2000
Quarry Hollow called me the night Daddy died. My cell phone ringing and ringing. I was off island, trying to figure out if I had enough credits to wrap up my graduate program, and when I picked up, there was only that scritch-scratch you get whenever you are trying to use your cell anywhere on the island other than the dock. The ringing went all night, and I picked it up about a dozen times, listening to the fuzz on the line. I could picture the old phone in the kitchen, the big plastic weight of the handset on the table. I screamed into my cell, yelling for Dad to pick up. Hollered at the house to stop calling.
There was nothing to be done until the sun came up besides play the game. Finally, at first light, the noise took on a shape that I, not just my dumb little sister, could hear. A reaching out from the walls that changed light and sound into my mother’s voice. Come home, she said. A breath of wind she’d finally managed to shape into a plea. I understood then that it hadn’t been the house calling—not that big, wicked thing—but my mother gathering shape and strength to lift the phone, form her voice. “Mama,” I said back, and the line went dead. It did not ring again.
I’ve been sleeping in the downstairs hallway since I came back. Even passing by Daddy’s locked office door is a challenge, especially at night. The state of him, of his office, when I finally made it to the island, was not a thing one wants to remember. The body itself repairable enough to fool a whole funeral crowd.
I can see the rust red of my sleeping bag from where I’m sitting now at the kitchen table. My pillow with its tiny blue flowered case reminds me how safe I feel right there on the floor. The wall next to me warm and giving off a kind of midnight rhythm like the plaster has a heartbeat. My mother hasn’t spoken to me again—not since the phone call—but I feel her in the walls, one of the huddled masses. At night, I can hear the ghosts search about with tired fingers. Stretch their arms high. They like to huddle together between lath and plaster, gathering their strength for the next day’s noise and sun. Scritch-scratching at the wall to wake me each morning. It’s like those years of watching Henrie be special, be different, are over. I don’t need her to translate for me anymore. I can hear them for myself, and my body feels different. Stronger. More confident. Wanted. Even after Henrie left the island, I couldn’t hear the ghosts. No matter how much I begged. It was just me and my sad father and a great big silence. But the minute my father passed, the minute I put my feet on Fowler soil, I could feel that things were about to change.
“It’s good news,” he says, this off-islander who wants me to call him Dennis, who is here to read me (us, if Henrie would ever show) Dad’s will. He saw the pile of my bed when he came in but then kindly sat with his back to the hallway so we wouldn’t have to discuss the strangeness of sleeping on the floor in a house full of empty beds.
He smells of coconut, and he’s forgotten an undershirt. A dark tuft of hair pushes through the gap between the second and third button of his shirt.
“How did my father find you?”
“He phoned. Plus, I summer here.”
“He hated summer people.”
I’m resting my elbows on the table that has sat in just this spot for longer than I can remember. As with much of the house’s furniture, the wooden legs are nailed into the floor under our feet. Still, I like the table, its Formica top, and its curved metal edges. I like knowing that if I lie on the floor under it, I can look up at its underside and with my finger follow the paths that Henrie and I drew to represent our island.
Henrie was supposed to be here an hour ago. It’s not like her to be late, but her behavior yesterday wasn’t much like her either. It hurt to see her walk into the VFW with Carrie. The two of them one solid front while I was wandering around, falling apart all alone. After the divorce, Henrie never came back. Not even once. Not on my birthday. Not on Christmas. Frankly, I didn’t think she’d come back for Daddy’s funeral, but then there she was, and I started to wonder, Why is she here? What does she want?
“Do you want me to keep waiting for your sister? I can give you the gist and then she can come see me when she’s back on the mainland. Paperwork can be signed later.”
I want to say, If I fucking thought it was okay to read it without her here, I wouldn’t have wasted an hour smelling you sweat through your sunblock.
Instead, I say, “We don’t have to wait.”
He nods, clears his throat. “Well, your father has left you the house and the quarry and a significant portion of the land on the west side of the island not connected to this land. That includes the old Fun Land Park, which you’ll need to do something about soon. It’s a hazard. There is a big hole in the fence on the west side and—”
“I’ll put it on my to-do list,” I say flatly. “When you say he’s left it to me, you mean to me and my sister, right?”
“No, I mean you. He was quite clear about you being the one to inherit and not your younger sister.”
“I don’t understand.”
“All I can tell you is what’s on paper.” Dennis clears his throat before continuing, “Good news is that your father has left funds to manage the house. I don’t imagine living on this island is very lucrative, so this will ensure you won’t lose the property. Half the funds are in your name and the other half is to be split between Henrietta and Caroline.”
“Carrie,” I say flatly.
“Henrietta’s mom and your stepmother.”
“I know who she is. Why would he leave her anything at all?”
“Well, let me see.” He shuffles papers, as if the answer is there in the legalese.
I realize he’s afraid of me. Dark circles of sweat yawn out from under his arms, and it’s not even hot in the house. I stare right at him and give the Formica tabletop a smack with my palm. He jumps about a foot, with a yelp so hilarious I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
“Forget it,” I say.
