THE SEA CAPTAIN HAD built his house solidly — white clapboard with shutters in a green so dark it was almost black, like the sea in bad weather. There was no land around the Inne: The back steps opened onto the sea cliffs, and the front steps opened right to the street. Stapled to the cliff edge, high above the sea, the house loomed against an empty sky as if there were not one thing between the house and Europe.
Mrs. Shevvington slid her key into the gleaming brass handle of a green front door so large three people could walk in at once. The door swung silently open.
Inside, the hall was narrow, with narrow stairs going steeply up, as if the captain had forgotten this was a mansion he was building, not a crowded ship.
Christina looked up the stairwell. It was like looking up a lighthouse. The steps ran in ovals, curving at the landings. High, high above, the glass in the cupola glittered in the September sun. The cupola did not seem to have a floor. Christina was disappointed. “I thought you could sit up there,” she said to Mrs. Shevvington. She had thought of herself with a book, binoculars, and a bag of potato chips, sitting tucked away in the cupola, with the best view in Maine all to herself.
“No. It is unsafe. It can be reached only by a ladder. Never go up there.” Mrs. Shevvington made it sound as dangerous as picnicking on railroad tracks. “If I find I cannot trust you children to stay away from it,” said Mrs. Shevvington, her voice slowing down and getting rougher, “I will have to take Steps.”
In the dining room, black-and-gold willow trees arched over narrow bridges, while black peacocks strutted in stone-littered gardens. What strange wallpaper, thought Christina.
“The sea captain sailed to Japan a lot,” said Mrs. Shevvington in explanation. “House has the original wallpaper. Very historic. Nothing children should ever be near,” she added, glaring, as if they were already attacking the walls with crayons.
“Are there any guests right now?” Christina asked.
“No.”
Michael started to walk into the dining room but Mrs. Shevvington caught his shoulder. What strength was in that grip. Michael froze like a child playing Stone Tag. His mobile face and laughing mouth became solid, his knees stiff; he was a tilted statue.
“These rooms are not for you,” said Mrs. Shevvington. “These rooms are for paying guests.” She let go of the statue and he turned back into Michael.
“We pay,” Christina objected.
“A pittance from the town; it’s hardly an income.”
Michael rubbed his shoulder where her hand had been attached.
“And do not run down the stairs. It will bother the guests, and you might fall.”
It was Christina’s opinion that there was no way to get down a staircase except by running. And she had never fallen in her life.
Mrs. Shevvington showed them the formal living room. It too was Oriental in flavor, with shiny lacquered furniture and pearl inlaid flowers.
Christina was beginning to have sympathy for the bride who had hurled herself off the cliff. Who could be comfortable in rooms full of black-and-gold peacocks?
“For guests,” said Mrs. Shevvington.
She showed them a library. Walls of shelves, but very few books. Big leather chairs and a bare desk. “For guests,” said Mrs. Shevvington.
“But we’re guests, too,” Christina said.
Mrs. Shevvington led them into the kitchen, which was enormous. It must have been remodeled in the 1950s, because it had rows of white metal cabinets with curved edges. The countertops were green marbleized Formica with stainless steel rims. Near the sink tiny steel cabinets with little doors opened to reveal rolls of waxed paper and aluminum foil, waiting to be torn off. A very large table with a white surface and wooden legs as thick as thighs sat in the middle of the room.
Christina thought it was the ugliest kitchen she had ever seen in her life.
The Atlantic Ocean pounded outside. But even when Christina stood at the sink and drew up on her tiptoes to look out, she could not see the water.
Off the kitchen was a small, dark room, filled with old sagging furniture, the kind people left in beach houses rented out by the week. It had a small black-and-white television and a worn stack of last year’s magazines. “You children will be using this room,” said Mrs. Shevvington.
Christina waited for the others to object. She had spoken up several times; it was their turn — they were older.
But Anya merely stood with the poster of the sea in her hand as if she were glued to it. Michael was staring at his shoelaces. Benj was playing with his Swiss army knife.
Well, all right, if they wanted to be toads and get run over by a truck like Mrs. Shevvington, they could stay silent. Christina had never made a habit of staying silent. She had yelled at summer residents who dropped soda cans on the rocks and summer artists who abandoned paint tubes among the wildflowers. She had yelled at summer yachters who had the nerve to tie up at her father’s slip, so that when he came into the harbor he had no place for his own boat on his own island.
Christina was more than capable of yelling at anyone.
She turned to yell at Mrs. Shevvington.
