A round and golden moon rolled low along the horizon for the next few days, too huge and weighty to rise up any higher into the sky. When it finally began to shed its weight and loft higher, it lost its golden hue, and the light became grayer. The air began to frost every night, and the stars to glitter more coldly, and so October came upon Phippsburg and Malaga Island. The cold snapped the tethers of the last leaves, and they fell straight down onto Phippsburg’s roads and over the gravesites of Malaga. Even the pine trees down to Thayer’s haymeadow put on their darker green and hunched their branches closer as the mornings came in colder and colder. It would not have surprised anyone to see the first flakes of snow.
Turner ran to the shore every day now, the forbidden having been silently lifted—or at least not imposed. From the granite ledges he could count twenty, sometimes more, plumes of white woodsmoke rising from the houses on the island, but each time he went, there seemed to be fewer, though the days grew colder. Slowly, little by little, souls were drifting away from the island, their own tethers snapped. And the houses, left soulless, died—windows glassless, doors hanging on single hinges, some of the clapboard already pruned.
Usually, Lizzie would be watching for him. He would wave from the top of the ledges with both his hands over his head, and she would run down to the dory, push off, and be across by the time he had climbed down. Once over on Malaga, they would go up to her house to see her granddaddy—he was always propped up on his elbows and waiting for Turner—and then they would go down to the shore until the sea breeze turned too cold for them to sit by the waves. They’d walk across the island, through the quiet green cemetery, past the foundation of the Tripp house, and then around the whole island, hardly talking, hardly needing to. Everything was as quiet as quiet could be.
If Lizzie wasn’t there waiting for him by the shore, Turner would figure her granddaddy needed her, and he would wait, hoping she might come around the turn. If she didn’t, he would walk home with his coat wrapped about him, a tang of salt in his mouth.
Back at First Congregational, folks were quiet around Turner, though Deacon Hurd had stopped him outside church the Sunday after the game. “Still can’t get a hit off my Willis’s pitching, can you, Turner?” He had laughed, then stopped suddenly and stared at Turner. “What’s that on the tip of your ear, boy?”
“On the tip of my ear?”
“Looks like yellow paint. Have you been painting anything yellow the last few days?”
“Nothing around my house needs painting,” Turner said, which was not a lie at all—sort of.
“Then what’s that on your ear?”
“It’s an old family disease that keeps coming back, no matter what I do.”
“My grandfather got it from missionary work. Somewhere in the Galápagos Islands.”
That was as out loud as an out-loud lie could be, but it was such a good one that Turner couldn’t feel too bad about using it. Especially with Deacon Hurd.
“In the Galápagos, my grandfather shouted, ‘Unclean, unclean,’ whenever someone came near him.”
Deacon Hurd backed away when Turner held out his hand to shake.
“An old family disease?” said Turner’s father after the evening service. “You told Deacon Hurd that your grandfather gave you an old family disease?”
“Well, that he might have gotten sick once while doing missionary work.”
“Your grandfather did missionary work in Iceland. I don’t think people in Iceland call out,’Unclean, unclean!’And how did you get yellow paint on the tip of your ear? No. I don’t want to know.”
Turner obliged him.
The next Sunday after services, Willis Hurd nodded to Turner as he filed out with the rest of the congregation to shake Reverend Buckminster’s hand. (No one was shaking Turner’s hand.) “Next time keep your ears out of the paint,” said Willis, and went on to the minister. Turner decided he probably didn’t hate Willis so much anymore.
Turner was still playing the organ for Mrs. Cobb on Saturday and Sunday afternoons, and hoping that Lizzie would come. He and Mrs. Cobb waited together by the back door for her. Usually, she wasn’t there, but every now and again she’d run across the backyard and up the stairs, and Mrs. Cobb would sniff and say something about being kept waiting for the only pleasure she had left to her. Then they’d process down the hall and into the parlor, and Mrs. Cobb would sit in her chair, Turner at the stool, and Lizzie on the floor against the horsehair chair, and Turner would begin.
Mrs. Cobb had taken to “Swell the Anthem, Raise the Song,” and since it had nothing in it about dying, Turner played it almost every time. All six verses. And Mrs. Cobb would sing along. All six verses. Her silvery voice, dry with gray age, warbled a bit and missed more high notes than it hit. But Turner simply played more loudly to help her out.
