Patchouli

She's a tiny woman, comes barely to my chin, but persistent. Her makeup is powdery and has flaked like snow over the collar of her neat navy blue suit jacket. There's a near perfect quarter shaped circle of rouge on each crepe-ish cheek but her lipstick is crooked and her mascara is smudged. She's clutching a glass a wine - clearly not her first- in one pudgy fist and she reeks of patchouli, a fragrance that always reminds me of bug spray. She's noticed my old Nikon and wants her picture taken. I nod and smile and climb off my barstool and she takes my hand and leads me to her husband, a wispy, white haired older man who looks desperately frail and more than a little confused by the smoke and noise of this dimly lit, smoky bar.

This is Jack, she tells me and pats his hand affectionately, He was a staff photographer for the newspaper for years. And I'm Marilyn. We're so pleased to meet you!

At the mention of the newspaper, my heart sinks a little. It's too late to regret having giving her the business card she asked for, my best hope is that neither of them will be able to read it in the bad light, but it's not to be. He adjusts his trifocals and peers at it then at me.

Are you related to....he begins and I dredge up another smile.

Used to be, I say, hoping to nip this in the bud, but it was a long time ago.

Why, Marilyn, he says, look who this is!

The tiny woman produces a pocket flashlight from her purse and squints at the card.

How were you related, dear? she chirps, We knew the entire family.

Yes, indeed, Jack adds, I could've worked for National Geographic but.....

Would you like a drink, dear? Marilyn interrupts and shines the little flashlight in my direction, What a small world it is! Jack, she's going to take our picture! Where would you like us, dear?

You're fine where you are, I assure her, wondering if I'll ever get away, Just give me your best smile.
I focus and snap the shutter - once and once more - and Marilyn thanks me with a girlish, suddenly shy giggle then wine glass in hand, snatches at my elbow until I show her the screen.

Oh! she cries, It looks like we're in love! Will you send us a copy, dear?

After I turned down National Geographic.....Jack begins but she tweaks his cheek and tells him to hush, Just write down our address for her, honey, and finish your drink. She downs the remainder of her wine, orders another, then turns to me with a cartoonish smile. Now, tell me, dear, is your ex-husband still living? Did you get any of his money?

Over her shoulder I can see an old guitar playing friend at the bar and I shoot him a pleading look, praying he will understand and come to my rescue. A moment later, a hand descends onto my shoulder and a gruff old baritone drawls 'Scuse me, ya'll, but it's time for our photographer to earn her keep. He slides one arm around my waist and steers me firmly away while Jack and Marilyn raise their glasses and wave bewildered goodbyes. I'm so grateful I could kiss him.

It isn't that I mind these little flashbacks to a former life. A small number of people know I married into a prominent, wealthy, newspaper owning family - just as they know I left it - but my musician friends don't think it's important and it isn't something we talk about. They accept me for who I am now, not who I was or who I happened to marry in a prior life. It's just that for most of that first marriage, I kept to the shadows after we moved to the south, making and treasuring only one or two dear friends, content to be a decoration and a good wife, much like a well dressed pocket watch. I didn't care for the spotlight then and I don't care for it now so with apologies to the occasional Jacks and Marilyns, I find a barely accessible corner by the stage where I can shoot the music and those making it in peace and quiet. And maybe escape the haze of patchouli that latches onto me the way a cat will find the only person in the room who isn't a cat lover. The insecticide aroma makes my eyes water and my throat want to close.

Some memories do exactly the same thing.

Empires of Mice

Apart from being scared out of my wits, the things I remember most clearly about our adventure at the old Hatfield place are Ruthie’s allergy attack and the mice.

The grass was waist high and smelled of chaff dust and the narrow overgrown path was a tangle of hardened weeds and cindery branches. Every step we took seemed to crackle beneath our feet like a warning – it was a wonder, we thought when it was over, that neither of us had broken an ankle or worse – but we’d gotten through with just skinned knees and bruised elbows.  We weren’t more than a third of the way in when Ruthie’s hay fever surfaced violently and she began to sneeze loud enough and often enough to wake the dead. Her eyes and nose were running like faucets and her voice was so thick I could barely understand her but she was no quitter, my friend, Ruthie. She hacked away at the stubborn undergrowth, sneezed, hacked some more, sneezed some more and still kept up a steady, shocking stream of cussing. Later we would think it had a comical edge but at the time it just seemed like a really bad idea. Just as I was wondering if hay fever could kill you, we reached the clearing and came in sight of the old abandoned house. The upper story stain glass windows – all save one which was jagged and smashed - were still intact, the wraparound veranda still stood although it had crumbled in some places. The stable was in ruins but the wishing well was only a little worse for wear – it sat at the edge of a stone circled salt water pond – made fish-less by time and loneliness but still clear and cold. Ruthie immediately shed her shoes and overalls, scrambled over the fence and waded in clear to the deepest part, took a deep breath and went under. She came up a minute later, coughing and sputtering and looking like a drowned cat but less red-eyed and at least for the moment, sneeze-free. We sat quietly in the noon sun until she’d dried off.

