you understand how he made me feel? He'd come to destroy everything I worked to achieve."

"And so you tortured him, split his tongue?"

The priest smirked, smacking his lips, relishing his conquest. "God appreciates drama."

God appreciates love. No one appreciates what you've done,"

"I did and God does too. It's the artistry of the just. Justice."

"Blind justice at most, you cruel bastard," I said, unable to temper my fury.

"And you'll get a firsthand taste. Anyway, I thought it would be right up your...your driving lane. Right? Score! HaHaHa!"

"Be reasonable. Let's talk about this outside?"

"Good try. I think not. The crushed pumpkins, the dead porcupine desecrating the desecration by that Jezebel at the factory. Oh how clean, it's much cleaner now. Don't you think? And now this storm to wipe the filthy remnants to sea."

I emitted a long groan. I stopped. I thought of making a move toward the gun. Livinia quickly grabbed my hand and squeezed. She knew what I had in mind. The priest looked at me, then looked at Livinia with scorn. He knew too. "If you move even a muscle, I'll shoot everyone dead in this room. And then I'll pluck your eyes out just the same, so all will be for naught. We do prefer ritual above all else, do we not? I know your intentions."

"You know less than nothing."

"Such vituperations. Better this: 'With one sacrifice he has made perfect forever those who are made holy.' I didn't see clearly until the owl came to its pole like it must and I found myself with a shotgun in my hands like I must. It was a sign. And then I knew. The sister twins in balance, and Mary Angeli, her fingers excised. I ask you, what right do such talented fingers have on a harlot? They had to be removed."

"You're a priest for God's sake." I cried. "You don't have the..."

The priest interrupted, swirling the gun around like a magic wand. "Don't get sanctimonious with me. Your spirited defense motivated me to shoot the owl. Jameson, too, with his revenge motif. Kill the owl and all will be well. I should kill him next, blow his brains out. To prove how wrong he was about the temper of God, to prove to how wrong you are about the modern temper. Such simpletons. You both know nothing. The owl's death was the beginning of contrition not the end. You think your little trinket had historical significance? In God's eyes, it's blasphemy. To carry on so, you'd think that filthy piece of wampum was actually a thing of value. Only devotion has value, ritual. The Island's timeless. You're its largest benefactor but you're not in balance. Two brothers out of synch. Cain and Abel. HaHaHa! Chip deserves to take a crack at you for what you did."

"Leave Raney alone," Chip screamed, leaning forward from the rocker. "Get out of my home. Now!"

"Balance, good brothers, balance. Your imperfections will be made perfect."

"Was Perricone imperfect? He couldn't be anything but what he was," I pleaded. "He was innocent. No one deserves this."

"Nobody's innocent. Perricone was saved from his imperfections. The Island has to stand for something. Calderone was saved and Blackstone was saved."

"Blackstone's alive," I said bitterly.

He's been restored, unlike your friend. What a sad case. All those drugs."

Shep was an addict. He needed help."

"And I gave it, but does it matter, really? The final choice was splendid. And then we come to Lucius Brett"

I laughed harshly, taking any victory at hand. "You killed Shep, but Brett wasn't fooled. He's alive. He got away."

The priest seemed shocked by the revelation but kept to his confession. "A pity. There'll be a reckoning, of course. Lucius wouldn't abide by the rules. His own brethren were too feeble-minded to destroy him when they could. I was there. Unfortunately, I'm not as fleet-footed as I was in my youth."

"Tough luck, padre."

"But still excellent drama. The hatchet in the bus, the infirmary burglary, the phone calls, the burning vestry. I blew it up but I singed my hands by mistake. The leering raccoon came as a shock. I didn't see it at first. I accidentally leaned forward into the hot tank with my hands. Doctor Talbot figured it out. She knew. If I had more time, there'd be a corrective. However, this is all beside the point, don't you think?"

"It doesn't matter what I think," I said, trying to take another tack. "You're not leaving this Island either way. I told Constable Martin. It's over Jacobs, you're done!"

"HaHaHa!" The priest laughed again then abruptly stopped, clamping his jaws sharply together. He seemed suddenly lost in a thought. Slowly a dangerous, predatory smile found its way to his face. The smile was clear, unambiguous. Somewhere in his warped brain, a decision had been reached. "No, Mister Raney Tables, rather you're done," he said in an almost breathless whisper. And then from a pocket somewhere deep in his cassock, he withdrew a scalpel with the hand not pointing the gun.

Livinia and I gasped in horror.

"It's time for Livinia to take center stage," the priest said, cutting wild incisions in the air with his tight little blade. "I can't be at all places at all times. Mrs. Tables, why don't you hurry into the kitchen and bring back some food. I'm famished. And you my darling Eve, why don't you let lover boy roll out on the couch here so we can proceed? I so wish the doctor was available. There would be less blood, I'm sure."

Livinia looked at me in total panic. I looked back, an unanswerable question forming on my lips. She couldn't do it and I knew she couldn't do it and I knew I wouldn't let her do it and I knew I'd rather die then put her in that place. Lucy went to the kitchen. I knew she'd be back with last night's dessert. Livinia and I kept looking at each other. We hardly breathed. The rebar piece lay at my feet.

The priest said, "Hurry now, it's past time for the unveiling." Then he hesitated, tilted his head dog-like, listening for something. "It seems our hurricane's arrived." Then, as if on cue, a sharp gust of wind rocked the barracks, shaking the ceiling light on and off. The flickering lasted only seconds but the lines held. The thrust of the storm was getting close. The rain was pelting the roof hard and there were noises of things breaking and things falling down outside. The old windows were rattling in their frames.

