Scott
The church in Robson’s village is beautiful—all bright whitewashed lines and wooden benches worn soft from years of faithful attendees. It’s more welcoming than the sombre heaviness of the one back home with all its gloomy Presbyterian stone. Scott closes his eyes and waits for the calm that sometimes comes to him when he sits in those pews. But the air is different here: the ozone smell of earth, the thick scent of the lush vegetation. The sounds are strange too: the coo of a hidden dove, the barking of a dog; a sudden burst of children’s laughter from the school across the open space of the village, a tight knit of harmonies as women sing in the distance.
Back when she still spoke about Dylan, Michelle told him once that she could feel him near her—his hand in hers, his weight leaning against her. Scott has never felt that. Still, he tries: “Hey, buddy. Can you believe this place? It’s wild, huh?” The air shifts around him, and Scott holds himself still, hopeful. Is he here? Everything on this island is so alien to him that it feels possible. “Are you there, bud? I miss you.”
There’s no answer.
It was Michelle who wanted a house with a pool; Scott had just seen work, expense, an inability to sell the house down the road. They would never use it, he said. They’d find drowned raccoons floating in it. But Michelle described hosting pool parties and barbecues with tropical drinks. She imagined them at the centre of a small neighbourhood universe. And she was right. They strung lights across the backyard and had those parties, fruity drinks in hand, imagining island paradises that were nothing at all like Iparei; they even swam naked together more than once, when the kids were in bed.
Neither of them thought the pool was a danger. There was a fence around the backyard and motion-detecting lights. They made sure the gate to the yard was always latched, and taught the kids to check it as well. And there were plenty of rules: the kids weren’t allowed to be out by the pool alone; they all took swimming lessons. They did everything they were supposed to.
Ten kids a day die by drowning in backyard swimming pools; that’s three thousand deaths a year. He came across that statistic while trying to figure out how he had let it happen.
The weather was hot for May and the pool sparked, as Astrid would say. He’d been skimming the pool, even though Zach was supposed to come down and do it. It was just him and the boys at home.
Dylan leaned over the pool, already in his swim trunks and his hockey hoodie, his fingers dragging in the cold water, his legs goose-pimpled.
“How’s the temperature?” Scott asked, putting the skimmer away.
“Cold. Really cold.” Dylan shivered with pleasure.
Then the phone rang, and Scott thought about letting it go to voicemail. One of a million tiny, seemingly inconsequential decisions he made that morning. If only he’d let the machine pick it up. If only. If only.
“Come on, bud.” Scott jokingly snapped his fingers, pointing at the sliding door to the kitchen, but Dylan ignored him. “Dylan!” he shouted, his tone sharper than he’d intended. “You can’t be out here on your own. You know the rules.”
Those were his last words to his son. You know the rules.
Dylan shot him an overly dramatic glare, all furrowed eyebrows and turned-down lips, but then followed him inside. Scott dawdled just long enough to see Dylan smile at the ridiculous face he pulled and then lean against the sliding door. It slid a little and he stumbled some before righting himself.
Scott answered the phone and walked with it into the living room. It was a telemarketer. Someone selling some damn credit card. He should have hung up as soon as he heard what they were selling, but he always tried to be polite. That was who he was talking to while his son drowned.
After he hung up, he went back to the kitchen, but Dylan wasn’t there. He didn’t think anything of it at the time; Dylan could have been in the bathroom or gone upstairs.
Scott stood in the doorway, looking into yard, squinting against the blinding light. He couldn’t put it together. The red-and-black shape at the bottom of the pool. Why had Dylan thrown his hockey sweater in the water? Scott’s brain ticked slowly. There was something he wasn’t grasping. The way the sweater hung at the bottom of the pool—and then his body was jolted through with understanding.
He doesn’t remember running to the edge of the pool, doesn’t remember flinging himself into it. He only remembers being in the water with the heavy drag of his son’s body in his arms, struggling to keep Dylan’s head above the surface. He heaved them both onto the scrape of concrete that encircled the pool, and he was pumping his son’s chest. He didn’t care if he broke his ribs. He needed his son’s heart to beat. He needed his lungs to fill with air.
Every second was an eternity, fracturing into fragments. Every one of them taking him further away from Dylan, and Dylan further from him. He yelled for Zach to call for help. He had to keep Dylan alive. Dylan couldn’t die, not on a sunny day in his own backyard. It was impossible that Dylan’s chest wasn’t moving under his father’s hands; impossible he wasn’t sticking out his tongue and laughing.
There had been no splash. No shriek. Nothing. Scott opens his eyes and studies the heavy wooden cross hanging on the whitewashed wall. When he closes his eyes again, the cross hangs dark in his vision.
He doesn’t know how long he has been sitting like that when he becomes aware of voices outside the church. They are speaking a language he doesn’t recognize but the tone is irritated enough to make him uncomfortable. He hears Jacob’s name just as Robson and David reach the threshold of the church, Robson trying to steer David inside.