The Hatfield sisters, Elizabeth, Emily and Eloise, had lived well in this once grand house on the other side of Brier Island. Heiresses to the family’s fish canning factory, all had grown up in a time of privilege and piano lessons. Eloise – the youngest and the only pretty one, some of the crueler tongues did say - was the only one to have married and leave the island. She returned after a year or so, divorced and childless and except for the usual village gossip, no one ever spoke of her time away. All three sisters lived as if she’d never left and they were in their seventies by the time the canning factory shut down. Much like the house itself, deprived of maintenance and care, they began to fall into disrepair.

Emily went first, Nana had told us, Had her a stroke, she did, and was stone dead by the time they got her to the ferry. Couple years later, Lizbeth took to wandering’ round after dark in nothin’ but her nightclothes. Hired man found her washed up in the cove jist after Labor Day.

And Eloise? Ruthie and I had asked breathlessly.

Nana frowned.

I don’t recollect how Eloise died, she’d said shortly, Go wash up for supper.

It was her no-more-questions tone and we knew better than to persist but that didn’t mean we were going to give up. After supper, we decided to walk to Sparrow’s.

Eloise Hatfield? the old man muttered as he filled his pipe and spilled a little tobacco onto his lap in the process. He brushed it off impatiently and gave us a dark look. Long time ago, he finally said, Leave it lie.

Is it a mystery, Sparrow? Ruthie said and gave him her best smile, Did she die of a broken heart?

Tell us, Sparrow! I begged.

In the match flare, the old man’s face was a blue-ish mask, not smiling but not scowling. There was the acrid smell of sulphur in the air and he leaned back in the rocking chair, his expression unreadable. Eager as I’d been, I suddenly wasn’t quite so curious.

Eloise Hatfield, he said thoughtfully, Ain’t thought of her in a dog’s age. Killed herself, so’s they say, jumped from a second story window and broke her fool neck. The sweet pipe smoke hung in the air like late evening fog but it didn’t conceal Ruthie’s disappointment.

Is that all? She asked suspiciously.

Ain’t it enough? Sparrow said a trifle snappishly but I noticed he wasn’t meeting her eyes.

My grandmother wouldn’t have dodged a suicide, I was sure of it.

Sparrow, I said quietly, trying to sound grown up and only mildly interested, What’s the rest?

The old man shifted in his chair, fussed with his pipe, finally sighed.

I reckon, he said reluctantly, there’s some who think she might’ve had some help outta that window.

Ruthie’s face lit up and I moved a little closer.

Now mind me, he continued, it weren’t nothin’ but talk but I ‘member there was a lot of it after Cap done told about the stranger come over on the ferry that afternoon. There were those that said it was Eloise’s old husband but the fact is there weren’t a soul who knew for positive and sure as shootin’ he was long gone by the time they found Eloise. 

You never interrupted Sparrow in the middle of a story so Ruthie and I waited. After another few minutes, he made a point of re-lighting his pipe, clenched it between his teeth and rocked silently.

It weren’t too long afore some folks was seein’ and hearin’ things at the Hatfield place, he resumed and before we could ask added, Lights and the like, a woman walkin’ when the moon was special bright. Screams and breakin’ glass sometimes. Ghost stories jist to keep the kids away from the place, I reckon. Most folks didn’t talk much about it bein’ afeared of soundin’ a mite crazy and then some cousin come from St. John or Grand Pre or somewheres and had the whole durn place fenced in and them No Trespassin’ signs put up. Ain’t likely anybody’s been there since and I ‘spect one of these days a good blizzard’ll bring the whole works down.

And that, hay fever or not, was the story that had brought Ruthie and I to the old Hatfield Place on a perfect late summer day. We wanted to hear or see a ghost in the worst way.

With the sun at our backs, we cautiously climbed the rickety veranda steps and peered into the mud-caked windows, hoping for Lord knew what and seeing only the forgotten furnishings covered with sheets and cobwebs. The front door, its lock rusted half-open from disuse, gave way easily and swung inward, its hinges giving a raspy but mild creak of protest. Everything was thickly layered with dust and smelled of mold and mildew. When a slight breeze followed us in, the crystal chandelier tinkled gently and showered us with a cloud of dirt and dead insects – we both cringed and very nearly panicked until we realized what had happened – then we laughed shakily and brushed ourselves off. It gave us a fresh dose of bravery and we slowly made our way toward the once elegant parlor. The double doors that led down to the ocean hung crookedly – we could almost see through the heavy but now ragged and sagging drapes – and the room was streaky with sunlight. An enormous and awkward shape in the corner proved to be a grand piano. While we stood speechless, a sudden scrabbling, scratchy noise came from it. Ruthie grabbed my hand so I wouldn’t run and a corner of the discolored old sheet moved revealing a small mouse. For a moment it watched us – I remember clearly its bright eyes and twitching whiskers – then it wiggled its way through and ran across the keys in a small puff of dust.

Jist a mouse, Ruthie reassured me with a tight squeeze of my hand, And he ain’t got much talent for music.

I wanted to laugh at this but found I could barely breathe. That was when we heard a rustling from the mantle and without any warning, a dove suddenly took flight and soared over our heads, through the arched entryway and up the curving staircase. For a second or two I was dead certain my heart would hammer its way out of my chest or worse, just stop altogether. Another mouse darted from behind a moldy drape and ran over my sneakered foot. I shrieked like a banshee.