Mrs. Shevvington’s eyes moved inside her flat head. The eyes seemed to separate from her face, like movable eyes in an oil painting. “Yes, Christina?” she said very softly. She inclined her head toward Christina, like a guillotine in slow motion.
Christina looked at Michael and Benj and Anya for support. Surely this was not how mainland people normally treated island boarders.
Mrs. Shevvington smiled at Christina. Her horrid little teeth were like kernels of corn on a shriveled ear.
The poster of the sea fell out of Anya’s hand.
“Our parents — ” Christina began, leaning over to pick up the poster. But she got no further.
Mr. Shevvington entered the room.
Christina recognized him from the orientation of the previous July. How handsome he was! What fine features he had — not squashed and rubbery like his wife’s, but sharp and defined. He wore a suit, which to Christina was very unusual. Nobody on the island ever wore one. The suit was soft gray, with the narrowest, most subtle pinstripes and in the breast pocket a dramatic red paisley silk handkerchief. Christina longed to touch the handkerchief. It was city fabric, city style.
She saw her parents suddenly as hicks, who would never own any handkerchief except Kleenex.
Christina looked into Mr. Shevvington’s eyes. They were soft and gray, as welcome as spring rain.
“Children. What a pleasure. We’ve been getting ready for you all summer.” With his fist he tilted Christina’s chin up and kissed her forehead. She felt that if she were to ask for the silk hanky he would give it to her, that he would give her anything, and therefore she could not bear to ask him for a single thing. His height was perfect, the way he loomed over her was protection, his shadow was warmth.
“Christina,” he said, “we don’t want to worry our parents, now, do we? There are going to be adjustments we’ll all have to make, learning how to live under one roof and get along.”
He said he knew he could trust Christina never to be difficult or cause scenes. He said a child who loved her parents would write only cheerful letters, make only happy phone calls, because love meant never worrying your mother and father.
His smile moved across all four of the children, binding them, requiring smiles in return, like signatures on a contract, so they could never forget, never be bad. They would always adjust.
He said, “Christina, I can see already that you’re going to be the spokeswoman of the group. I’m very impressed. A girl of your age, and already so articulate.”
She felt as warm as if she had been toasting in front of a fire. Christina resolved never to tell her parents if she had any problems. A girl who was in junior high was old enough to take care of herself and protect her parents from worry.
Mr. Shevvington laughed and turned to his wife. “Candy, we’re going to enjoy Christina, aren’t we?” he said.
Candy? Her name is Candy? Christina thought. Impossible.
“Anya,” Mr. Shevvington said now. He kissed her in just the same way, fist under Anya’s delicate chin, his lips planted on her forehead. “You are looking as beautiful as last year. We expect great things of you during your senior year, Anya.” He surveyed her with the attention of a student learning the details of a piece of art.
Anya smiled up into Mr. Shevvington’s eyes. “I won’t let you down,” she said, her voice full of emotion. “I’ll do anything you say.”
The principal smiled. It was a flat, bright smile, like the glassy sea on the day they got the posters. “I know,” he said.
The Shevvingtons are sticky, Christina thought. Like the back of a stamp. I’m afraid of them.
Mrs. Shevvington’s arm went around Christina’s shoulder, and it tightened in what might have been a hug, or the first move of a strangle.
The principal spoke to Benj, saying he knew this school year was going to be so wonderful that Benj would never want to quit. Benj looked bored, but he didn’t bother to argue, and just nodded.
Mr. Shevvington shook hands with Michael, saying that as a ninth-grader Michael was eligible for Junior Varsity and, with Michael on the teams, the school would have a splendid athletic year.
Anya turned her face toward the principal like a sunflower to the sky.
“I’m sorry I can’t have lunch with you,” Mr. Shevvington said, his handsome features drooping with distress. Anya’s face mirrored his. “But I must run back to the high school to deal with some annoying odds and ends before we open in the morning.” His face re-lit. “First day of class! You kids pretty excited?”
The boys remained bored.
Anya nodded joyfully. A puppy in a litter, thought Christina, wagging a tail for him.
“Upstairs,” said Mrs. Shevvington, steering them through the halls. Christina was slow to obey. Mrs. Shevvington pushed her. It was like being touched by a jellyfish. Flesh soft and flaccid, as if there were no bones beneath the white surface.
The Jaye brothers were already racing upstairs. “Third floor,” said Mrs. Shevvington. “Mr. Shevvington and I and the guests are on the second floor.”
The boys’ feet pounded on thick vermilion carpet up to the second floor and then sounded completely different — heavier, drummier.
There’s no carpet on our stairs, thought Christina, and it seemed a metaphor for the year to come — there would be no carpet on this year.