Scott stands and is about to make his presence known when Robson spots him and calls out: “Hello, Scott Stewart!” His voice booms off the walls, and his hands are already grasping Scott’s and pumping before Scott even has a chance to correct him that Stewart is Michelle’s name, not his. Robson pants heavily, his large chest heaving, his smile wide. There is sweat on his forehead. David looks away.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, I just wanted to…” Scott gestures around the church, meaning quiet, meaning sanctuary.
Robson smiles broadly. “Of course. You want to see our plaque! The photograph of our grandfathers.” He moves to the wall to the right of the altar and beckons Scott to join him in front of a brass plaque, the kind found in churches everywhere, it seems.
In memory of Reverend and Mrs. William Stewart,
who died bringing God’s light to these shores.
Commemorated on this day, August 26, 1999.
“I had it made when I became the rector of our church,” Robson says. “And these are our great-grandfathers,” he adds, singling out two men in the framed photograph next to the plaque.
It is a picture of a building not unlike the one they’re in. Both are small, single-storey whitewashed structures, though the one in the photograph is made of wood. The setting in the photograph is different, the jungle pushing closer to the church, which looks out of place, as though it has been dropped from the sky, whole cloth, from a back road in Ontario.
“This photo was taken during the Second World War. You can see the first church we had on Iparei, built fifty years after your people were here,” David says, speaking for the first time. “It was destroyed a long time ago, but our village was built where it once stood.”
Now Scott can see the shape of the cove. A few narrow canoes rest on the shore. And in front of the building, the two men are in a small group of people, some wearing piecemeal European clothing along with what must be traditional garb. Scott wonders who took the photograph, but David is pointing at one of the men.
“That is my great-grandfather,” he says. “He worked very hard to bring the church to this place.”
“And that is mine,” says Robson, reaching across and pointing to the other man. Scott searches for resemblances, but the image is a faded blur, the soft texture of the paper making it difficult to pick out details. “We continue the work they started, to build the future they wanted for us, and we want for our children too.” He spreads his arms to indicate all that has been accomplished, all that is yet to come.
“What must they think of us now?” David asks quietly, checking his phone. “I should go.”
“I’ll head back with you,” Scott offers.
“No, no!” Robson pleads. “Let me show you around my place now.”
Scott glances between the two men and then nods, uncertain who to refuse, who he might offend. He knows he interrupted something between them that can’t be discussed now, not in his presence. Something to do with Jacob, he thinks, remembering the earlier conversation he had with David about the difficulties of sons.
“I’ll see you later then,” David says to him, and then pauses as though he’s about to say more, before making his departure.
Robson gestures for Scott to sit.
Scott does as he is told, expecting Robson to sit as well; instead, he steps towards the front of the church and takes his place behind the pulpit. “This is what has grown from the seeds that your family first planted. They brought us the stories of Jesus and His Father in Heaven, and we have cultivated them to become our own. And despite all the difficulties, for that we will always be grateful.”
“They weren’t my people,” Scott says, clarifying, wanting to distance himself. “The Stewarts; they were my wife’s family.”
“Wives make us family,” Robson says with a small shrug.
The wind moves through the eaves of the church.
“Are you married?” Scott asks.
“Of course. I’ve been married a long, long time.” Robson exaggerates the words, making the word long sound comical. “We have three daughters and two sons, and we are waiting on a second grandchild.”
“Congratulations.” And then, after a beat: “It’s not easy, huh? Being married as long as we have.”
Robson laughs again, an open rolling sound that Scott finds comforting, finds himself joining in, despite everything. “No, it is not easy. She is always telling me that I talk too much and should listen more. She thinks I am too hard on my sons and not hard enough on my daughters. But what does it matter what we fight about? We are one, in the eyes of God. We made promises to each other. We love each other.”
Scott grimaces slightly at this. “Sometimes it feels like other people made those promises. Things happen in a marriage, to people, that change them. For better or worse.” He laughs bitterly. “Maybe sometimes better means going our separate ways.”
Robson comes down from the pulpit and sits in the pew in front of Scott, angles his body towards him. “It’s easy to make promises when we believe they won’t be hard to keep.”
The two men sit quietly. The singing in the distance has stopped. Scott is about to speak when the voices pick up again.
Robson wipes his brow. “They are rehearsing for the ceremony tomorrow.”
“The ceremony,” Scott repeats. “I have to admit, I’m not really sure I understand what the ceremony is about. It was ages ago, and if anyone was in the wrong, it was clearly Michelle’s family. Maybe it’s best to just let the past lie. Just move on.”
Robson cocks his head, taking him in, and Scott feels his face redden. “The past is a road that connects us,” Robson explains, drawing lines between them in the air. “Us to our ancestors, to our descendants. You and I. You to them.” Robson must notice his confused expression. “The exchanges that were made between your ancestors and mine bonded them—the food they shared, the knowledge. Those obligations still bind us together now. We are stronger because we are bound together.” Robson pauses. “Those bonds came at a cost. There was so much fear and anger, so little understanding. Many of our people died from the illness that came with your people, and yours were killed.”
“But that’s what I mean,” Scott interrupts. “If William hadn’t come, your people wouldn’t have been killed. We’re the ones who should be asking for forgiveness, not you.”