Reckon they don’t get much company, Ruthie laughed although it sounded a little forced, C’mon, let’s see where she went!

I thought following the dove was a bad idea, a stupendously bad idea come to think of it, a death-defying, horrific idea that couldn’t help but end badly. I said so – loudly so that any lurking ghost would be sure to hear – but Ruthie was determined. She pushed, pulled, shoved and hauled me to the foot of the stairs and finally threatened to leave me if I didn’t follow. That idea was even worse and somehow I managed to overcome my paralysis, take a death grip on the slick bannister and with my heart in my throat, take one shaky step after another.

Keep up! Ruthie ordered when we reached the landing and she caught me looking over my shoulder, And don’t look back!

I didn’t dare ask why. I was too terrified I might see a band of mice on the stairs behind me.

Another few steps and we were on the second floor. I could hear doves cooing from the bedrooms and fancied if there had been two mice downstairs, there were likely to be entire mice families up here – legions of mice, I thought, maybe even empires of mice just like The Pied Piper of Hamlin – and where there were mice, there were owls. Just the thought brought a vision of being carried off by some monstrous winged thing with razor-sharp talons and yellow eyes.

Can we go now? I whispered to Ruthie and she hushed me with an exasperated look.

I want to see the window, she said stubbornly, then we’ll go. Stay here if you’re too scairt.
The prospect of being alone on the landing sent chills down my back – who knew if an owl might not carry off Ruthie – so cold with fear, but not willing to lose sight of her, I trailed after.

There wasn’t much left of the window Eloise had jumped from – or been pushed out of, I reminded myself grimly - and once we tore down the thumb tacked plastic sheet it was mostly dust-covered shards of broken glass and a long drop down. We could see the ocean through the trees and smell the salt air and as Ruthie propped her hands on the window frame and leaned out to get a better view, I was thinking it was eerily peaceful – for a crime scene – when there was a sudden chittering from behind me. I was prepared to see a mouse or a squirrel or a dove. I was not prepared to see a small fox with a plumed tail and bared teeth crouching in the doorway. I let out a small screech and it turned tail and quick as a flash was gone so fast I almost thought I imagined it.

A fox? Ruthie said doubtfully as she pulled from back from the shattered window, You sure?

Dammit to hell, ‘course I’m sure! I snapped at her, Reckon I know a fox when I see one! Now can we just go home?
To my relief, she nodded. We were halfway down the grand staircase when we heard the howl – long and plaintive like a wolf – then the unmistakable sound of a door slamming and finally a few discordant notes from the piano. It was – so some would later say when word got out – a defining moment in our childhood. Well, maybe so, but all’s I know is that Ruthie and I defined the fire out it and ran as if we could feel the devil’s own hot breath on our backs. We didn’t look back - I don't know what she was thinking but I was sure there would be a militia of mice lined up on the veranda - we didn’t stop ‘til we got to the already departing ferry and without a second of hesitation raced down the mesh coated slip and jumped for it. It earned us one of Cap’s sternest lectures about ferry safety and a warning that if ever we tried it again, he’d put us both over the side in no time flat.

And I might or might not have a mind to fish you out, he muttered, oughta know that seaweed's slick as gull shit, damn fool kids.

Somehow or other we managed to look repentant and he cuffed each of us – gently – and sent us into the tug for hot chocolate. We crossed the passage against the tide but were still home before the factory whistle blew. Sparrow, still in his rocking chair watching the world go by, gave us a smile and a quick salute.

Thinkin’ bout gettin’ me a cat, he hollered as we passed, Got me a passle of mice ‘round the place.

We cringed but only a little.

The Glitter Garden

One sweet summer afternoon, Aunt Vi summoned us to her house to help her plant a flower garden.

Flowers? Nana said doubtfully, Viola? But she packed us a hasty lunch and sent us off willingly enough. It was baking day and I suspect she was glad not to have us underfoot.

Aunt Vi and Uncle Mel lived in a tidy, two story clapboard house at the top of Schoolhouse Road, the best feature of which was the glassed in front porch. It had good light for Uncle Mel's on again, off again painting hobby and Aunt Vi's multiple knitting projects and the two liked to sit and watch the world go by, drinking spiced cider in a companionable silence or working on the current jigaw puzzle. They were timid people, Vi and Mel - childless and a little introverted - Vi's natural shyness made it hard for her to make friends and Mel had a cruel stutter which had taught him to avoid them, but they were good and decent people who liked the privacy and slow pace of the island. The only thing either had ever been able to grow was ivy - it overflowed from a dozen or so flower pots around the house - and one memorable plant had pretty much taken over the porch. It hung from a hook in a sunny corner and had weaved and wound its way up, down and over the windows on all sides. When it took to criss crossing the actual ceiling and twining about the overhead light fixture, Aunt Vi had realized there was no stopping it and after some pondering, had decided to name it Constance.

Flowers, however, were what my grandmother called an entirely different kettle of fish and Vi's previous efforts had been what you could charitably call less than successful. Even the wildflowers that bordered the back edge of the property had, for no apparent reason, withered and died but Aunt Vi could be tenacious when she had a mind to and as it turned out, we'd underestimated her. Uncle Mel had painstakingly cleared the ground and our instructions were to dig a shallow sort of trench all along the side of the house that was visible from the road.