The priest didn't seem perturbed by the hurricane in the least. He welcomed it with distinct adoration and when I thought about it in the scant moments I had left to think about anything, I realized this was why he was here. It seemed preposterous. He was here not primarily for my eyes, but to witness first hand, the fruits of his arrangements. He was here to witness the end of all days and the beginning of a new order on the Island. I was now positive he never planned on leaving and that thought was the worst thought of all. He had nothing to lose. I was just another marker on the path to salvation. If he could make things right with my brother, balance out our deficits, it would connote one of the last pieces of his demented puzzle. The priest rubbed the stem of the scalpel up and down with his thumb. In his other hand was the gun, lazing in his stubby fingers, pointed somewhere in our general direction. He was waiting impatiently to eat. He wouldn't start directing his excavations until he had eaten. The priest was true to form even now, even when our lives were at stake.

Livinia was frozen like a statue. She didn't move a muscle, she couldn't. She had been asked to do something so heinous that her whole system was in revolt and when a system revolts it shuts down. The lights started flickering again, the living room blacked out then the lights flooded back on when the flickers passed. Lucy returned with a plate full of _Madeleines_. Chip made fists with his hands. I wasn't sure what he meant or what he was going to do. I told him to stay put.

The priest laughed again. "Yes, stay put, Chip, HaHaHa! Balance will come." He stopped talking a moment to consider. "I had so wanted to carve your eyes out at the chapel, Raney. It would have been much more appropriate."

"You're a moron, you moron! Chip said, only his lips seeming to move. His thin hands were still balled up into fists.

Lucy put the _Madeleines_ on the end table next to the couch. The priest put the scalpel back in his cassock, grabbed a cake right up and asked her to sit back down next to her husband. Lucy smiled, told Harold it would be all right, offered him one. He chose not to accept. Outside, the hurricane continued to pound away, flattening the Island, smashing it to pieces. It came in ripples, short steady undulations. First, unbearable sounds then quickly followed up by an intolerable silence, then the sounds returned once more. I heard glass breaking somewhere in the next apartment. I thought I heard sirens but knew that was impossible. The maniac studied the cake in his free hand. He gulped hard in loving anticipation. He thought food was food. Then he stuffed a whole piece into his mouth and immediately began choking. It must have been like swallowing a brick. I was ready. I could feel it. Every muscle in my body was braced for attack. If he just could point that gun somewhere else for one second, I'd make the best move of my career. Outside the hurricane raged on and I could just make out through the curtains a big-branched oak bending hard, about to topple onto a swaying power line. A fraction later, there was a sharp sizzle and the room suddenly went dark.

I grabbed the rebar propped at my feet and leaped from the couch into the inglorious darkness. I had only seconds before the priest's eyes adjusted, seconds to aim the rebar square in the middle of the incandescent cross around his neck. However, I didn't count on the gun. It had looked like such a small thing, like a toy in his large hands. He sensed I'd be coming, and even as the little cake throttled his throat, he fired twice. He was fast, faster than I thought, and as he clucked and coughed and choked up the burnt sludge, he fired again.

The first two bullets missed and penetrated the far wall by the door but the third bullet was true and I felt my left arm go numb. Still, I was stuck in forward motion with nowhere else to go, and as the bullet passed through the muscle, I gave up on the glowing cross, extending my right arm so as to push the rebar into any ample piece of flesh at the center of the choking noise behind the couch.

The priest had stepped back when he fired, and my good arm, held back by my bad, bottomed out when I thrust. I felt the rebar penetrate deep into something like jelly. The priest shrieked and I heard him collapse onto the floor. But not before I withdrew the rebar and flew back in front of Livinia.

When Chip heard the gunshots, he yelled out my name. "Raaanneeeyyyy!"

"I'm O.K.," I cried, shrugging off the brutal sting. "Grab mom!" Despite his flaws, Chip's instincts were always on high alert. I heard him spring from his rocker and reach for Lucy on the couch. She wasn't hard to find because she kept asking Harold, "Who turned off the lights?"

Then I heard Chip grunt and then heard him half-drag, half-roll Lucy safely into the kitchen. He was, after all, the only one with night vision. Finally, I heard the back door open and heard him yell, "Ogilvie's!" And they were gone.

#  43

When Livinia heard the gunshots, heard me recoil in agony, she lowered herself to her knees and rolled me on my back. Then, with as much help as I could give, she lifted me off the floor. My shoulder felt like fire and I couldn't move my arm. I leaned my full weight on her almost knocking us over as we made our way to the front door. Behind the couch, we heard the priest rumbling, twisting in a pain I hoped compatible with mine. He was still choking on the loaf he had scarfed, the burnt dough coating his throat like dry cement. Then I saw the priest put a big hand on the couch top attempting to rise. He still had the gun.

We hurried onto the porch and then down the steps wrapped tight in each other's arms. The hurricane suddenly seemed not too bad. It had stopped raining and the wind had calmed down into bearable gusts. There was even a gob of pasty sunlight spilt out just above the airport's hanger. I looked at Livinia. She looked back in sudden surprise. "It's the eye. My God, we're in the middle of the eye," she said.

We hobbled down the street to the golf cart like two kids in a three-legged race, she propping me, me propping up my bad arm with my good. The cart had tipped back sideways but from my vantage, it looked serviceable enough. We tilted it upright, Livinia pushing with both hands, me using my one good shoulder. My slicker was a mix of blood and water. I didn't feel dizzy till I saw the blood trailing down my fingers and onto the destroyed street. Livinia got behind the wheel.

"Turn the key to _Forward_ ," I slurred, my head spinning, my shoulder throbbing.

As we tore off at little more than a snail's pace in a golf cart build for safety, not speed, Livinia turned and saw the Jeep lights flash on. The priest was already behind the wheel and coming after us. "Hold on!" Livinia ordered and made a sudden U-turn around a batch of broken branches and housing debris. It was like an obstacle course. Water lapped at the golf cart six inches deep.

"What are you doing?" I hollered.

"I can't lead him to the school, not when he has the gun."