She never failed to remind Turner that he was to listen for her last words, and that the paper and pen were atop the organ. She was ready to go whenever the good Lord called her, she said, and so Turner—and Lizzie, too, if she was there—had best be prepared for the worst. Any day. Any hour. Any moment.
Turner tried to look resolute whenever she said this. Lizzie mostly looked panicked—which pleased Mrs. Cobb no end. She would cough through the playing to remind them of the potential of the moment, and shake her head at the frailty of human flesh.
As October turned whiter and colder, Mrs. Cobb turned whiter and colder, too. Walking from the back door to the parlor was more a shuffle and less a spurt, and her singing grew more and more patchy—a line here and a line there, but never a full verse anymore. Her hands lay on top of the armrests as if they needed a place to sit after a lifetime of clenching, and in fact, she seemed to be settling into stillness, quietly and crankily.
The last Sunday in October, she waited in the parlor for Lizzie, too shaky to stand in the cold. She said nothing when Lizzie and Turner came in. She did not pick up the afghan that had fallen from her knees. Turner wondered if she might even fall asleep—so he played soft and low.
“Are hymns always so slow?” she asked after the third one.
Turner looked back. “Not always.”
“And so soft? Good Lord, if you’re going to play the hymn, Turner Buckminster, play the hymn!”
So he played more quickly, and more loudly, Lizzie grinning the whole time, until Mrs. Cobb told him that he was playing too quickly and too loudly. “You’d think a minister’s son would know how to play a hymn with reverence. Wouldn’t you think so, girl?”
“Yes, ma’am, I surely would,” Lizzie said, and then put her hand to her mouth, startled. Turner wheeled about on the organ stool.
“She does talk!” said Mrs. Cobb.
Lizzie stared at her.
“All these days, and never a word.”
“I guess I never did have one to say,” said Lizzie.
And Mrs. Cobb, cranky Mrs. Cobb, leaned forward and laid her hands against Lizzie’s cheeks and held them there, slightly trembling. “Oh my land,” she said quietly, “I had too many, but never the right ones for you. Oh, oh,” and suddenly, quickly, she lay back against the chair.
Turner stood, and Lizzie pulled the afghan up around Mrs. Cobb’s knees. She looked at Turner, then at Lizzie. She took a deep and rattling breath. Her eyes opened, closed, opened again, pale and opaque.
“Get your father,” said Lizzie. “Hurry.”
“Turner,” Mrs. Cobb said.
“We’re here, Mrs. Cobb.”
Another deep and rattling breath.’”Safely to the mountains lead me. Safely to my heavenly home. Safely to Your mansions guide me. Never, oh never, to walk alone.’” Then she leaned back and closed her eyes.
Her eyes stayed shut.
“Mrs. Cobb?”
She breathed twice more, gave a little cough, breathed once again.
“Mrs. Cobb?”
“She’s gone,” said Lizzie.
“No, she’s not. She’s still breathing.”
Lizzie looked at her. “She’s not breathing.”
Turner put his ear to her mouth. “Yes, she is. She’s still breathing.”
Lizzie put her ear to her mouth. “I guess so,” she said.
Together they watched Mrs. Cobb head to the mountains, and Turner took Lizzie’s hand in his without even knowing it. They held their breaths, waiting for Mrs. Cobb’s last. They hardly dared blink.
“You need to write the words down,” whispered Lizzie.
Turner took the paper from the organ. He dipped the pen and wrote quickly.
“You got them?”
“I got them.”
“Let me read it.” She took the paper. “It was walk alone, not be alone.”
“It was be alone.”
“It was walk alone.”
“Can’t you even get that right? It was walk alone,” said Mrs. Cobb. Her eyes were open and she was staring at them. “WALK alone.” She sat up straight and let the horsehair gallop up beneath her. “It doesn’t matter now anyway. I’ll have to come up with a whole new set of last words. Something easier to catch, I guess.” She glared at Turner.
“Mrs. Cobb, we thought you were...”
“I did, too, or I wouldn’t have said my last words. And they were such nice last words.”
“They were,” said Lizzie.
“Oh hell,” said Mrs. Cobb, “it’s warm here. Get me a ginger ale.”