Keep it straight and narrow, Aunt Vi said primly, I can't abide a crooked garden.

And so we dug. And dug. All that afternoon with the sun on our backs and the smell of freshly turned earth in our noses, we dug. Aunt Vi played Jim Reeves records from the front porch and Uncle Mel set up his easel on the back deck and happily set about painting a new landscape of the cove. At the end of the day, we each got a shiny new quarter for our labor.

I'll be puttin' in the flowers directly after supper, Vi told us as we washed up, You did a right smart job, girls.

It was a day or so later when Nana was driving us to the post office that we saw the finished garden, a bright blaze of color that fairly shrieked to be noticed. There were roses and daisies and daffodils and sunflowers, all neatly in a row and enclosed by a miniature white picket fence. My grandmother slowed the old Lincoln with a puzzled look on her face, peered at the garden and then peered some more. Then she began to laugh, she rocked with it until she could hardly speak.

Oh, Viola! she wheezed, I'll be damned if you haven't done yourself proud!

She pulled the old town car into the driveway and slipped it into park.

Girls, she said as we innocently tumbled out, Who but your Aunt Vi would think of a plastic flower garden?

The flowers waved in the afternoon breeze, a riot of color, too real to be genuine but shining in the sunlight. Each rose and daisy and daffodil and sunflower, each leaf so bright and so perfect they nearly hurt your eyes.

Plastic or not, it was - in its own way - a thing of beauty, creativity, and endurance.

Aunt Vi emerged from the kitchen, smiling and carrying a long necked watering can.

Come sit a spell, Alice, she called cheerfully, I'll be there directly after I water the garden!

Now this, Nana said under her breath but not at all unkindly, should be somethin' to see.


We watched curiously as she walked to the garden and carefully tipped the watering can over the individual flowers, showering them with a fine spray of silver glitter until the whole flower bed glistened with tiny little sparkles of diamonds. My grandmother, the least fanciful woman I knew, gave her old friend a hug and a huge smile.

It's an uncommon pretty garden, Vi, she said quietly, You were clever to think of the glitter.

Ain't like they's gon' grow, now is it, Aunt Vi said with an uncharacteristic edge to her voice, Reckon water wouldn't done no good.

I 'spect not, Nana agreed, I jist thought......

That mebbe I weren't smart enough to know the diff'rence? Vi said tartly, I declare, Alice, sometimes I think you ain't got a lick of imagination!

I reckon you've got enough for both of us, my grandmother protested and Aunt Vi relented immediately.

Well, they ain't gon' die and they ain't gon' need prunin' or feedin' or sun and ain't nobody got to like'em 'cept me. More'n I kin say for most things, I reckon.

Indeed it was and on more than one moonlit night that summer, more than one passerby stopped to look at the glitter garden. Some shook their heads, some laughed, some thought it was a fine example of Aunt Vi being her usual off center self, some thought it was just plain silly. But one or two stood on the road and for a few precious seconds - although they never said so - saw exactly what Vi saw and were all the better for it.

Rx: Disaster

After four days of care-taking a half blind friend with the temperament of a two year old having a tantrum, I'm exhausted and drained. I've seen nothing but doctors and hospitals for the past week and it makes me wonder if I might not soon need one or both myself.

The ER of the former charity hospital is only mildly crowded at eleven in the morning and I'm optimistic that it may not be one of those all day visits that they are so notorious for. I soon realize my mistake - though he's triaged and given a place in line quickly enough, the waiting has just begun - patients are seen according to the seriousness of their condition and this is not a practice that endears the staff to everyone. Severely elevated blood sugar trumps the toothache, the sniffles, the congested babies and the amputees but not the cardiac cases or the gunshot wounds. The police are in and out, escorting prisoners in handcuffs and orange jumpsuits. The drug seekers curl up awkwardly in the waiting room chairs, restless and strung out and a little scary. In one corner, a wheelchair bound patient - gender unknown since he or she is covered by a white sheet and is more or less motionless - sits hunched over and invisible. There's considerable curiosity as to whether he or she is alive or dead and no small amount of speculation that, either way, he or she has been forgotten. It occurs to me that if members of congress or their families were routinely limited to this kind of treatment, we'd have healthcare reform in a heartbeat. These are people with no insurance other than Medicaid, no access to primary care physicians, no other place to turn. Despite the murals and artwork, the wall mounted televisions, the new paint and the constant parade of smiling young faces in their pastel scrubs, this is still an unhappy place.

Hour after hour goes by. I can practically hear them dragging past me - in my imagination they're clubfooted and clumsy - I go outside to blatantly violate the rules and smoke then come back and sit down, close my eyes and try to catnap. Most of the faces that were waiting when we arrived are still waiting. The sheet draped patient in the wheelchair hasn't been moved so much as an inch.