It was a slow creep down Calypso. There was dreck and rubble impeding our path every inch of the way. Power poles were down, their wires mangled and shooting off sparks. Mounds of damp Carnamount sand spread out along Calypso. Some of the tall trees had toppled down, a few on the barracks, more along the sidewalk. A deer lay half-submerged in the middle of the road, its guts pooling in the curdling water.

When we reached the village green, we circled around towards Deep Harbor and points east. The green itself looked like a flooded marshland and water purled and trickled about as if hidden founts had suddenly been released to the surface. The storefronts and small offices were ripped to shreds, but remained in play. I could only guess at the damage inside. I already knew about the chapel. I leaned back high in the cart seat, my shoulder intensely throbbing and still leaking blood, but less now than before, and looked out past the chapel roof at the bruised sky. For brief seconds maybe, I saw more stabs of dim sunlight angling down but they soon blanked out again. "The eye's done." I mumbled, but Livinia didn't hear me or didn't bother.

We were making our way to the guard station past Deep Harbor but it was tough busting through. The water jockeyed over the piers and was deeper here than by the barracks. I hoped the cart wouldn't conk out as we drifted down the road because the tires barely making contact. I wondered if we still had diesel. Some debris was floating in little eddies on Calypso. I told Livinia to be careful. We didn't want to be sucked in. But she already knew and told me not to talk, conserve my energy. And then it began to rain again and the treacherous gusts began to kick back in. Twice Livinia stopped the cart to clear away branches. I had lost enough blood that I was better suited to stay like a huge paperweight to keep the cart from drifting away. I began feeling listless. The pain came in pulses now, like constant injections and withdrawals by a long, sharp needle. "Where we going?" I said weakly.

Livinia shrugged, water gushing from her dark hair. "We're just going till we can't. So shut the hell up!"

We were inching up to where the guard station used to be. Not only was the structure gone but the foundation too. Large pieces spread out in some of the brush alongside the road but most of it had sailed north into portions of the Race. As we fled east, the elevation rose just more than slightly, just enough that there was less water juicing the road. There was still problems with the branches, but the cart allowed us safe passage if we crept along.

The rain came on heavy now, blasting from the darkened sky like shotgun spray, and painfully looped in onto the back of our heads. The temperature was getting colder and I could see goose bumps forming on Livinia's bare arms. I thought they were from the dampness, but I could've been wrong. Maybe I had lost too much blood. I felt very cold myself. Then the wind came shooting in again and the golf cart rocked unsteadily from side to side on the verge of tipping over. Of course there was that and the threat of being lifted into the dense jungle of trees and creepers that outlined Calypso. If that happened, we'd never get the cart to right itself. Not now, not in the growing darkness, not with me listless and useless, not with Livinia wet and chilled to the bone.

It wasn't long before we could hardly go on. We drove past estate after estate, all sealed up with plywood. Brooding, black fortresses seated at the bottom of long landscaped driveways. We were approaching Barton's Hill and we had to decide. Livinia slammed on the brake and put the cart in _Neutral_. She wanted the decision made. We saw the beam of light from the Jeep piercing the rain coming from far behind but coming closer nevertheless. I thought about his bloody thigh and the blood he may have lost. I thought about the gun. He couldn't have been hurt that bad. And now here he was a football field behind and closing fast.

The wind was blowing fierce and vicious. We could hardly stand up straight, but we knew where we had to go. We struggled from cart and ran half-crooked like we had broken backs straight into the throat of the storm and straight down the path to Rosabella Beach. We couldn't go up the hill. We'd never make it to the bunkers and knew we'd be knocked over before we got five feet. But downhill was a thrill ride, a gravy train of mud and sand and so we closed our eyes and slid down to the beach. The wind sliced us and the sand lashed at our bare skin. I banged my forehead on a sharp piece of driftwood that had gotten lodged in the brush. Even with the wind and the water, I could feel blood dripping from the wound. Later on, it would become an indelible mark.

As we reached bottom, we could barely open our eyes as the remaining sand would rush in and leave us blind. The wide, beautiful beach was gone. The high, black waves rolled with thunderous conviction and beat mercilessly at our knees. Further up and down the water line the surf hungrily chewed on the sea grasses and Rosa rugosas and all the FLITCO plantings, threatening to undermine the entire stretch of roadway above. Then we made out the Jeep's headlights flashing overhead as it approached the golf cart, so we moved the other way, struggling at a laggard's pace back towards Deep Harbor and the town. The priest couldn't make a three point turn in the Jeep and his wound would make it hard for him to follow us anywhere.

There wasn't much of a lane for us on the beach. I didn't know if we were making progress or regressing. The fast moving water crested high up into the dunes and we kept falling back into the waves as it ebbed. The salt water sent shivers of pain down my arm. The water was unrelenting like being caught in a flash flood. We _were_ in a flash flood. We were both frightened about being carried out to sea so we held onto each as we crawled, picked each other up and crawled some more. I was becoming light-headed and saw in the distance what I was sure was stars but they were just the pinholes of a mind starting to sink into unconscious. I fought it. I was at one time a star athlete. I remembered that. That had to count for something. Livinia must have seen me backslide and beginning to fade again. I heard her scream, "No!" and felt her slap my face hard. It was a strong slap, brilliant and loving, but she needn't have bothered. The constant slap of wind and the water were doing their job and slowly, as we willed ourselves west, I felt my head clear just enough to keep from drowning. I was sure the bleeding had all about ceased. It was a clean wound, the bullet going in and coming out of the muscle right below the shoulder blade.

It seemed like an eternity that we struggled forward. Despite it all, I marveled at Livinia's will. I couldn't have survived without her and knew I wouldn't have wanted to. Often the wind tossed us back against a solvent bank of wet dune. There we'd huddle - I could feel her hot pant on my cheek - wait for a lull, and then inch on. Through that process, mostly crawling on all fours, accepting that we were quarry and that to stop meant surrender and to surrender meant to die, we somehow found the curve in Rosabella's hip and crawled on towards the light. Not the light of the Jeep's headlights mind you, which we couldn't see from so far down below, but the light of the only house on the Island that had any lights on at all, Harvey Angeli's English Country House. Flooded with lights from the backup generators, flooded with light from the ritual of remorse and the temperament of duty, the aggrieved husband's lights was like a massive lighthouse beacon and we headed for it because it was all we could see and all that seemed to exist in the world.