Turner and Lizzie went to the icebox to get a ginger ale. “I told you she wasn’t dead,” said Turner.
“Well, let’s just get you a black bag and call you doctor.”
“She was breathing.”
“Yes, doctor.”
Lizzie grabbed a ginger ale and pried the cap off, and together they went back into the parlor.
“She was breathing the whole time. You just couldn’t tell,” whispered Turner.
“Here, Mrs. Cobb,” said Lizzie, and held out the bottle.
Mrs. Cobb did not take it.
“Mrs. Cobb,” said Lizzie again.
Mrs. Cobb did not open her eyes.
“I don’t think she’s breathing,” said Turner.
Lizzie glared at him, then turned back. “Mrs. Cobb?”
But there were no more words to speak.
Turner had never seen death before. He had been to funerals, but never to anyone’s he knew more than by name. But there the bodies were closed up, and it was almost hard to believe that a person lay inside the box, covered with linen and flowers and candlesticks.
But here was death with its dart, having spurted into the house as bold as you please and snapped its chilly fingers. Mrs. Cobb was no longer clenching the arms of her chair, and she was no longer fussing at the organ music, and she was no longer humming to the refrain. She was just no longer.
Lizzie took Mrs. Cobb’s hands, laid them in her lap, and covered them with the afghan. She straightened her dress and brushed the hair off her forehead. Then she bent down and kissed her on the forehead.
“I’m not sure you’re supposed to kiss a dead person,” said Turner.
“You going to write down her last words?”
“‘Oh hell, it’s warm here. Get me a ginger ale’?”
“You going to write them down?”
“I’m not going to write down ‘Oh, hell, it’s warm here. Get me a ginger ale.’”
“You going to lie about her last words?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t lie about somebody’s last words, Turner.”
“I better go get my father,” he said, and sprinted from Mrs. Cobb’s house to the parsonage, from the parsonage to the Hurd house, and from the Hurd house to get Dr. Pelham, who came walking about as fast as he could with the black leather case he would not need to open. Lizzie was gone when Turner came into the parlor with the doctor, but Reverend Buckminster was there, and Deacon Hurd, and no end of folks came in while he examined her—though, Turner thought, anyone with half an eye could tell she had before them gone.
Turner was pushed farther and farther back, wondering why they didn’t see that Mrs. Cobb would have hated all the fuss, that they were shoving furniture from where it was supposed to be, that they had bunched up the throw rugs in the front hall. Maybe this was what death was—when no one cared about one dang thing you had cared about.
And then Mr. Stonecrop was there, his large self parting the crowd like Moses holding out his staff over the Red Sea. Murmurs stilled and silence settled. Even Dr. Pelham stood. Mr. Stonecrop leaned over the body and put his ear to Mrs. Cobb’s mouth. He stayed there a long time, and when he straightened up, he had taken possession of the situation. “She has gone to the heavenly reward she so richly deserved,” he pronounced. “Before Reverend Buckminster leads us in prayer, we must know: Mrs. Cobb was waiting all her life, it seems, to say her last words. Was anyone here to hear them? Was anyone here to tell us what they were?”
Every eye came upon him. “Yes, sir.”
“You were here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you hear her last words?”
Turner nodded.
“Can you tell us what they were?”
“No, no, Reverend,” said Mr. Stonecrop.”Not here. Not like this. Let young Buckminster write down her last words. Then let them be read aloud when we come to pay our final respects.”
Murmurs of approval.
“Just as you say, Mr. Stonecrop,” agreed Deacon Hurd.
“I’m not sure...,”Turner began.
“Perhaps you might lead us in prayer now, Reverend,” suggested Mr. Stonecrop.
While they all closed their eyes and bowed their heads, Turner went out to the porch. The first snow of the year was just beginning, the flakes so light that they hardly fell. They crystallized in the bright air and hovered, twirled a bit to catch the light on their angles, and then waited for a breeze to waft them away. As people came and went, he sat there looking across the street at Mrs. Hurd’s house—the shutters and door painted green again—thinking how soon it had been after he had met them that Mrs. Hurd and Mrs. Cobb had both lighted out for their own Territories.
He thought through Mrs. Cobb’s last words again. He closed his jacket, hunched his hands into his pockets, and set off to the spot on the shore where he hadn’t jumped on that very day he had met Mrs. Cobb.