“Your rooms are a bit bare,” Mrs. Shevvington said. “But you may decorate any way you wish.” She stayed at the bottom while the children circled the long, climbing stairs.
At the second floor a white-banistered balcony ran all the way around the open stairs, and numbered doors opened off it. One door was open. Inside, a white nubbly rug lay beside a shiny brass bed, and a puffy pink comforter matched balloon curtains. A delicate nightstand, white with gold trim, held a tiny hobnail glass lamp and a pretty little antique clock.
Let my room be like that! Christina thought.
The gentle curve of the stairs became tighter. The carpet stopped. The stairs were plain wood, and scuffing feet had worn hollows in the treads. The banisters needed dusting; the little knobs and whorls of the posts were black with grime.
The room that Anya and Christina were to share was at the top of the stairs. The door opened right onto the stairs. Christina thought, If we miss the bathroom at night, we’ll fall all the way. Break every bone until we hit bottom.
Anya and Christina’s room had a bare wood floor, white walls, no curtains, just paper shades yellow with age. Twin beds without headboards wore plain white sheets and old mustard-colored blankets tucked in hard, like a punishment. Unmatched chests of drawers stood next to each other. Under the eaves, two closets were lit by bare bulbs on pull strings.
Christina wanted to cry.
Anya took a deep breath. “Better than where I stayed before,” she said, sliding her trunk with her knee toward the further bed.
“Better?” said Christina, shocked.
“I didn’t tell you on the island, because you’d have told your parents and worried them. They don’t like us here. The people in this town. They’re against us. You’ll see. That’s why we’re living with the Shevvingtons. Mr. Shevvington is so kind! He’s so thoughtful. He knew how hard it was for Michael and Benj and me last year, separated, living in ugly places with mean people because nobody else would take us. Mr. Shevvington is the only one on our side, Christina. He’s all we have.”
“Side?” Christina repeated.
“It’s them against us,” Anya said. Anya chose a chest of drawers. She opened her trunk and took out lilac-scented, flowered liner paper for the drawers. Anya was so well organized she had packed her scissors right next to it, and calmly she began cutting lengths of paper and laying them in her drawers. A faint scent of lilac filled the room.
Christina could not bear to start unpacking in this gloomy attic. She crossed the balcony to check out the boys’ room. It too was bare as bones. But the boys had had no dreams of lace and satin. They flung their stuff around, bounced on the beds, and seemed pleased. The boys’ walls were the same blackish green as the outside shutters. “My Marilyn Monroe poster will look really great up here,” Michael said to Christina. Then he shouted down the stairwell, “Can we scotch tape things right to the walls, Mrs. Shevvington?”
“Of course not,” muttered Christina. “In a house where you can’t run down the stairs and can’t enter the living room and can’t eat in the dining room, you think you’re going to be allowed to put scotch tape on walls?”
Christina leaned over the balcony rail. Mrs. Shevvington was standing at the bottom. “Certainly,” she called.
Christina went back into their bedroom.
“Here,” said Anya. “I cut you drawer liners, too.” Christina had never lined a drawer in her life. At least there was one pretty thing in here. Too bad it had to lie hidden by her clothing.
A single window filled the only dormer, making a tiny alcove. Far below, the surf boomed, and the spray tossed. Christina examined the view, down Breakneck Hill, over the rooftops, and beyond to the hills. She picked out the garage where her father’s truck and her mother’s car were locked up. “Where did you board last year, Anya?”
Anya squeezed into the dormer beside Christina. After a moment of searching she pointed to an ugly, squat building the color of fungus.
Christina shivered. “How could you stand it? Why didn’t you say how awful it was?”
Anya shrugged. “I don’t exactly live in a magnificent beach house myself, remember. And even if things are bad, you can’t tell anybody. It just worries people back on the island. They can’t do anything about it anyway.”
Christina’s parents had always been able to solve anything. But they were islanders, and still on the island. They did not wear silk paisley handkerchiefs in their suit pockets. Anya was right. Looking at the strength of the sea made Christina strong. She remembered she was granite. She thought, What’s the big deal? We can make the room pretty. And I’ll never tell the others that the Shevvingtons make me nervous, because that’s yarning, and they won’t be friends with me if I yarn.
Them against us. What did that mean? Did it mean — could it possibly mean — that Christina would have no friends in seventh grade — no allies but Michael and Benj and Anya — no one on her side but Mr. Shevvington?
The tide continued to rise rather gently, considering its first cannonade.