“I’m sorry?”
“I don’t need to know why my father did what he did. The house is in my name?”
“All yours. If Henrie decides to push things, argue for her half, it could get messy, but he very clearly states she is to own no part of the island, so she will have trouble contesting any of that.”
“What if I don’t accept it?” I ask, teasing Dennis but also asking loud enough so the house will hear me playing hard to get. And, deliciously, the house sloshes and grumbles around me like an empty stomach. Like the thought of me leaving has taken it from full to starving.
Then I remember my father’s body tilted over his typewriter, his forehead pressed into the keys as if he were momentarily frustrated. I told Henrie he died in his sleep. Cozy in his bed. No point in telling her he’d died at his desk, writing some sort of messed-up instructions on the care and feeding of Quarry Hollow. Nothing about disconnecting the hose for winter or changing the furnace filter, things any normal twentysomething would need to know. Instead, it listed rooms and times and specific areas of wall that needed “communication.” Things like:
Piano room needs tending twice daily. East wall: apply pressure.
Ceilings must be watched at all times. If they begin to weep, spend time in attic.
Reseal turret but allow access to interior for emergencies.
Do NOT pound on hallway walls.
It was a goddamn gizmo list, so I crumpled it up and threw it away. Every time I shut my eyes, though, I see it, that salutation to me and only me with the colon punched so hard it ripped the paper. And the shed layer of him on the floor, as yellowed as his typing paper, which I shoved under the couch.
Time has passed since I arrived. A day? A week? I haven’t kept track, but the house has had only me in it since they took Daddy away. The walls have begun to slush, the ceilings drip, as if thawing. The house shimmies during the day, a ship already out at sea. It makes me wish I’d kept my father’s note. Feed the house. Talk to it. Stay close. This swell and sway is new to me. Maybe I’m not ready for this.
“Accept what? The house?” He stares at me like I’m crazy.
“Yes, the house. The land. The quarry. Can I say, ‘No, thank you’? Is it like when you buy a car and you sign the title over? Can I just not sign?”
“I’m sure there are options,” he says, gathering his papers, “but I always suggest folks wait until they’ve stopped grieving to make big decisions. And I’ll warn you. Your father tried for years to sign over the land to the state. He wanted it to be made into a park. I had been helping him with it, but there are so many restrictions on this land, dating back to—”
“My great-great-grandfather,” I say, bored with this conversation.
“Why yes. The majority, even the quarry, isn’t allowed to be used for any sort of future business. The house itself isn’t up to code so would need to be gutted and rebuilt even if it could be sold. The Fun Land Park is actually an extension of the glacial grooves so shouldn’t ever have been built on in the first place. I won’t bore you with all the details, but it became impossible to imagine another use for this land. The state refused to take on the burden as long as there are living heirs.” He waits for a Thank you, but I don’t give it, so he clears his throat and continues, “Here, you keep this copy. Go over it with your sister. Here’s my card.”
He’s done now. Shuffling papers with a purpose.
The house groans and a fat drip of liquid hits the table, resting on the surface like a bead of glass. He stares at it, reaches out one pinkie to wipe it away, then looks at the ceiling. Another drop hits his forehead. Right in the middle. He flinches.
I laugh.
“It’s hot!” he shouts, upset. “What’s up there?”
“My father’s office. Rotting corpses starting to bloat.”
“You know”—he pushes everything into his leather satchel—“you’re lucky. You’re young and you’ve been left an opportunity. Do something with it.” His fear of me has changed to disgust. It is not nearly as pleasing.
Something thuds on the floor above us. The sure sound of feet being planted on the floor after they first swing out of bed; it sounds like my father, and it reminds me of something. A night long ago that I can’t remember. It makes my brain feel itchy. Dennis looks up again, then quickly backs up. Another drop hits the table, missing him by maybe an inch.
“I didn’t know anyone else was home.”
“Someone is always home,” I say, meeting his eyes, my voice deliberately sinister.
The silence feels so awkward even I want to break it. But I manage to stay seated and say nothing. The fear is back. He’s scared of me. Of the house. I might spin my head clear around like an owl.
Somewhere, not too far off, a car horn begins to blare in an erratic rhythm every islander recognizes. Dennis the Lawyer uses this opportunity to push through the kitchen door and out onto the porch. The new punch and blare is not the house or some sound I’ve made up but the island cop car.
“Shit,” I mutter.
The honking has made the turn onto our street.
I walk along the wraparound porch to the double front doors. I am standing there when Sheriff Wilderness Conway turns off his siren and puts his feet to the sidewalk.
“Someone called in a jumper.” His voice is gravelly yet sure; I’ve heard it most of my life.
I lean on the railing. “You better hurry then.”
“Not an active jumper.” He clears his throat. “They claim to have found a body part.”
“Then there’s time.” I try not to show my surprise. An actual body. Or at least one of its parts. That’s new.
I’ve known Wilderness since before his facial hair and badge. He’s island born, like me.