And when he got there, he found Lizzie sitting on the edge of the leap, holding a curl of yellow birch bark.
“You know this place?”
“I’ve lived here all my life. You’ve lived here a few months. You think there’s a whole lot of places you know about that I don’t?”
He sat down beside her. “Lizzie, I never saw anyone die before.”
“I did. My mother.”
“Is it always like that? One second she was here, and the next second she was gone. I mean, really gone.”
“That’s what it’s like.”
Together they watched as the green sea lolled about, the waves hardly peaked enough to break against the rocks. The snowflakes were bigger now, and they fell more heavily past Lizzie and Turner, their sharp angles slicing into the bulky sea. They disappeared in less than a moment, and the sea hardly noticed them at all.
“You tell anyone what her last words were?”
“Not yet.”
“You going to?”
“I suppose you’re right and I have to.”
“When?”
“Mr. Stonecrop wants my father to read them at her funeral.”
“Well,” said Lizzie, “it’ll be something folks talk about.”
They watched the waves come in, so bulbous and full, as though they had all the time in the world—and more.
“They never stop,” said Turner.
“My granddaddy is going to die,” said Lizzie.
Turner watched the snowflakes fall even faster. Then he reached over and took her cold hand in his.
***
The funeral for Mrs. Cobb was three days later. Turner wrote out Mrs. Cobb’s last words and gave them to his father, who put them in his front coat pocket, still folded. The whole congregation watched the paper in his pocket during the prayer for peace. They watched it while Lillian Woodward droned the hymns. They watched it while Reverend Buckminster delivered the eulogy. And they watched it when he removed it from his pocket and held it out to them.
“Such has been the beauty of this saintlike life. Such has been the glory of her passing. And at the moment of death, there can be no greater testimony to the Christian life than the final words of the dearly departed.”
Turner was sweating enough to wilt even his starched shirt.
Reverend Buckminster unfolded the paper. It was upside down, and he turned it over slowly. Slight laughter from the congregation.
Turner sweated in places he didn’t think he could sweat.
Reverend Buckminster was silent and still.
“Read it aloud, Reverend,” called Mr. Stonecrop.
Reverend Buckminster cleared his throat. He cleared it again. “It’s quite ... it’s quite short,” he said.
Murmurs in the congregation. Turner felt sweat dripping into in his eyes.
Reverend Buckminster cleared his throat again.’”The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want,’” he said.
“Oh,” from the congregation, disappointed.
“‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.’”
“Well, who’s going to bother remembering that?” Turner heard behind him.
“Let us turn to hymn one hundred eighteen,” announced Reverend Buckminster. He looked pointedly down at Turner. “Amazing Grace.”
And when the sweet sounds of that hymn were finished, the pallbearers carried Mrs. Cobb’s casket down the center aisle, followed by the minister and his wife—Turner a good deal behind them—and then the rest of the congregation. She was buried with her people in the cemetery behind First Congregational, straight in front of the headstone that marked the family plot, not far from her grandfather of the perfect picket fence. It was snowing again, and the air was so sharp and cold that most of the congregation, having already shown proper respect by coming to the funeral service, and having been disappointed by the resolution of the mystery of her last words, went home before the burial. But Turner stood by the graveside, along with his mother and father.
“Perhaps,” said Deacon Hurd as he finished the final prayer, “you might say her last words once more, Reverend.”
Another clearing of the minister’s throat. “I think a holy silence might best become her,” he said, and bowed his head.
When the committal was over, Turner told his parents he would stay to help the grave digger.
“No need for that,” said his mother.
“I think she might like me to be here,” said Turner, looking at his father.
“No need for that,” said old Mr. Thayer, who had dug more graves for more years than he cared to count.
“I think she might like me to be here,” said Turner, still looking at his father.
He stayed, and when old Mr. Thayer began to fill in the grave, Turner took the shovel from him and filled in most of it himself He was almost done when Lizzie appeared from out of the woods. “I think she might like me to be here,” she said, and Turner handed her the shovel.
“That does beat all,” said old Mr. Thayer, and he watched Lizzie fill in the grave and pat the cold earth tight over Mrs. Cobb. Turner and Lizzie stood by the grave as he gathered his tools and left, shaking his head. Together they sang “I Have Some Friends Before Me Gone.”