It's just past four when we get to leave and the weather has taken a drastic turn for the unpleasant. It's rainy and noticeably colder, a bad end to a long day. We stop at the grocery store, the deli, and the drugstore and are finally done. I turn the key in the front door and an avalanche of dogs comes tumbling down the stairs to greet us. It's instant chaos, rowdy and loud, and very welcome. Thanks to the efforts of another friend, the house is spit and polish cleaned with fresh sheets on the bed, dishes washed and put away, vaccumed within an inch of its life and warm. It's enough to put the ER visit out of my mind and I finally get to head home.

Tea with Miss Althea

Treasures, Trash, Trinkets and More, the sign read in bright gold curly-q letters. And just underneath, in boldface almost forbidding black hand painted letters, If you break it, you buy it - The Mgt.

Hands at your sides, my grandmother warned Ruthie and me, Be careful where you walk and most important of all, don't touch anything!

The concept of hoarding hadn't been invented that foggy summer afternoon in Digby but you'd have to have been blind not to see that the little shop was monumentally cluttered. The windows were done up in stained glass, wind chimes hung from the rafters by the dozens, every counter and shelf was precariously crammed with china, glassware, ceramics and bric-a-brac. A thin veil of dust covered most everything and there was barely enough room to walk the narrow aisles. Ruthie almost stumbled on an old leather trunk with brass trimmings and I avoided a collision with a rocking chair by no more than a whisker. We were both thinking that this was a musty, maybe even dangerous place, that there was vague treachery in the air.

Nana was a woman on a mission, following the scent of coffee all the way to the rear of the dismal little shop where there was a tea table set up in a relatively cleared out corner. Four dressing table chairs with funny round seats and spindly backs and legs were pulled out and waiting and in one. a woman in a taffeta dress and button down shoes was pouring tea from a silver pot.

Girls, this is Miss Althea Finnigan, my grandmother said by way of introductions, Miss Althea has owned this shop for fifty some years and is an old friend. She knew both your great grandmothers so you'll be obliged to mind your manners.

A curtsy seemed called for and now I understood why Nana had insisted we wear "Sunday clothes" rather than our usual overalls. Ruthie and I somehow each managed to execute a proper curtsy and then delicately took our seats.

I'm very pleased to know you, Miss Althea croaked with a hint of British aristocracy in her raspy but precise and perfectly articulated voice, Do help yourselves to the watercress sandwiches and the tea cakes. I made them myself this very morning.

One each, Nana warned us, No need to spoil your supper.

It wasn't until she stood to clear the table that we realized Miss Althea wasn't quite what we expected.  I'd been paying attention to her face which was wizened and a little misshapen and her hands which were liver spotted and blue-veined. When she stood, I saw that not only was she old as the hills, but she only came to my grandmother's elbow. We were having tea with a midget or dwarf - I wasn't sure I knew the difference - and it was only when Nana gave me a sharp pinch that I realized I'd been staring.

Manners! she hissed at me under her breath but Miss Althea just laughed and waggled one swollen, bejewled finger at me.

Shut your mouth, child, she said cheerfully and without the slightest trace of a British accent, You'll catch flies!

For whatever reason - surprise or nerves, who knew - Ruthie suddenly began to giggle and quick as a wink, my grandmother reached past me and gave her a sharp rap on the knuckles. Miss Althea, now engaged in lighting a cigarette in a long, slim black and gold holder, just looked tolerantly amused.

They're children, Alice, she said mildly, No cause to fret. She exhaled a cloud of smoke, waved it away with one pale, leathery hand and gave us a squint-eyed look. Maybe they'd like to see the toy room.

Ruthie and I exchanged a quick glance, communicating in the way that young children who are the best of friends do and then we nodded. A toy room, we each thought, was intriguing and bound to be preferable to the stuffy little shop. We followed Miss Althea who hobbled off in a swish of taffeta and a swirl of cigarette smoke - it conjured an image of spiders on sandpaper for me and afterward Ruthie would confess that she thought of a bird trapped in a chimney - down a shadowy hallway to a red wooden door with a heavy brass padlock. The little woman produced a key from a chain around her neck and gave us a grin.

I'll come for you after a bit, she said, you may play with anything you find but don't break anything.

 If we hadn't been so young and so curious, we might have noticed the door swinging so silently shut behind us. If we'd been less anxious to get away from this peculiar little woman, we might have heard the key turn and click in the lock with a nasty whisper. We might even have had second thoughts about the unmistakable chill in the window-less little room and with any luck at all, we wouldn't even have come across the sheet-covered mirror in the darkest corner.

The room was small, weirdly shaped with walls that seemed to ebb and flow depending on where you were standing, and misty-bright. We spent several minutes trying to work out where the light was coming from then Ruthie looked up and saw the opaque panels in the ceiling. Skylights! she said in surprise, I seen them in the Spiegel catalogue! Some slick! I kept it to myself but couldn't help wondering if the Spiegel catalogue skylights had the swooping and diving shadows above them. Gulls, I told myself firmly, but I was thinking crows. Big, black, hungry crows with open beaks and razor sharp talons. The thought sent shivers down my back and I was glad when Ruthie grabbed me and pointed excitedly to the wall. Look! she cried, Puppets! A whole wall of puppets!

They're not puppets, I said a little truculently, They're marionettes. And if you ask me, they look mean.

Well, ain't nobody asked you, she fired back, spoilsport!