I walk down the porch stairs to stand in front of him. He is tall, weedy, with a beard that hides much of his face. But in the years I’ve been away, he’s grown handsome.
I take a step closer. He smells good. Clean. His fingernails precisely trimmed. He swallows. He looks away, and his Adam’s apple, clumsy in his throat, swims up, then down.
“Who reported it?” I ask. People disappear from Fowler. People flee. They do not leave their parts in the quarry to be found.
“To be honest, Ms. Sonia found it on her rounds, but I know you two have trouble, so I was gonna skip that part. She may still be out there.”
“She would be the type to guard it, wouldn’t she? And we don’t have trouble. I love everybody.” I smile, mischievously enough for him not to mistake it for anything else.
“Anyhow, I thought you should know I’m going in to check it out.”
“Do what you need to do.”
“That fence needs to be finished.”
“Jesus Christ, Wilde. You and I both know that won’t do shit.”
Carrie used to teach his math classes back when she homeschooled most of the island. One summer I worked ahead and in secret so I could be at his math level when our little school started up again in the fall. I had such a crush on him. I knew my work ethic impressed him by the lift of his right eyebrow.
But the eyebrow stays steady now. He shrugs at me. His shoulders slump. He’s always tried to hide his height. “You coming with? It’s your land now, isn’t it?”
“Fuck.” I left for college when I was eighteen. It felt good to leave. Like my head was clear for the first time. Suddenly I could sleep. Really rest. Laugh. Listen to what other people had to say, like actually listen. It was like all these foggy holes that had been in my brain since Henrie left got filled in. The hole in my gut, the one that migrates hurt to my heart, never left. It may even have opened a little wider when I was off island. It was a loneliness and guilt I had assumed was island made, but even off island, surrounding myself with friends and lovers and classes and a delicious assortment of drugs, it remained. Clarity of mind did not touch it.
I expected my brain would feel foggy on island. The sheer everyday dizziness of it, like being unable to rise without a head rush blurring your vision. But I also thought the hurt in my gut might go, especially with Henrie on island again. I put my hand over my gut, push in a bit, and feel the lonely hurt. Like a bullet hole, it goes straight through.
“The funeral was nice yesterday.”
“I’m glad you were there,” I say, testing out a little bit of flirt.
He showed up, we did the obligatory chat. He sneered at my cigarette. Somehow, I didn’t notice how broad his shoulders have gotten or, as I see following him now, how strong his calf muscles are—so bulked up and tight I wonder if they will burst.
We walk through the narrow backyard and the high weeds that flank the quarry. When we were kids, he was shy. He’d climb trees whose lowest branches couldn’t be reached by anyone else just to be alone. He would swim in the quarry with us if we begged him to. He liked our attention.
“Why didn’t you ever leave?” I ask.
“I leave all the time.”
“No. Not like for groceries or whatever.”
“I went to the academy. I traveled around Europe. I’ve hiked a bit of the Appalachian Trail.”
“How did I not know that?” It has always seemed to me that islanders were islanders. Since I am one of them, it doesn’t feel bad to say that they are generally sedentary creatures. Undereducated. Easily lulled. Horribly behind in fashion. And stuck. Not here by choice but largely from lack of imagination.
“You’ve always been … involved in yourself.”
I laugh. It feels good. I am egotistical. Wrapped up in my own life. Loud and certain. People usually are too afraid of the show to notice what a total piece of shit I really am.
“I’m just saying you’ve got a full plate.”
“It’s okay. I appreciate that you’ve noticed I’m a bitch.”
“I didn’t say that word. I wouldn’t.”
He turns to help me manage the boulders that act as a loose stairway to the quarry floor. I take his hand, not because I need help, but because I want to touch him, and sure enough there is a zing. A flash between us that makes us meet each other’s eyes. A spark.
“You’re a good-looking man,” I say to him. “I’ve always had a bit of a crush.”
He reddens.
I push on. “We’ve known each other a long time.”
“Beatrice.” He pauses, as if gathering his next words. “This could be a bad scene. Maybe you should stay back.”
“Wild things always happen over Masquerade?”
“I had a bad feeling last night.”
“Is that how they taught you to do cop work?”
“I’ve been keeping watch. We forgot to post someone last night. I thought Ms. Sonia was doing it. She thought I was. With the funeral yesterday. Something’s different. Not right.” He rubs the side of his face with one big hand. “Keep thinking it could be someone we know this time.” The red on his cheekbones is stretching down to hide behind the dark hair of his beard even as he’s warning me of something. What though? Then it hits me. Like a punch.
“Henrie?”
He shrugs.
I think of her fleeing the funeral the day before. Of how lonely she’s been.
“She wouldn’t…” I stop myself. The sentence should end hurt herself. But I know it would be dishonest.
“I’m coming with you,” I say, definitive now.
Wilderness nods agreement, and I put my hand in his, raising the blush again in his face. His hands are big, calloused, and rough. I can feel how he might lift me up, carry me out. The very idea that he’s gone out and done things, then still decided to live here is intoxicating. What could this island be if I wanted it to be home? If I filled it with my people?