“It really sounds like somebody puffing out birthday candles, doesn’t it?” Anya said. She pushed the window open. The two girls crammed themselves through the opening and leaned into the salty air. The window was tall for so small a dormer. The windowsill pressed just above Christina’s knees. If somebody wanted to shove us out the window … , Christina thought.
She suddenly wondered where the poster of the sea was. The center of her back crawled, and Christina tried to turn in the small space, thinking —
Anya grabbed her. “Look!”
It was the man (woman?) in the wet suit. Still there. Still standing on the opposite cliff of Candle Cove.
He — it — waved at the girls.
Anya waved back.
Christina could not bring herself to make a human communication with a creature so lacking in human features. It was like Mrs. Shevvington, rubbery and flattened.
Anya jerked back into the room, yanking Christina with her, knocking both their skulls against the window frame. “What’s the matter?” Christina asked. Her head hurt. She rubbed the dent.
Anya’s white finger trembled, pointing. “There’s your present from Dolly,” she whispered.
It was borne in on the next wave, riding neatly on top, its metallic bow still gleaming.
“The ocean knows where you are,” Anya said. She laughed madly. “It followed us here.”
Mrs. Shevvington called them down for lunch.
They ate in the kitchen.
Christina had been hoping for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, chicken noodle soup, and potato chips, which was her idea of the perfect noon meal. Mrs. Shevvington had made red flannel hash with poached eggs laid on top of each helping.
Christina did not know what to do. She loathed soft eggs, and the sick horrid way the yellow spurted around, like blood. She hated onions, and she especially hated beets. As for leftover corned beef, it should be fed to the sea gulls, not gagged down by human beings. “Mrs. Shevvington,” said Christina as courteously as she knew how, “may I make myself a sandwich instead?”
Mrs. Shevvington looked truly shocked, as if Christina had done something quite rude and socially unacceptable. “Christina, common courtesy requires you to eat what is put before you.”
Christina flushed.
Michael and Benj, who were of the shovel school of eating, had already begun shoveling. Michael used the side of his fork to cut his helping into squares, which he put into his mouth as if he were laying tiles. Yellow egg yolk dripped off his fork.
Mrs. Shevvington smiled.
Christina swallowed to stop herself from gagging. She drank her milk.
It was whole milk. Christina hated whole milk; it was thick and disgusting. She drank only skim, which was like blue water, and thirst quenching. Her fingers tightened around the glass.
She said to herself, We are paying to be here. We are guests. Just like any other guests. And I hate egg yolks. I’ll throw up. She said, “Mrs. Shevvington, I’m sorry, and if we were going to be visiting for one night, I would eat anything with a smile, but we’re going to be here for a year. So we should get straight what we can and can’t eat.”
Mrs. Shevvington’s eyes lay in her head like the poached eggs on the hash. Rounded and glossy and soft.
“I don’t like corned beef and poached eggs,” said Christina.
“Christina, one reason you are here is to learn civilized behavior, get along with other people.”
“But I get along fine with other people,” Christina said. “The tourists are always taking my photograph, and — ”
“Christina! Boasting is the quickest way to make enemies. I hope you realize that island children, especially island girls, have a hard time getting along. You must try much harder than this, Christina. Your task is to make the island proud of you, not ashamed.”
Michael and Benj and Anya did not speak up. Was she really being horribly rude? Would Anya scream at her tonight, in that soft hissing rage she could drum up, saying, “Christina, what is the matter with you? Why can’t you behave?”
“Eat your eggs, Christina,” Mrs. Shevvington said. “In this house you eat what is put before you or go hungry.”
Christina looked at the yellow blood running over her plate. She set her fork back down on her napkin, linking her fingers together in her lap like chains. She felt as if they had just declared war, she and the principal’s wife.
Christina was so hungry. Breakfast at home had been a long time before and a long sea trip away. What was so terrible about making a sandwich?
Nobody talked. They ate seriously, as if it were a chore.
Christina’s mother never allowed silence, either at home or at her restaurant at mealtimes. If nobody talked Mrs. Romney interrogated them and made them contribute. I don’t actually want to be at war with her, thought Christina. How can I come home to runny yellow eggs every night? So I shall make friends. “Is running the Inne your full-time job, Mrs. Shevvington?” she asked politely.
A tiny yellow smile curled on her pie dough face. “No,” said Mrs. Shevvington. “This isn’t my only job. I am also the seventh-grade English teacher, Christina.”
They spent the afternoon unpacking. Anya hummed as she stacked neat little piles of bikini panties and lacy bras. Christina hated being neat.