Hurricane Flora was at its peak of deconstruction. The Island was being blasted to smithereens but _Smithereens_ is a hard idea to wrap one's head around because sometimes the resulting specks manage to hold together. Like now on Rosabella Beach when all our perceptible senses had been pummeled, blasted into bright specks of smithereens, and yet we still held it together, still were held together just enough because we were still faithfully holding on to each other for dear life.

After what seemed like forever but wasn't, but what still was a long hard time, Livinia and I managed to half-wade half-crawl to where I had once recalled Angeli's ocean approach ought to have been. In its place there was a shallow non-descript groove up the remaining dune, but there was no existing beach path left. That didn't matter. Like I said, there was no beach either. The elements had carried away the fancy latticework and the little wooden steps and what was left in its place was a crude indentation with just enough of a tenuous groove to allow an exhausted hand and a foot to take hold without it falling apart. I weakly climbed the faulty embankment with one good arm. I stretched my frame as complete as possible then Livinia climbed over me like a broken ladder then she helped pull me up and I stretched again and she climbed over me again and through that process we escaladed up until we reached the rolling back lawn. Water poured down the great expanse like a waterfall and the rain and the wind punished the giant estate from every possible angle. The thatched roof of the cottage was torn away and the giant swimming pool cover was ripped off exposing the mermaid who seemed to be reveling in the storm. There was smashed debris everywhere and everything looked beat and battered, but everywhere we looked, things held.

On hands and knees we ascended up to the river of lawn looking for sanctuary. Everything was bright. The estate was burning bright. We could see into every corner and everything was plain as day, crisp and clear as the hurricane raged all around. The generators were jackhammer loud and whirred through the torrents and tremors deep in the belly of the basement. Dozens of blazing black lamps lined the stone walls of the manor house. We saw rows of glowing lampposts stretching from the driveway north to Calypso. Buried up lights seemed to set every blowing sycamore and beech on fire. There were gleaming chandeliers rocking furiously on the estate's giant back porch. Large brass sconces illumined the out buildings - the pool house, the two carriage houses, the cottage, bunkhouse and eight car garage. The tennis courts, too, were lit with spotlights and seemed ready for play. Even the massive window and glass doors, tightly fitted with plywood, were outlined in a pearly glow. We dragged ourselves towards the back of the manor house. While I lay in a rangy stupor on the bluestone patio, the same patio where Mary Angeli sat in her chaise lounge and first thought of seducing Franklyn Perricone so many years ago, Livinia tried the door but it wouldn't budge. Then she tried to ply a piece of plywood off of a corner window. It was nailed in place and the force of the wind made it tough to grab an edge.

The slashing rain was starting to ease up and blew with a force far less than a gusher. My bruised forehead hurt and my left arm throbbed but the pain had let up enough for me to realize that if we were going to survive the night we needed to gain access and hide out until the hurricane receded. If the priest was still alive and had not slipped and broke his neck and had not bled out like a pig and had not accidentally shot himself, then he was going to attempt to fulfill his mission one way or another. Would he arrive at the same conclusion as we did and head for the miraculous lights of the Angeli estate or would he conclude Livinia and I doubled back into town and were now safe and dry in the school gym? The priest was evil, but he wasn't dumb.

Livinia pulled me to my feet and we wedged our fingers into the space under the plywood. We remained speechless. We knew what had to be done. Talk would just get in the way. The generator engines were loud in our ears. I had only one useful arm but being tall enabled me to find the sweet spot under the window trim where there were no nails because whoever closed up the house couldn't reach as high. We pulled and pulled and the wind came in and pulled with us until the plywood fell away from the house, missed decapitating us by inches, and sailed off towards the tennis court. The lights in the house were stunningly bright after the blanket of darkness. The window was a massive double hung and wasn't locked. We opened it with ease, slipped in then closed it. Inside the master bathroom, Livinia removed our clothing and dried us off. Then she found an emergency kit and cleaned and bandaged my shoulder and forehead. In the closet, we found replacements and redressed. Her white bathrobe fit fine, but my grey sweatpants and sweatshirt fit like infant wear on a gorilla. There were sheepskin moccasins for her, and I went and found myself a pair of wool socks in the master bedroom. Livinia slipped them on. Then she went back and cleverly made a sling from the shower curtain.

As I led us down a hallway to where I thought the big kitchen was, we passed a large, gold-framed mirror. Peering into it I was sure I didn't recognize the two weakened warriors that peered back. They both looked ragged and disheveled. They both looked wizened, worn out and beat up. In their outfits, they both looked like what they'd look like in fifty years. The faces in the mirror were full of despair. But there was no time for passing judgment. Livinia took a hard look and couldn't look anymore. Finally, she spoke, breaking the silence. "There's no time to indulge," was what she said.

"I'm hungry," was what I said back when I was done staring.

The kitchen was blindingly bright. It was immense and lustrous and full of everything that a cook could possibly want. Everything was stainless steel and copper and white ceramic and it looked so bright and polished it gave us an immediate sense of relief because it seemed to illuminate our hopes. When we opened the refrigerator door things got even better. We pulled out everything there was to eat which wasn't much but it didn't matter. There was a plate of sliced ham and tongue wrapped in cellophane. There was an opened jar of kosher dill pickles and another jar of Kalamata olives. A big piece of seeded Italian loaf lined a corner. Livinia opened a drawer above the freezer and found a wedge of Camembert and a piece of old provolone. In the freezer itself, there was a quart of Breyer's ice cream, vanilla, and an open bottle of Absolut. We took it out and each had a swig. Livinia gave a hopeful smile. Her smile and that vodka was the smoothest thing I ever swallowed.

