BY THE TIME James fended off Pierce, the white doctor had taken the seat right next to Mémé. Mavis glared at him, so she didn’t notice the preacher’s approach—until he gently took hold of her elbow.
“It’s time,” Hunter said, steering her to the seat on Mémé’s left.
Mavis sat down, trying to think about God without blaming Him, but the voice she heard in her head was still Joe’s. “You’re all right, Mavis.”
The flowers were perfect. Daisies, Queen Anne’s lace, and lilies; spiky wildness mingling with classy civilization. No one else knew it was Parker’s peace offering to Joe; she’d have to remember to thank him on Tuesday, when she went back to work. Maybe she could bring him some sort of gift in return? Though she had nothing to offer that could possibly match such beauty. . .
James was just closing the door when the other ferry captain ran up the steps, breathing hard; after a quick search for an empty seat, she leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the door, like she and James were bookends. Even the extra seats in the center aisle had filled, surrounding the projector—and covering up that awful dividing line. Once again, Joe had brought them all together: Narragansetts and whites, cousins and Boston lawyers, islanders and visitors.
The rustle of settling feet and readied tissues quieted, just in time for Dylan, the harbormaster’s three-year-old, to let out a shriek. Mack picked up the child, whispering something, and carried him over to the south window.
“Can I steer?” the boy replied, too loud. People chuckled, then quieted again.
The preacher bent down to whisper, “Okay to get started?”
The front wall was still blue; no photos yet. But Joe wouldn’t want to keep everyone waiting, so Mavis nodded.
The preacher strode to the front of the room.
“Thank you all for coming,” he began. “We’ve gathered together— family, friends, colleagues—to celebrate the life of Joe Borba. Even though he told his sister he didn’t want everyone ‘talking behind his back.’”
A few uncomfortable chuckles erupted. Mavis interlaced her fingers and pressed the heels of her hands together; Just talk—don’t try to be funny, she begged silently. Should they even be having a service? The last time she hadn’t listened to Joe, she’d married a bad man.
Tears leaked down Mémé’s wrinkled cheeks. Mavis’s own eyes remained dry, but she reached out to take her mother’s hand, bumping a thumb across those knuckles.
“When I first arrived here eight years ago,” the preacher continued, “Joe Borba gave me my island nickname: The Irreverend. Claimed he’d never met a more relaxed minister. Joe was a friend to anyone who called this place home, and he stood up to anyone trying to spoil it. We’ve sorely missed his guidance the past few weeks.”
Murmurs of agreement.
“The first time I heard about this place was just after the Narragansetts signed that deal with the state. Most of the quotes were bitter, so one headline in the Providence Journal stood out.” Two fingers made quotes: “‘Cooperation Island: Getting Along to Go Along.’ That nickname is one of the many reasons I washed up out here.
“Despite our many disagreements—” he waved his right hand out toward the trees “—people ashore continue to think of this place as Cooperation Island, largely because of the man we celebrate today. And his father before him, of course.” He dropped his gaze to Mémé for just a moment.
“Joe once told me he used his knowledge of the law to help people meet each other halfway. Maybe not as lucrative as fighting, but better for everyone in the long run.”
“Damn straight!” That was Sheila, Joe’s law partner. There were a few titters, and one outright chuckle from somewhere near the back.
A large photo of Joe in his first lawyer’s suit suddenly blossomed on the front wall, also illuminating the preacher’s shaggy hair. Too soon, a second photo appeared: Joe and Mavis as kids, fuzzy computer squares of color checkerboarding their matching red shirts.
Mémé’s eyes were closed, thank God.
The preacher stepped left to escape the projector’s glare. “As Joe’s life flashes by, we all need to pick up a piece of his legacy.” Next picture: Joe on a snow-covered city bridge, arms wide.
“If we each try to build a small bridge,” he said, “or even a small piece of a small bridge, maybe we can keep that spirit alive. Even as it flies out these open windows, on the way to its Maker today.”
Mémé let out a sob. A white preacher, acknowledging her gods. Maybe this was a good idea after all.
The next photo must’ve come from James. Him and Joe, both boyishly skinny, arm-in-arm on the steps of this schoolhouse. Tears welled up at last.
That photo faded into Joe’s law school graduation. Crimson cap and gown, black braid. That was Joe—a graceful mix of two cultures. Behind her, Mavis heard fresh sobs.
How are we supposed to—
Outside, an engine grumbled to life. A hundred heads turned left to look out the open windows.
Lord, not now—Owen just mowed yesterday!
The engine revs increased. Mémé frowned, eyes still closed. Her grip was so tight, Mavis’s fingertips tingled.
The preacher tried to reclaim his audience. “I’m, ah, going to ask James to say a few words. . .”
The doctor pushed out of his seat and strode to the window. “It’s that damned tractor!” He turned. “James, you’ve got to stop it, before he gets to the trees.”
Cries of anger from the islanders mixed with the confusion of lawyers and cousins.
“Please, everyone.” The preacher raised his voice. “We can’t let this stain the memory of—”
“You’re absolutely right!” James cut in, turning to address the crowd. “Joe didn’t want a service. If we’d listened, we’d be out there right now. We need to stop that machine.”
A roar of agreement. Most of the locals stood up, so Mavis did too.
James held up both hands. “Not as an angry mob—as a group of Cooperation Islanders working together to protect our land. That’s what he would want. Right?” He was asking the crowd, but looking right at Mavis; she nodded.
“Right!”
“Lead on, James!” a woman called.
“Remember, we’re acting in Joe’s name.”
James went over to the door, arm already out to push it open.
And then Pierce stepped in front of him.