“Your daddy read the last words?”
“He read them.”
“He say them out loud?”
“No. He said something else.”
“You’re not supposed to lie about someone’s last words.”
“She won’t mind.”
Lizzie reached down and smoothed the bulge of the grave. “Plant some violets here in the spring,” she said. “We’ll plant them together.”
But she shook her head. “Turner, look at things straight on, the way they’re going to be.” She stood up suddenly, then ran, twisting through the stones, leaving Turner alone beside the grave.
Before he walked home, he went past Mrs. Cobb’s house and leaned against her grandfather’s fence. He could almost hear his own organ music coming out, and he gripped the pickets so hard that he could feel them real and solid, things that had lasted a good long time and would probably last a good deal longer. Even when he could no longer hear the music, he could feel the pickets in his hand, the wood covered with layer after layer of whitewash, standing guard around the house for who knew how many winters. Past the fence, the house stood straight and ruled as it had for two centuries—maybe more. It seemed as solid as the granite on which it was built, and Turner marveled that it could still be so after Mrs. Cobb had gone.
Turner didn’t know if he should be comforted because the house still stood, or afraid because it didn’t care. Or both.
Three days later, he had another reason to think of Mrs. Cobb’s house.
***
Turner knew that most of the business of any church happened right after the Sunday morning service, when everyone was breathing easy because the week’s sermon had been successfully endured, the wheezing organ playing politely excused, and the tithing accepted as one of life’s necessary hardships. While the congregation filed past the minister, exchanges were made, bargains agreed upon, transactions completed, and announcements announced.
And it was an announcement that Mr. Stonecrop made as he gripped his minister’s hand and stood close to him.
“Mrs. Cobb’s will was read last night,” he said too loudly.
There is nothing for quieting a crowd like announcing that a will has been read.
“Did she have family?” asked Reverend Buckminster.
“Not a single living soul she would lay claim to. And even if she did, she didn’t have a fortune to leave.”
“She had the house.”
“Yes, Reverend Buckminster, she had the house, sitting on the prettiest piece of property on Parker Head. Probably worth more than she could have ever imagined to some city folks from New York looking for a summerhouse in a town gearing up for the tourist trade.”
“I suppose so, Mr. Stonecrop.”
The congregation was edging in closer now, considering what Mrs. Cobb should have done to remember some kindness they had gone out of their way to show her.
“Reverend Buckminster, you sent your boy over to read to her, didn’t you?”
Reverend Buckminster looked at Turner for a moment. “Yes, I did, Mr. Stonecrop. Most every afternoon this summer.”
“And on Sundays, too?”
“And some Saturdays.”
Mr. Stonecrop slapped Reverend Buckminster on the shoulder. “Reverend, you’re more conniving than I thought.” He looked around at the congregation as if to include them in his joke.
Conniving?
“The situation might lead some of us here to think for a moment—just for a moment, of course—that you had foreseen this very possibility, and so sent young Buckminster here to Mrs. Cobb to create this—we’ll call it a situation.”
Turner could see that his father was feeling his own situation moving away from him. He adjusted his robes, then his glasses. “Mr. Stonecrop,” he said, “you have me at a loss. What situation do you mean?”
“I shall speak it plainly and bluntly, Reverend. This house, which might have been left to the town to fund a coming prosperity, was left instead”—and here he focused accusing eyes on Turner—“to your son.”
A general murmur of disappointment and dismay. A general sense that the parishioners of First Congregational had been cheated out of something that was due them.
“Mrs. Cobb has left her house to Turner?”
“Yes.”
“My son, Turner?”
“Now you have a grasp of the situation. What do you intend to do about this?”
The Reverend Buckminster looked at Turner, and Turner suddenly had the impression that his father was seeing him for the first time as someone more than his son. It almost frightened him.
Reverend Buckminster looked back to Mr. Stonecrop. “I suppose we’ll have to see about the legalities,” he said.
“Legalities!” Mr. Stonecrop almost shouted. “It is a mighty poor parson who hides behind legalities, sir. Your son made his way into Mrs. Cobb’s household and so ingratiated himself that he has inherited a great deal of money that ought properly to belong to the people of this town.”
Turner saw his father draw up. “Your implication, Mr. Stonecrop, that I have done this purposefully—” But Mr. Stonecrop shook him off.