We made our way past painted rocking horses with braided yarn manes, a stack of Parcheesi games that came almost to our waists, cardboard boxes full of dolls and doll clothes, several pairs of ice skates, a rack of Halloween costumes. There were train sets and toy soldiers, stuffed animals by the dozens and milk crates overflowing with 45's in faded paper sleeves. The wall facing the marionettes was end to end bookcases, all a jumble of childrens books. There were painted music boxes and a couple of tricycles propped up against a table, cellophane wrapped magic kits and a single set of Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls. We'd poked and prodded our dazed way to the very end of the back wall but still wouldn't have seen the mirror except that Ruthie tripped and banged her shin on the Radio Flyer wagon as she was reaching for the six shooters and rubber tomahawk combination pack. When she bent over to inspect for a bruise, she saw the patchwork quilt hanging like a shroud over an unknown object. There was no air stirring but she swore she saw a corner of the quilt flutter and without thinking, she snatched at it and pulled it off, exposing the glass. The wooden frame was crusted with age, the glass wavy and discolored around the edges. Ruthie's reflection was distorted, it rippled and wavered like the lava lamp Nana had gotten one Christmas. And then it disappeared. Just winked out like a light bulb gone bad. For a very few seconds we both froze and then I found myself reaching my hand toward the shimmery glass and Ruthie was suddenly shrieking NO! and slapping frantically at my elbow while tugging me back. RUN! she screeched and we ran like rabbits toward the red door. It swung open at the last minute and we careened into Miss Althea and my grandmother like twin runaway trains.

Here now, what's all this? Nana demanded but we hadn't the breath to tell her even if we'd dared. We were shaken and scared down to our white ankle socks as much by Miss Althea's placid smile as by the horror of the mirror.

I came from an alcoholic home, Ruthie from a sexually abusive one. If there was one thing we both knew, it was how to keep secrets so for the rest of that summer and all the summers that followed, we told no one about the mirror. We wouldn't have been believed if our lives had depended upon it - as, we sometimes thought, they might well have for a desperate second or two - and in time we laughed about the wildly improbable adventure and blamed it on imagination and flawed memories.

Good friends sometimes do just that.

Glory Be

Just after dark on a warm summer night, Ruthie, Betty Jean and I waited til Nana had fallen asleep over her knitting, shushed the dogs with bacon bits leftover from supper, and slipped out to meet the moonlight.

It was a grand night. The ocean was still and calm and hardly a thing but the grass was stirring on land. Across the passage, the lights of Westport twinkled like rows of Christmas trees and the moon - high, huge and softly yellow - hung in the sky and shed its light over the water. Stars shimmered in every corner of the sky and we could hear John Sullivan's violin clear as day, one of those sweet, old songs that he loved so. The three of us crept barefoot down the narrow front path, stopped only long enough to put on our sneakers, then headed for The Old Road.

Glory be, Ruthie whispered, Ain't it bright!

Betty Jean shot her a dark look full of warning, held one finger to her lips and made Hurry up! gestures with her free hand. Wishing we could be invisible, Ruthie and I tried to creep along a little faster.

By the time we reached Gull Rock undetected, we were feeling a little more confident. I decided not to think about the possibility that Nana might wake and with that grandmotherly sixth sense she seemed to have, get one of her feelings that something was amiss. I doubted she'd raise an alarm if she found our empty beds - twas far more likely she'd be waiting with a hand picked switch - but the thought of ending our adventure in the woodshed did raise the hairs on the back of my neck.

Hackles, I remember muttering to Ruthie, they're called hackles.


What? she frowned at me, her face very pale in the moonlight.


Nothin', I told her, I was thinkin'..... never mind, don't matter.


Betty Jean glared again, Will you two please hush up! she snapped, Sound carries for miles on a night like this!


I thought of hearing John Sullivan's violin and decided she was right. We hushed.

We passed the movie house and the dance hall, both looking forlorn and deserted - not loud and all lit up like they would be come Saturday night - ducked past the lights at the Titus place then kept to the ditch when we got to Miz Blackford's on account of the dogs. Another quarter mile brought us to the square, eerily empty and silent except for the swishing of the tide going out. We walked clear across to the other side of the cove on the hard packed sand, quiet as mice and only ducking down and flattening out when the headlights of Hubie Smith's rattletrap old Volkswagen appeared ahead of us. From the look of how he was driving, Hubie'd had more than his share of bootleg whiskey that night. There wasn't much chance he'd notice us and even if he had, he wasn't likely to pay us any mind. He was a solitary and close-mouthed drinker and it wouldn't have been the first time he'd seen something and written it off to one too many jugs. We plodded bravely on.


It was coming on midnight when we got to the house on the other side of the footbridge. In the moonlight, it was forlorn looking, full of shadows and shapes, nowheres near as welcoming as it looked in daylight. Johnny and his crew were already there and had begun the painting - the old fence was beginning to glow with a fresh coat of whitewash - and a couple of the Sullivan boys were hard at work in the yard, swiping the overgrown grass and weeds with scythes and looking all the world like some combination of hired men and grim reapers.


Glory be! Ruthie whispered as the scythes whooshed gracefully back and forth, Where'd they git them?