We ate with passion, beyond passion. We ate everything quickly, the whole loaf and all the Breyer's too, and drank some more vodka. We looked silly but we didn't care and giggled like children as we picked seeds and crumbs off one another. "Let's go the basement," I said. "Maybe there's something we can use to defend ourselves."

"Let's go to sleep," said Livinia. "Let's go to a bedroom and fall asleep."

"When this is all over we'll sleep for days."

"When this is over we'll sleep for years."

"Hardly that," I said. Before going I grabbed an eight-inch carving knife from the wooden block next to the stove and laid it in the sling alongside my arm. There was no other place to put it. Then with my good hand I grabbed Livinia's warm hand and went back into the hallway and then down the giant staircase at the end that led to the basement. I'd been given free rein as a child over two decades ago and I gave myself free rein now. Back then I was awed by the estate but frightened to explore the strange rooms because of what I might find. Not today...we had to hurry. I remembered where we needed to go and I wanted to get there now. There were too many rooms, private places, "too many nooks and crannies," I told Livinia.

She was tipsy from drinking the vodka. "I think there's too many crooks and nannies," she said back and laughed. I laughed too.

Just then we heard glass smashing somewhere upstairs and a big door slammed shut. We both flinched. Livinia let out a little yip of sober surprise and then squeezed my hand tight. "It's just the wind," I said with mechanical reassurance.

"You know it's not," she whispered in dread. "It's _him_."

We looked into each other's eyes looking for comfort. "It's all fine," I said. "How can he get us if he can't find us?" I felt the knife's edge along my elbow. I silently led Livinia to the one room I felt we could make a last stand, the rumpus room. The generators beat on loudly. They weren't too far away. We tiptoed. It was the only time in my life I tiptoed. The rumpus room was the only room that I recalled all too well. I pointed to the back wall by the long bar, the same bar where I first spied the cannonball. Then I closed the door shut as careful as I could. Reaching to shut off the light switch, Livinia violently shook her head sideways. She was right. It'd be a dead giveaway, one dark room in a house of light.

I swiftly moved towards the bar but before I got there I grabbed a billiard cue off the rack on the wall. Now I had two weapons to his one. Maybe he had lost the gun in the hurricane. Maybe there were no more bullets left. Maybe he was seriously hurt and was on the way out. I knew I had to assume the worst. In either case, he'd have a long way to go if he even found us. We'd be separated by two pool tables, two ping-pong tables and various pinball machines. There was large jukebox next to the bar and an upright piano as well. He would also be limping which gave me vantage if all else failed. If it was a matter of hand-to-hand combat, the priest would be dead. But still he might have the gun. I heard his footsteps plodding about upstairs, but it sounded more like something heavy being dragged around. He was checking all the rooms one by one and would eventually find our clothes in the master bathroom and the remains of our feast in the kitchen. Then I heard him say in the room above our heads, in a very loud but deeply muffled bray, "We can make this easy or make this hard, Raney. It's your choice."

Livinia put her fingers to her lips, pointed to the bar and signaled we should take cover behind it. Her hand was shaking. I came close and whispered in her ear, "But we'd be cornered."

"There's nothing else we could do," she whispered back. "If he still has the gun you can't confront him."

I thought a moment. "This isn't how I wanted it to end," I said. We staggered over behind the bar to take cover, whatever cover meant now. I turned to Livinia and kissed her passionately on the mouth. I wanted her to always know.

She returned the kiss hard and then began to sob. "Maybe he won't find us. Maybe he'll just go away."

I softly stroked her hair and then reached under the bathrobe, making soft circles with my good hand up and down her spine. "Look, I can hide somewhere and if he comes in, I'll surprise him."

Livinia stared up at me, an appeal for reason flashed in her damp eyes. "What if he comes in shooting?"

"Livinia, don't give up. Everything'll be all right."

"What will you do?" And then the words, "I love you, Raney, so much. So so much."

I looked down at Livinia in deepest adoration and the last three years flashed before me in an instant. This is the woman I always loved, yearned for so incessantly for so long. There were nights I thought I'd break before daybreak and die before sunrise. I wanted to take time back, to take it back and do it over and do it right without regret, without fear, without reserve. This is what I wanted, all I wanted and I knew it now and I'd known it forever. I never felt so earnest about anything in my life and I couldn't have it taken away like this. Not like this. "I feel the same way," I said. "I won't let him do it. I'll take him by surprise."

"Say it."

"It."

"Say."

"I love you Livinia."

"Again."

"I love you Livinia." I looked deep into her eyes. We kissed softly. And then we slid to the tiled floor behind the bar holding each other for dear life every inch of the way. There was nothing left to do. We were exhausted and out of ideas. Maybe Livinia was right. Maybe he wouldn't find us, I thought. But I knew I couldn't pretend and make up stories anymore. I knew the priest could and I knew he would.

It wasn't long before we heard the doorknob creak in the jamb and then the door opened and peering out behind the corner of the bar I spied him at the entrance, completely filling up the space. "To the manor born, hey children," he said with a weary laugh, flourishing the gun in our general direction. He looked completely waterlogged and totally insane. His cassock was ripped along the arm and chest and the cincture he'd been wearing was tightly wrapped about his left thigh. He was bent over, not quite doubled but at a definite angle and he appeared be in excruciating pain. He breathed heavy and little puffs of mist ejected from his nostrils like a horse. "You don't make it easy, do you?" He was gasping for air. "I thought I'd find you here. One always heads towards the light." The priest then laughed, gurgled blood, studied the room, seemingly impressed by the layout. I saw he was thinking, agreeing with himself about something. "That billiard table would make a fine O.R. table. Come on out Raney."