“Implications mean nothing. Legalities mean nothing. The only thing that means anything is what you do with the house. And I suspect that your congregation—indeed, every soul in Phippsburg—will be watching what you do with it.”
Reverend Buckminster looked down at Turner again, and Turner wondered if he was expected to speak. The silence was sharp enough that it seemed almost to wedge its point against his throat.
But silent or not, Turner did know what he would do with the house. He had known from the moment Mr. Stonecrop had announced that he had inherited it.
Still, the disapproval of First Congregational stifled him like the silence a fog brings upon the ocean. And when his father spoke again, he sounded like an invisible buoy. “We will do what is good and honorable in the Lord’s eyes.”
“Don’t neglect,” suggested Mr. Stonecrop, “to do what is good and honorable in the town’s eyes as well. I think you may find, Reverend, that they are the very same thing.” Mr. Stonecrop moved off into the foggy silence, and the rest of the congregation passed quietly, most hands extended, some not. Only when they were finally all gone, and the fog with them, did Turner feel the old familiar sea breeze coming in at the doors and pulling him outside.
It had snowed during the service and was snowing still—a crisp and cold snow that didn’t melt as soon as it struck. Already Parker Head was covered, and the ground was frozen enough that where the congregation had walked and driven carriages, the road showed through but the snow hadn’t changed to slush. Turner felt the cold air deep down when he breathed it in, and the snow that fell on his lashes and into his hair stayed there, gleefully stubborn.
The snow fell on the maples, on the aspens all along Parker Head. It gathered on the oak leaves and drooped even those sturdy branches down. It clotted the cedars. All three Buckminsters stood on the steps of the First Congregational and watched it come down, clean, tasting of the salt air, whirling about in a joyous jig—swinging partners and do-si-doing and promenading as if it were a whitened barn dance.
“‘A gust, shrieking from the north, strides full on his sail and lifts the waves to heaven,’” said Turner, trying to smile.
“Not a bad translation,” said his father. “But Franguntur remi, ‘The oars snap.’” He crossed Parker Head and slowly climbed the steps of the parsonage.
Turner’s mother wiped off the snow collecting on Turner’s hair. “The house is yours,” she said. “Don’t listen to what anyone says. She gave it to you because she wanted you to have it.”
Turner nodded. “And I know what she wanted me to do with it.”
“Then you had better do that.”
“And if Mr. Stonecrop doesn’t like what I want to do with it?”
“Then,” said Mrs. Buckminster, standing tall and straight, and the blood reddening her cheeks, “then the profound Mr. Stonecrop will be profoundly disappointed.” She shook her head, and together they laughed out loud in the falling snow of Parker Head on the steps of First Congregational, risking the disapproval of any parishioners who might have seen them just then.
“Go on,” she finally told Turner. “Go on and disappoint him.” And Turner went to do just that.
So it was not very long until Turner, having slid and sprinted, sprinted and slid, stood at the granite ledges and began climbing down, kicking the snow off the footholds, and finally jumping onto the dark gray mudflats that wouldn’t abide a single snowflake to freeze on them, no matter now much cold the sea breeze brought in. The snow wasn’t so thick that Turner couldn’t see across to Malaga, but it was thick enough that probably no one would be out on the water. He looked above the tip of the island, hoping he might at least see the smoke rising from Lizzie’s house, but he couldn’t make it out at all. Probably because of the snow.
It seemed to him that he might do best to just go on home and wait for a better day when there might be a dory or two out. He would have to be a dang fool to stand on a mudflat that was doing its best not to freeze, in a snowstorm, waiting for a friendly boat to take him across. But then again, maybe it wasn’t such a terrible thing to be a dang fool sometimes. Maybe, he thought, it was just what you were supposed to be. So he wrapped his arms around himself and stood back against the ledges, waiting.
He waited for a long time, walking up and down the beach, stamping his feet to keep the blood moving, until it got so cold that the mud really did start to freeze, and he thought that maybe being a frozen dang fool might not be a good idea. He might have left then and there if he hadn’t seen the Easons’ dory butting its prow against the waves as it came down the New Meadows, trying to find its place somewhere between the white water and the white air. Turner ran to the edge of the tide and waved his arms, hollering as loudly as he could, though his voice seemed to be drawn up in the snowy wind.