Don't matter! Betty Jean told her and gave her a shove, Git a rake and git to work!


Ruthie obediently did as she was told.


Harley Sullivan appeared at my elbow with a handful of rags, a long handled mop and a bucket of soapy water.


C'mon, he said roughly, They's windows to be washed and we ain't got all night!


It seemed like every island child and teenager was there, I marveled, all working silently in the moonlight. The tide mostly covered what small noises we made and by three or four, the grass had been cut and raked, the fence painted, the barn cleaned out and the front veranda swept. The windows shone and the woodpile was neatly stacked. We were all dirty, tired, blistered and well satisfied.


Glory be! Ruthie whispered as we trudged home, Good deeds ain't easy!


Ain't nobody to say a word! Harley Sullivan reminded us, You git caught, you say you was to a weenie roast and take your medicine!


We all agreed, even the little ones crossed their hearts, spit and hoped to die.


Improbable as it was, nobody talked and nobody got found out. The next day when the first afternoon ferry brought Grady Lent and his widow home for the funeral, the house was full of flowers, fresh linen was on each bed and there were new curtains at every window. The island women had been at work since dawn, stocked the small icebox and baked enough casseroles to feed an army. There had been poverty and suffering in the small house, long, lonely years of cruel illness and finally death. Grady had been too proud to accept help when it was most needed and might've done some small amount of good - in all his eighty some years he'd never hesitated to lend a helping hand to others but drew the line at charity to his own home, leaving his widow broken and poor, almost disabled by exhaustion and grief - the village had precious little to give except small kindnesses and we hoped she would be too worn out to argue or protest.


We watched her watch the casket being carried in. The men from the funeral parlor set it carefully in front of the window and then escorted her in. She walked slowly with her head down. They led her to a chair by the casket and spoke in soft whispers then discreetly left. James arrived in his best sermon suit and sat with her, offering what comfort he could but mostly just being there, holding her hand, hoping against hope for the right words.


Grady was laid to rest the following Sunday. At the graveside, John Sullivan played "I Come to the Garden Alone" on his violin and James spoke of heaven but what I remember most clearly is the widow when she somehow managed to gather us children to her like a flock of pigeons and talked to us in a soft, sad voice. She

was grateful for the women, she told us, for the food and the housekeeping, and to James for his kindness and caring, even grateful that the good Lord had finally seen fit to end Grady's suffering but what she was most grateful for was us, that we'd risked the woodshed and maybe worse to do a secret good deed. She would never tell, she promised us, but she knew. And it made her proud.


We couldn't very well ask questions about who had told her without giving ourselves away so we all agreed to keep the secret good deed a secret. It wasn't as hard as we thought.

Winter

Winter.

There's no snow but after an exceptionally muggy and mild December, January arrives with a bitter and sharp toothed cold that reaches into my bones.  Michael's old house is a warren of cross drafts.  The cold leaches in under the doors and around the window frames, seeps up through the floor and down from the roof.  Because of the ragged and neglected ductwork under the house, what heat there is finds its way outside.  I raise the thermostat and switch on the space heater but after several hours, it's still just 44 outside, 53 in his office, and barely 62 in mine. I can't find the words for how much I loathe winter.  When I reach the point that I can't stand another minute of it, I snatch up my pen, my notebook, the portable telephone and herd the dogs to the second floor.  I'm trying with every fiber of my being not to feel homicidal about Michael being in sunny and warm Hollywood for the past four days but  it isn't a terribly successful effort.  Between the cold and the care of the work dogs - who are, as usual, determined to wreak as much havoc as possible and test my patience to its very core - I'm feeling quite willing to lock the front door and flee the scene. 

I don't do it, of course.  Sometimes I regret that I was taught my daddy's idea of responsibility rather than my mother's casual unaccountability but there it is.  

The next day warms up considerably and Michael finally overcomes the trials and tribulations of air travel and makes it home although the return trip - most of which was spent in the confines of a Texas airport - has not done him any good.  He's congested and sneezing, red eyed and sniffling and his vision is worse than ever.  I suspect if he were to drive and be stopped, he'd lose his license altogether so I volunteer to drive him to the Walmart.  Among other things, a case or two of designer dogfood has gone missing - we'd had a somewhat fiery email exchange over this when I'd mentioned it - he'd insisted that he'd double checked before leaving and there should be more than a dozen cans left even if he was a day late getting home.

Be that as it may, I'd written him back, You're still out.  I'm bringing some spare Pedigree.

Who steals dogfood? he growls at me with a dark look toward our only other employee's desk, an odd but extremely engaging young man who comes in part time, works strictly on commission and spends a great deal of time organizing and planning his work but never seems to get around to actually doing it.

And who asked him to clean the kitchen or dust or vacuum or organize my closets, I want to know, he demands with a scowl, I pay him to see to the dogs after you've gone, not to clean house!

We've had a variation of this conversation a hundred times and I have no more answers this time than I've had multiple times before.

It's a mystery, I tell him, let's go to Walmart.