The priest pushed himself away from the door, staggered briefly then flailed the gun before him for balance not provocation. It didn't work. He fell back hard against the jamb and tried again with just enough success that he no longer needed support. To me, he looked like a punch-drunk heavyweight on his last legs. It was then that I realized it was over, truly truly over, and I had no choice. With no hesitation, I stood up tall and straight from my fetal crouch. "I'm not letting you do this," I said.

The priest wheezed, "Would you rather another bullet?"

"More than what you have in mind."

"Come closer," the priest murmured, drawing a wobbly bead on my chest. "I'm taking them whether you're dead or alive." Blood dribbled from his lips. His arm was shaking fiercely.

"Please NO!" Livinia suddenly cried out, and stood up as well, exposing herself to the danger of a weapon wielded by an unsteady hand. Now we were two targets instead of one.

"Well then, you both leave me no choice."

"Just do it!" I screamed. I threw down the billiard cue and took out the knife from its sheath. I held it tight in my good hand as I began to move forward. "Go ahead! Pull the damn trigger! I don't care anymore."

The priest smirked, then cocked the gun, trying to take aim. He fired and missed. The bar mirror exploded, glass crashing, bottles bursting all around Livinia.

"Go on! Go on!" I started to run. "Shoot! I screamed again, trying to take cover. I ducked around the jukebox, hesitated, then jumped on a billiard table. I was almost half way there. I knew more shots would come but I knew with one more giant's step and a leap I could reach him before it was all over and hurt him bad with the knife.

"You were always the one, Raney Tables. Always the one."

I saw him take shaky aim again, closed my eyes then threw myself off the pool table, knife extended, waiting for the next bullet. Waiting. In mid air. Waiting for it to come. But there was nothing. Nothing! Where was the blast? Maybe the gun was wet. I hit the floor and opened my eyes ready to plunge the knife into his chest. But I was too late. The priest lay crumpled before me. By his bleeding skull lay an historic cannonball shot off by Captain William Kidd centuries ago. He was still conscious but was moaning and unable to get up. Over him stood Harvey Angeli, smirking with grim satisfaction.

"Thanks, kid," he said. "Thanks for bringing him back alive."

Livinia and I were in a state of shock. She ran to me and hugged me hard. I dropped the knife. With my good arm, I hugged her back. "I knew he'd come back to the Island," explained Angeli. "I was waiting for him to make his move. These jokers always make a move. Been watching you for a while now, always sneaking around my property, but I never figured it be you who'd bait him on."

"Mister Angeli..." I couldn't speak. I was so choked up not another word came out.

"Always the silent type, hey kid? I always liked that about you. And such a big kid for such a big kid. Still have my cannonball? Ha! Glad I gave ya only one. Didn't wanna have to waste a bullet on this mutt. I got plans. You both look cute in your new clothes. Ever think of modeling? Don't. It's a lousy business. My Mary would be so proud." Angeli paused, assessing the situation. His yellow eyes gleamed under the light. "I got some work to do now. Don't ask. You don't want to know. You won't be seeing him no more. Ever."

Angeli looked the same except he looked smaller than I remembered. He had lost most his hair and looked pale and razor thin. For whatever reason, he was wearing a black wetsuit and his hands were covered with long rubber gloves. Along with his thin mustache and big ears, he looked like a giant black rat. Next to him on the floor was an open gym bag full of tools. I couldn't make out everything but I knew a hacksaw when I saw one. And I knew a ball peen hammer too. A bundle of thick rope was attached to the bag's grip by a bungee cord.

"The hurricane's almost blown over," Angeli said. "Wasn't as bad as them idiot's made it out. I don't want you two hanging around here no more. Go get your arm fixed. Go back upstairs, help yourself to whatever you want. But don't hang around. The garage is unlocked. Inside there's plenty of wheels. Take anyone you like. The keys are in 'em. But you borrowed it, see, and never saw me here ever. You unnastand? And by tomorrow I'll be gone and you never saw me. Unnastand that too." It wasn't a question he was asking. He knew we had no choice but to understand.

Livinia and I shook our heads anyway, still flabbergasted, still in shock, still unable to speak.

"Great workin' with you kids. Go get hitched. Have lots of little monsters."

We never saw Angeli or the priest again. Outside, on the way to the garage, right through the steady blitz of the generators and the pelting rain and the whipping wind, we heard someone crying out in the most wretched agony I ever heard in my life. We didn't care. We forced ourselves not to. We remembered we were in _Shock_. At least that's what we each said to ourselves. In the garage, it was a no-brainer. We picked out the Bronco II SUV and Livinia rode it like hell all the way back to town.

#  44

I refuse to pass judgment on my behavior during this last episode that preceded our flight from Flora's Island later that summer. And I hope you suspend judgment as well. We'll let the wind and the waves dominate the moral implications, and we'll let the passage of time serve as our resource as historian and friend.

Now that I'm living with Livinia, it's the beginning not the end I'm most concerned about. We live in Hartford. I'm back in college getting a degree, training to be an English teacher and Livinia's got a solid job in the local library. Life couldn't be better. I wear my new college sweatshirt with pride. We plan on marrying next year, and raise a family. I plan on walking with Lucy down the aisle. Chip will be my best man, whether he likes it or not, and Ogilvie will walk Doc down the aisle and then give Livinia away. I crave for things to come out right like the chapbook I'm still attempting to complete. I work half-heartedly when I work at it at all, but I know I'll get it done. At times, one has to put things into a proper perspective or there'll be no moving on.

Livinia and I never saw the priest again and, as expected, we never saw or heard from Harvey Angeli again. He put his estate up for sale that fall and the property was sold before the year was out. There was no formal investigation. Even Constable Martin turns a blind eye to the subject of the priest whenever his name comes up. And as far as the new priest, he was the one casualty of Hurricane Flora. His neck was broken in a tragic fall and his body was marred by the shattered glass windows. Doc concurred with the findings and may have had a hand in the final determination. Who knows? Who tells? Like I said earlier, _If you're really here, you have a history, so shut up!_ And so we do. We all do. We still do.