It took so much effort and who cared? But obviously Anya cared, and they had to learn to live together. This was what being roommates was — stacking your panties if the other person stacked hers.
Christina finished first because she had fewer clothes, no accessories, and, according to Anya, lower standards of neatness. She sat cross-legged on her bed watching Anya. Anya finished. She too sat on her bed. But she rocked backwards, as if something were tipping her. “Christina, when did you put it up?” whispered Anya. “I thought — I thought you were going to throw it out.”
The poster of the sea was fastened to the wall over Christina’s bed.
“I didn’t touch it,” Christina said. She turned to look, but her neck felt stiff, it was hard to turn all the way. “Hey, Michael!” she yelled. “Benj! You come in here and put our poster up?”
“Why would we go in your room?” Michael yelled back.
Anya put her hands over her ears. “They’re talking to me,” she whispered, her eyes darting around like minnows. “I can hear them. Chrissie, can you hear them?”
The boys have the only roll of tape, Christina thought. They must have come in here to put it up. “Somebody put it up,” she said irritably.
“Chrissie,” whispered Anya, ‘It’s wet in here.”
Christina stared at her roommate. Anya’s thin graceful hands were arched toward the ceiling like a ballerina stretching toward the sky.
“They’re calling to me,” Anya whispered. Her breath came in spurts; she was panting. “Can you hear them, Chrissie?”
“No,” Christina said. “Anya, hold my hand.”
“I don’t want to swim,” Anya cried. “I hate the water, I hate boats, I hate the island.” Her hands weren’t graceful, they were frantic — pumping — reaching — struggling. “Pull me out, Chrissie, they’re touching me, I can feel their fingers, they almost have me — they — ”
Christina grabbed one of the wild arms. Anya stared past Christina’s face, her eyes huge. “The fingers,” she cried.
What fingers? Christina thought. She did not let go of Anya. Christina smelled mothballs as her face pressed into the blanket.
“All right!” Michael shouted. “Action!” The boys thudded into the room, jumped on top of Christina and Anya, and began wrestling, throwing pillows and lashing towels. Michael’s towel flicked with loud snaps against walls and skin. Christina grabbed the end of his towel and jerked him to the floor, where Anya, giggling, rolled him under the bed. Benj bounced on the bed like a trampoline. They were shouting and laughing when Mrs. Shevvington’s voice cut like a chain saw, buzzing and cruel.
“There will be no roughhousing here. There will be no fighting. You boys stay out of the girls’ room, do you hear me? There will be decent behavior at all times. Christina, did you start this?”
Night fell.
Christina’s first night away from her parents, her first night at Schooner Inne, her first night with a roommate.
Outside, the town ceased to move. It slept, cars silent, lights off.
There was no sound on the earth but the sound of the sea.
Long after midnight they were still awake.
They learned why nobody had built houses on Candle Cove — nobody but the sea captain, whose wife threw herself to her death among the tons of green water that leaped up to meet her.
Noise.
The children had grown up with the battering drum of surf and storm; their island had inured them to all sounds of the sea.
Or so they had thought.
Every six hours and thirteen minutes, there is a tide: Two low and two high tides occur every twenty-four hours and fifty-two minutes.
Tide began at one A.M. with an eerie slushing sound, like tires caught in snow. It woke all four of them up — Michael and Benj in their room by the road, and Anya and Christina over the Cove.
The slushy sound became louder, like violins tuning up. Michael and Benj came into the girls’ room. They sat on Christina’s bed under the poster. Like engines revving for the Indianapolis 500, the fury of the tide increased. Like rockets, the sea burst in, attacking the harbor in a tidal wave of fury, hitting the cliff below Schooner Inne with a slap so great it blocked their minds to anything but sound. The sounds did not stay outside, but came into the room; they were swimming in noise.
In fifteen minutes it was over.
The waves were just the waves.
“How do we sleep through that?” Christina said. “And it will be different every night. Tomorrow it’ll start at one-thirteen, and the night after that at one twenty-six.”
Outside the window the ocean chuckled and slithered.
“Listen,” whispered Anya.
They listened.
Anya stood in the moonlight, a long thin white nightgown draping her slender body, her hair ruffling like dark ribbons in the night wind. “The sea can smack the rocks like a hand smacking a cheek. It can hiss or gurgle or even kiss. But when it wants, it can go quiet. And then,” said Anya Rothrock, “you can hear the voices of the drowned.”
The waves had settled into an irregular rhythm of rolls and crashes.
“The sea keeps count,” Anya whispered. “The sea is a mathematician. The sea wants one of us.”