Connecting the dots. That’s what Mom said stargazing is all about. It’s the same up there as it is down here, Jackie. You have to look for the things that connect us all. Find the ways our paths cross, our lives intersect, and our hearts collide.
Once I started paying attention, I noticed all kinds of crossings, intersections, and collisions. For one, Fisher showed great improvement under the watchful care of a certain young candy striper at the local hospital. She had curly red hair and green eyes and answered to the name of Pauline. But that was only because that’s what Early had called her the first time we met her at the Bear Knuckle Inn, and she thought it was prettier than her real name, which was Ethel. She took Fisher for long walks and even held his hand, which hardly shook anymore.
Then there was Gunnar’s letter to his sweetheart, Emmaline. Gunnar had given me that letter, asking me to do what he couldn’t bring himself to do—mail the letter. So I did mail it, with my address on the envelope, just in case. It came back with a handwritten note that said Return to Sender. Apparently Emmaline had moved on. So the letter went back into the little rose-colored book of poetry in my desk for some time, where it would have stayed indefinitely, had I not chosen Hopkins as the topic of my famous poet essay and had I not acquired some of Early’s deductive reasoning skills of putting two and two together. Although, with Early’s method, it was more like putting together two and two plus a pinch of this and a dash of that.
It happened one day in the library. I had to write a paper on a famous poet, and being familiar with Gunnar’s fire-folk, I chose Hopkins. Miss B. said she might have just the thing. She reached into her desk and pulled out a very old-looking book. It was a collection of poems by Gerard Manley Hopkins. She told me I might look at the volume in the library but could not check it out, as it had been a gift to her.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. Taking the book to an open table, I glanced at the inside cover. In a masculine hand, it read: To E. from G. Christmas 1928. The date rang a bell. Gunnar had given a book of poetry to Emmaline for Christmas. Had it been in 1928? I took the Journal of Poetry by Young Americans from my book bag and studied the name on the envelope. Emmaline Bellefleur. Inching my way closer to Miss B.’s desk, I hoped to spy something with her full name on it.
She looked up from her work. “Can I help you, Mr. Baker?”
“Um, this is a very nice book,” I said, handing it back to her. “Do you have a favorite poem?”
She looked surprised by the question and seemed to catch her breath. “Well, yes, I do,” she said softly. “I have a special fondness for ‘The Starlight Night’—all that talk of stars and fire-folk and circle-citadels.” She seemed to get lost for a moment in the poem or in her memory.
I carefully lifted the letter and said, “I think this is for you, Miss Bellefleur.”
She looked at the handwriting on the envelope, then back at me with tears in her eyes. I didn’t stick around to watch her read it, but I knew I wouldn’t be surprised if Gunnar Skoglund showed up on the grounds of Morton Hill Academy in the near future.
Then there was Archibald MacScott. The night of the cave, and the snakebite, and Early’s seizure, and a million other things, Fisher had gone back to the site of the bear attack to bury a second body—MacScott’s—but the one-eyed man and the 1894 Winchester were gone. There was a good deal of blood on the ground that led away from the site, but the trail ended at the river.
We’d thought the bear had killed him right there on the spot. But in light of this new evidence, Early thought maybe MacScott had wanted to have a proper burial at sea, so he had mustered what little life he’d had left to drag himself to the closest body of water and dropped dead as he plunged into the river. Then Early thought better of it and decided that the Winchester, which had been the great burden of MacScott’s life, had become too heavy to bear and maybe he’d just bent to drink from the river but the gun’s weight had pulled him to a watery death. Early seemed to find both scenarios equally gruesome and interesting and never declared which he liked best.
Back at school, the boys of Morton Hill Academy were always eager to hear the tale of Early’s and my journey. As I told it, over and over, I realized what an adventure it had been. Who would have thought a motion-sick kid from Kansas would have embarked on a journey that included pirates, a volcano, a great white whale, a hundred-year-old woman, a lost hero, a hidden cave, a great Appalachian bear, and a timber rattlesnake—in Maine!
My mom was right. Our stories are all intertwined. It’s just a matter of connecting the dots. I keep looking for her to pop up somewhere in this story. To somehow, mysteriously, be a part of the connections, intersections, and collisions. I keep feeling that I should have something more than just the broken fragments of her teacup tucked away in a box in my closet. But I know Elaine Gallagher Baker, the civilian; she’ll turn up somewhere. And when she does, I’ll hear her say, There are no coincidences. Just miracles by the boatload. In the meantime, I have a piece of paper on my wall. It’s a drawing of my own constellation, with stars named Dad, Gunnar, Miss B., Fisher, Martin, Eustasia Johannsen, Early, and me—Jackie Baker. With a red pencil, I connected each star. And not so coincidentally, it formed the shape of a teacup with little red flowers.
As for Early—in the weeks following our journey he was invited for pie in Sam and Robbie Dean’s room once in a while. And he even showed up for class once in a great while, especially after Mr. Blane quit talking about pi ending. But he preferred to stay a little off the beaten path. He and I still went for our early-morning and late-afternoon rows, and he still called out the commands, even though I could row a pretty straight line on my own. He always ended our rows by giving the command to let it run, and we’d stare out over the bay, admiring the endless ocean.
Early Auden could not keep the ocean out. I figured he realized this too, because on a walk down to the shore one day, not long after our Appalachian trek, Early started opening his stacked sandbags, emptying them onto the beach. I asked him if he’d given up trying to keep the ocean out. He said he was never trying to. He’d been using the sandbags to build a lighthouse, where he planned to raise a great bonfire so that Fisher could find his way home. Semper Fi, Early. Semper Fi.
I stood on the shore that day, with the salt water pushing closer to me with every wave, and recalled how, just a few months before, I had stood on this same spot, so disoriented I’d thrown up. I marveled at the vastness of the ocean. I stood in awe of its depth and mystery. And I realized I was equally in awe of Early Auden. Yes, he was strange. Yes, he could be maddening. And yes, he was my friend.
As the ocean tugged at my feet, I realized that Early Auden, that strangest of boys, had saved me from being swept away. By teaching me how to build a boat, that numbers tell stories, and that when it’s raining, it’s always Billie Holiday.