Only a small circle of Geese even know that the priest had snuck back on the Island and they continue to remain mum on the subject. The fact that Julia Beck still speaks of the miscreant priest in inventive terms suggests that there's been a winding down. And the fact that there've been no fatalities or serious injuries since the hurricane is a healthy sign if ever there was one. It's a relief that the priest has now passed into Island folklore. No one needs to know the ugly truth. Even my bullet wound was part of the cover up. A branch had been torn from a tree during the worst part of the hurricane and embedded itself in my shoulder. Doc says it was true and so it was.

The only remnant I carry from that day is the mark on my forehead. It's a reminder and reminds me of only two things: shut up and be grateful. I'm not a messenger and I've no valuable messages to impart. Any life lessons I've learned I'll weave into my lesson plans and share with my future students. The other truth is more pertinent. I bet on the wrong artifact. It wasn't the wampum it was the cannonball all along. Sassacus's tribute belt didn't hold up. The iron dewdrop did. It took me years to understand that I really had it right all along, that the historical significance of anything echoing down time's alleyway was nothing compared to its application in the moment. What good was the wampum belt? Lucius could just as easily have stolen my old cannonball instead. I never got rid of it. It sat there all along, serving as a paperweight sitting on my tabletop keeping my few papers and bills in order.

I always said it was the _intent_ of history that counted, not the _content_. Like the hatchet, the cannonball's value lay in what it finally did rather than what it finally was. With a little imagination, anything's possible. The wampum belt may have served to expedite Sassacus's demise, but there's no guarantee to that or any other speculations. The piece of wampum I discovered may not even have been Sassacus's after all. Who knows? Yet, one cannonball certainly had a hand in my brother's blindness and another cannonball saved two lives. The intent of history is no coincidence, but I hedge my bets and stop short of determining that there's a direct link between Captain Kidd's target practice and all the lives the cannonballs impacted. The connection, if there is any, is certainly not going to be found on any straight continuum. Good luck to that.

Hurricane Flora had been like a nightmare and though its ragged remnants retired to Nova Scotia, it still lingered in every which way. The Island had been pulverized but it could've been worse. The Geese had been left fairly homeless and would be without power for over two weeks but what we endured since autumn of last year made us impervious to that kind of insipid travail. After all, it could have been worse. A hurricane was merely an act of nature. The priest's misdeeds might have been an act of God. But who knows. Now that the nightmare was over, we could pick up the broken pieces of our lives and go home. But where exactly was home? We had wakened to an empty Island blown out of the water with no benefactors in sight but what we could see right in front of us and no support systems in place but that which existed in the exclusive toughness out of which we all were bred. If there were grave consequences to such a paucity of options, there were also great opportunities for a different kind of recovery. Unfortunately, it didn't take us too long to realize that we are who we are and after the Island recovered, the Geese went back to being Geese and to the business at hand, the overt servitude which is all they've ever known. In other words, life returned to _Abnormal_.

If you expected a series of revelations, forget it. If you expected a new social order, look elsewhere. Leaving the Island with Livinia is the only news bulletin I've got left in my arsenal. But what happened the day Doc returned to Flora's was something else altogether. When Doc stepped off the _Warner Bee_ and saw Livinia a little worse for wear and me wearing a vinyl sling and a bandage wrapped around my head, she began to shake and shiver and had to be helped into the borrowed SUV. After Doc had calmed down, she invited Livinia and me to drive her to her office right away. She said she wanted to look at my shoulder and my forehead. She also said she wanted to examine Livinia's cuts and bruises. But what she really wanted to do was so much more. Hurricane Flora had damaged the Island badly but had damaged Doc's resolve to keep herself emotionally distant from her two favorite constituents. She had spent decades bottling up a secret, resealing it whenever it started to loosen and relabeling it whenever the secret bubbled out. If we were a little more perceptive, what she kept hidden would have been obvious.

Doc sat us down in front of her desk and then sat on the desktop. "What I'm about to tell you is just between us, do you understand?" She waited for a reply but she had waited over thirty years for this moment and couldn't wait another second. Doc paused, making sure her flashing eyes were captured by our own in rapt attention. And then she sighed, teardrops beginning to flood her face, her lips fluttering uncontrollably and what she had wanted to say, what she had been prepared to say, what she had braced herself to say over the course of the last few days, remained unsayable.

"It's O.K. Maria, Livinia comforted. Just go ahead and say it." And so prompted as she was by the only prompt that held any deep significance to her, she did.

"I was a young and foolish woman," Doc sighed. "When I was left with my new baby girl and no husband, I realized the prospects of us making it were slim. Joseph's announcement came as the shock of a lifetime. There was to be no more money. He had supported me all through medical school to this point and said he was done with it. I had taken a semester off to give birth and I wasn't in the mindset to raise a child alone. My parents had divorced years ago, my mother wasn't alive and my father wasn't available. Joseph made it clear he couldn't, wouldn't support a girlfriend and a family all at the same time, so we got the short end of the stick." Doc sighed again, wrestling with her emotions to get her thoughts straight. Then she took four deep breaths. "Girl and boy, please don't look at me this way. I feel guilty enough. It was selfish of me, I know. But I was crazy, out of my head."

"It wasn't your fault the baby died," Livinia said. "You said the infant had congestive heart failure. You said there wasn't anything to be done."

"It was my fault, my darling, I didn't have to pretend."

"Pretend what?" I asked. And then the awful truth.

"Pretend that the baby had died. She didn't." And then looking straight at Livinia. "Livinia, this is so hard for me. Help me. Forgive me... please!"

Livinia's arms were folded together. She herself began breathing extra hard, trying to digest what we both suddenly realized was about to come next.