Robson shakes his head again. “It is not about forgiveness. Jesus preaches forgiveness, and it is good to forgive. But forgiveness is only part of the work. We must repair the road that was broken. Then we can begin to move forward, together. When we honour our obligations we are stronger.”
“It’s so different than how we do things. We just want to assign the blame, and move on.”
“Does that work?”
“Not really.”
They grow quiet and listen to the distant sound of the women’s voices until their complex harmony is suddenly submerged by the chaos of children’s voices.
“School’s out,” Robson says, standing. Scott follows him out of the church.
Across the neat green lawn that sits in the centre of Robson’s village, children of various ages stream from a small, corrugated building out into the sun, all wearing matching polo shirts. Among them is a lanky white man, dreaded hair bleached by the sun. He greets Robson with a word Scott doesn’t recognize and Robson claps him on the shoulder.
“Ah, you remember Noah,” he says to Scott. “He lives here and teaches in the school. Sometimes he speaks in the church, though I do not think you will have time to come to a sermon.”
“No,” Scott agrees, and shakes Noah’s hand. “How long have you lived here?”
“Oh, not even a year.” Noah has an Australian accent, his words flat as a becalmed sea. “I asked my church back home to send me, and pitched up here. Robson took me in, made me part of the family.”
“See, it is like I was telling you,” Robson explains. “Each person has a place in the web. My son is someone else’s cousin, someone else’s grandson.” He interlaces his fingers, spreads them out, interlaces them differently. “Knowing how we are connected to each other tells us everything we need, determines who we are to each other. So when someone comes to live with us, to be a part of our community, we make them family, by adoption. Not like your adoption, though sometimes that happens too. Still, Noah is my son, as I am his father. I take care of him now, and later he will take care of me.”
Robson moves his hand back and forth between himself and Scott. “We are like family, in a way. That is what the road between us means, and why it’s important that we rebuild it. Tomorrow isn’t an ending to what went on before—it’s a new beginning.”
The sun presses down on Scott’s shoulders as he walks back to David’s village. It makes him light-headed and sway slightly. He thinks about all that Robson has said, about repairing roads, making amends. About obligations. And family. He can’t help but conclude that his is probably not the kind of family that Robson or David wants to be connected to.
He has tried, hasn’t he? He’s made sure that the kids are fed, that they get to school. But then he thinks of Astrid’s nightmares, of Zach wandering the streets at night. Yes, he’s made promises to Michelle; he has obligations to her, to use Robson’s words, but what more does he owe Michelle? She’s the one who hasn’t met her obligations. He is hot and sweaty and daydreaming of the coolness of the ocean, of being held by it. He is thinking of the house, the offer he has put in. Something has to change. The kids have to come first.
He is thinking of the right words to tell Michelle this when he sees Joyce hustling towards him, Astrid in tow.
“Is Zach with you?”
“Zach ran away,” Astrid says, bugging her eyes out at him. “And Mommy’s really mad.”
“He hasn’t run away, he’s just off…playing,” Joyce says.
“I haven’t seen Zach since this morning. I’m sure he’s nearby, filming or something.” But Scott is looking towards the ocean, scanning the waves, worried. “I just came from the other village.”
“David says Jacob is gone too.” Joyce tries to keep her tone calm, but there is an edge there. “I’m sure they’re together.”
“I’ll look. You stay here with Astrid in case they come back.”
He moves down to the black carved shore, scans the blue holes where they snorkelled, the farther horizon he knows is not as far away as it feels. The light on the water casts shadows like boys’ bodies floating below the surface.
The rational part of his brain tells him his son is fine, exploring the island with Jacob, like Joyce said. Zach has wandered off before and he will again. But then Scott has already lived through the impossible. His throat aches and he wants to scream and cry for how powerless he feels.
And then there he is—one of a pair of figures coming around the curve of the island. The boys, they look almost like young men from here. Zach’s laugh drifts towards Scott, boisterous and loose, and a rage rises up in him. How dare he be so goddamned selfish.
When Scott reaches his son, he pulls Zach to him, feels his body go rigid a moment in his arms before he returns the hug with a small bark of a laugh.
“Where the hell were you?” Scott asks, still clinging to his son. “You can’t just take off like that.”
Zach pulls away, his face clouded. “I was just hanging with Jacob.”
“You didn’t think to tell someone?”
“Why? It’s not like you guys care where I am.”
That’s when Scott sees the blood on Zach’s shirt, spreading across his shoulder. “What the hell happened?”
“It’s nothing. A wave caught me. That’s all.”
Scott doesn’t see it happen. It’s only when he spins around to say something to Jacob that he realizes a small crowd has gathered behind them, and it’s while he’s looking at Rebecca and a couple of other women whose names he doesn’t remember that he hears the sharp sting of it, flesh on flesh. When he turns back to Zach, Michelle is there, her hand in the air. Zach’s hand is on his cheek, red and inflamed, his eyes glinting with tears. His face begins to crumble, but he fights against it.
Zach looks back and forth between his parents before his eyes land squarely on his mother. “I wish it had been me.”