Whether he was heard or seen, the dory turned to him and began taking some of the waves just a bit broadside until it came square to Turner, then let itself be swept to the shore.
“It’s one awful day to be digging clams,” called Mr. Eason.
“I’m hoping that you could take me across.”
Mr. Eason looked at him a long time. “You know, boy, sometimes it’s best to leave things be.”
“This isn’t something to be left, Mr. Eason. I’ve got some news for Lizzie. The best news.”
Another long stare. “Well,” he said, “it’s not my place.” He motioned for Turner to step in, then used an oar to shove the dory back into the New Meadows, flat against the waves but steady enough.
Turner felt that he was hovering in some unearthly place. With the snow and the spray from the waves wafting against the boat, they seemed to be in neither air nor water, or maybe in both, and the queasy, uneasy feeling came upon him that he didn’t know where he belonged—and wasn’t sure he could find his way.
Mr. Eason, rowing hard against the waves, said nothing, not even when the waves turned and he began following them in to Malaga. Turner stepped out first and dragged the boat up on shore, and Mr. Eason jumped out to haul beside him. Once the boat was past the high-tide mark, he pointed down across the shore. “You’ll find her at my house,” he said, and turned back to the boat.
Then Turner knew why he hadn’t been able to make out the smoke. And he didn’t want to know why.
He walked slowly, brushing the snow off and shaking it from his shoes now and again. Although he was cold, the tips of his fingers hurting and his eyes watering some, he didn’t hurry. Maybe there wasn’t even a need to hurry. He smelled woodsmoke and passed a stack of old lobster traps, blown over and the staves broken in, then a heap of firewood guarded pitifully by some old barrels, also broken. The woodsmoke grew stronger, and he passed a stand of thick pines and was there. He stood and stared at the house as if wondering how it was holding itself together, layered as it was with patches and odd boards. He kicked the snow off his shoes once more, brushed it from his hair, and thought he probably looked like a dang fool standing there in the snow.
The door opened, and there was Lizzie, just wrapping a red shawl around herself-—a shawl that needed about as many patches as the house had. She walked to him and stood by him. “Do you want to see?” she asked, quietly, so quietly in the snow.
Turner nodded. She took him by the elbow, and together they walked back across the island to the graveyard, where there was one new mound, piled higher than the others but still covered by scudding snow like the rest of them. And they stood in the quiet of the snow as it settled all around them.
“We’ll plant violets here in the spring,” said Turner, but Lizzie did not answer.
Afterward, they walked together, silent, around to the tip of the island and into the deserted house that had been Lizzie’s home. Already it seemed as if no one had lived there for a very long time. None of the furniture remained. The house had been emptied and even swept out neatly; the only thing on the floor now was the snow, in soft piles that had drifted in through the cracks. It was as cold as cold can be, the cold almost like a presence.
“No one lives here anymore,” said Lizzie simply.
They went outside and stood by the door, facing the gray and white sea that was so very silent, rolling into the shallows, its spume blown off into the wind.
“He died while he was asleep,” said Lizzie. “Mr. Eason came by and called in the morning, and I told him not to call too loud since Granddaddy might be just asleep, after all. But then he came in, and I knew Granddaddy wasn’t just asleep. So Mr. Eason, he brought me up to his home, and came back here and took care of him. And then he went up and dug the ... dug the hole and carried Granddaddy to the coffin he’d already built, and we stood there, me and the Easons, and not one of us knew what to say, because Granddaddy had always done the words.”
Turner stood next to her as her words broke the snow, and he felt again as he had in the boat, somewhere between two worlds and drowning because he couldn’t find his way in either one. And just when he thought he might be lost entirely, the snow stopped, Lizzie said, “Oh,” and the waves began to sound again with their frothy roars. The sea breeze bent the pines behind them, blew across their backs, and sped out over the water, tearing the whitecaps back even as they came to shore. With a ripping groan, one of the snow-laden pines wrenched itself free from the rocks and toppled, slowly at first, then faster and faster, until it swept onto the ledges beneath it, its branches thrusting a boiling cloud of snow into the air.
Together they stood.
“Nothing stays the same, does it?” said Lizzie. And Turner, who found himself breathing hard, nodded.