"I had a close friend who had a friend whose own child had recently died. The couple was looking to adopt."

"Stop talking," Livinia pleaded. "I don't want to hear anymore." I put my arm around Livinia and held her firm. Her shaking was uncontrollable.

"Let me finish, my darling, my dear girl. You know where this is going. Let it go there. I can't let this make believe fester any longer. I gave up my baby girl. I thought I had to. I thought she would have a better life with a loving couple who had means and were so keen to have a child of their own. I thought it would be the best thing for everyone."

"Please, don't say anymore... don't talk anymore." Livinia began sobbing into her hands. Her dark hair spilled down over her face and hands.

"Darling daughter, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I was without any means, I was a stained woman with no dignity left. To be emotionally bankrupt and to raise a child in such dire circumstances. That wouldn't be fair to you."

"Maria, please..."

"Call me mother."

"Maria, please."

"Call me whatever you want. I didn't have the wherewithal to carry it all. I'm so sorry, Livinia. Oh baby girl. I'm so so sorry."

Crazy as it appears, Doc had monitored Livinia's growth and development from a distance. Only her friend knew the truth and reported to Doc as often as special occasions warranted. Doc finished medical school and started a practice but couldn't bare the close proximity to a spiritual schism that couldn't be bridged. Doc never wanted to be spared the pain of what she did but never wanted to be spared the details either. Moving to Flora's Island was like moving to another planet. It never soothed her sorrow but allowed for a break from the constant ache of her loss. Yet, there was constant contact via her friend's letters. When Livinia's faux mother died and when Doc discovered that Livinia and her husband had split up, she pulled a Flora and brought Livinia to the Island. So much for coincidence.

Doc had never wanted to reveal the truth. She was content just to have Livinia close to her, a close friend and confidante, but every once in a while there'd be slippage and Doc would say or do something that seemed over protective or over consuming and would have to walk back the words or behavior, masking it in language that made Doc appear merely eccentric. Sometimes a clue was just that, a clue, but it was a non-starter like the picture frame on Doc's desk. After all, the two women had ended up being close friends so no one thought to make anything more of it.

I thought it disingenuous that Doc had been tracking Livinia for so many years waiting, praying for such an opportunity to deliver Livinia into her maternal embrace. She never wanted to tell but she wanted to tell. Deep in her soul, she wanted Livinia to know. But look who's talking. I wanted you to know everything, too, right from the start. Anyway, I've turned the corner.

One fall day, not too long after the hurricane and not to long after visiting Lucy and Chip and then having dinner with Nate and Tillie who had decided to stay on the Island (Ogilvie remained the principal and from what I hear was doing a bang up job,) I took a stroll down memory lane on Rosabella Beach. The beach was absolutely empty and clean and shell-less like a giant rake had been passed over the sand. The wind was mild and the waves were quiet, it being low tide and all, and the white surf gave off nothing more than a whisper of emissions as they broke modestly along the shore.

Being fall, the birds were beginning to migrate south. At one point, I saw a squad of geese in flight and heard their series of shrill honks which were like appealing dispatches telling me all was right with the world. A year ago there was an owl and a shotgun blast and more ominous warnings.

It was a fine day, a perfect, yellow, sunny day, and a swath of clouds were coming in from the west heading over towards Orient Point and points southeast. The clouds were cumulus clouds and they were lined with typical cumulus silver. The clouds reminded me of when I was young in that it was just these type of clouds that looked, if you'd let yourself give in, like something more than honest clouds.

Normally, when in this frame of mind, I would see faces in the clouds, all kinds of strange, distorted features became apparent in the shifting masks: big eyes and large ears, twisted lips and diminutive brows, it didn't matter. Often, the faces I pieced together were grotesque, a mockery of the human form, but sometimes the faces could be human and appealing and gentle and kind.

Then, too, many of the clouds would remind me of a procession of animals on some kind of animal junket like camels and dogs and horses and whales and then sometimes as my thoughts turned practical, things like trains and swings and food like apples and burgers and slices of pie would also sail by. I was perfectly content with this carnival of droll transgressions. It felt perfectly safe and perfectly normal. I was a kid then. It was what kids were supposed to do: unload, engineer, daydream, be elsewhere in manufactured time and space. As a spectator sport there was no downside. I was the one who determined the parameters of the affair. The gates of heaven were sprung open and the illimitable power of the imagination was on full display.

This afternoon was different, however, a sort of monumental breakthrough. Sitting on a log on the beach, my legs kicked out, my toes deep into sand, I felt no penchant for ruminating. Though I was sitting on the same log that Louie used to sit on, looking out at the same vista that first drew my attention to the tall Indian that had first looked back at me, I felt no urge to ruminate.

And then I looked up at the passing clouds, trying to remember, trying to feel, trying to reach back and grab hold, and what I saw reminded me of nothing but clouds. Nothing but rich, beautiful, clouds.

And as they were clouds, the clouds were more than enough.

#  Acknowledgments

My children, my closest friends, are my best critics. I acknowledge their support and constructive criticism and recognize that it's an ongoing event.

Fishers Island, where we lived for a bit, is a wonderful place with wonderful people, too good not to tamper with in a creative fashion. It's not a top ten destination and costs an arm and a leg to visit. On some level, the remote nature of the Island is its most attractive feature and I miss it. Any similarities between Flora's Island and Fishers Island were purely coincidental except for the topography, which was too appropriate to pass up.

No one, living or dead, reminds me of anybody on Fishers Island, but I did draw some character traits from a few lost souls on the mainland. But that, in itself, is another story.

#  About the Author

David Seerman was a teacher and an educational consultant for thirty-five years. He has written some stuff, some of it published, but nothing like this first novel. Susan and David have six children; five are still here and one is in a better place. He likes playing in dirt and staring at the world and fully acknowledges that the world returns the favor if you pay careful attention. He lives in East Quogue, New York, with his wife and no pets.

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