We go by the backroads because like so many people I know, he's always in search of the next shortcut, as if a red light might cause some sort of fatal delay.  We roam the aisles, stocking up on 20-packs of paper towels, a half dozen cases of Coke, and enough dogfood to last til spring.  I read him brands and prices and at the check out, swipe his card and press the appropriate buttons for him.  It makes me realize that his eyes are far worse than he's willing to admit - he's been on steroids for years for chronic iritis - and I make a mental note:  EYE DOCTOR.  FIRST THING TOMORROW.  It will be a battle I'm determined to win.

Winter, I think to myself, is a dark time.

A Woman Without Means

A sharp, military rapping at the screen door woke the dogs but as soon as they saw who it was, they immediately retreated to the sunporch.  My grandmother was so startled she dropped a mixing bowl of cake batter and let loose a colorful stream of cuss words.

Come in, Hilda, she called tiredly, I declare I don't see why you can't just knock like e'vbody else.

Miss Hilda, starched and creased within an inch of her life in her riding habit and hunting boots, strode in.

Alice, she announced, Are you aware that there's a curious sort of person in your blackberry patch?

I am, Nana replied a little impatiently, It's Lizzie's granddaughter from next door.  She was wantin' to make a cobbler.

So she has your permission?  Hilda frowned.

She does, my grandmother said in her best "as if it's any of your business" tone of voice, Have some tea, dear, it'll take the edge off.

I've already had my tea, Alice, and I prefer my edges sharp and intact, as you well know.  

This was so true I had to duck my head to hide a smile. Truth was, Miss Hilda was nothing but sharp edges and angles - her posture, her speech, her bearing - even her expectations were hardened and inflexible as steel. My grandmother was practical-minded, sensibly dependable and morally well corseted, but our British neighbor was a ramrod of strength, primly proper, straight forward to the point of insulting, merciless in defense of the queen and more than a tad scary if you were a child.  You minded your business and watched your step with Miss Hilda or, as my mother had once said, she'd run you over like a world war two armored division.  

She could also be the very soul of compassion if she judged you worthy, a good friend but a worse enemy, a superb horsewoman and a fiercely independent advocate for women's rights.  She was what Sparrow often called, Not 'specially feminine but formidable as a frontline, not a woman to be toyed with.  

That particular day, she had brought along her rarely exposed softer side.

I've come about Mary Martine Crocker, Miss Hilda said briskly, She is a woman in need.

Nana paused, one oven-mitted hand on the handle of the old cast iron stove and one balancing a muffin tin. I noticed that she didn't look at Hilda directly.

Mary Martine? she asked cautiously, What about her?

The Widow Crocker, as she was known, was a young woman from the French Shore with a treacherous reputation.  It was said that she'd met Hugh Crocker when he was still married and charmed him away from his wife and all six children as easily as falling off a log.  While deserting his family with nary a backward glance, it all fairness, it was also said that Hugh had brought this wicked woman to the island only after his wife had moved in and bedded down with a lobsterman from the mainland.  No one was really clear about who had done what and when, but island loyalty was strong and Hugh, born and raised among us, was forgiven while the woman from the French Shore was seen as a homewrecker and remained an unwelcome outcast.  She rarely left the small house at the other end of the island and when Hugh got likkered up one Saturday night and drove his old pickup into the lily pond and drowned, she closed and shuttered the house and refused to come to the funeral.  Mad with grief, said some.  Sins come home to roost, said others.

That had been in the early spring and here it was mid-July.

It's time to put past sins to bed, Miss Hilda told my grandmother, time to show a bit of generosity of spirit. The woman is in need.  And there are the children to consider.

I could see that Nana had her doubts but once set on a course, Hilda was not one to be deterred.  

I shall do this with or without your assistance, Alice, she said smartly, but I'm compelled to point out that your support would be most valuable. She is a woman without means and and it will not do for us to continue to neglect our Christian duty.

She has paid the price of her indiscretion, she added grimly, I fear the future's wrath, if it should come, may be on our own heads.

Whether she was actually moved or persuaded by Hilda's arguments or just didn't have the energy to put up a fight, I never did know, but Nana sighed mightily and gave in.  At that afternoon's meeting of the Ladies Auxiliary, she stood her ground and when the dust settled, charity had won.  The island ladies all agreed to give the condemned widow a fresh start - Hilda actually hired her as a part time housekeeper and rabidly encouraged others to do the same while Miz McIntyre offered her a weekend job at the general store - it seemed forgiveness wasn't as far out of reach as we'd imagined.

A Circle of Light

Exactly how the rabbits made their escape is a mystery to this day but a week after my eleventh birthday, it was the defining moment in Mary Elizabeth Albright's life.  She publicly and loudly lost her mind.

Her house was two doors down from our's, nothing special except for the circular drive her sons had constructed - she'd seen one on a visit to Halifax and for reasons few understood and even less questioned - had decided it was something she couldn't live without.  It took all her four boys two solid weeks to clear the ground, dig it up and then cement over it and Mary surrounded the whole affair with wildflowers and small fir trees. Not long after, she added strings of tiny Christmas lights, twining them meticulously through the scraggly fir branches.

Mary's lit up again, the fisherman would tell each and cackle unkindly but most everyone agreed it was a pretty enough sight after dark and despite the season.

The rabbits though - well, they presented a problem.

At first, there were just the two orphans that one of the children had found in the field behind the empty Blackford house.  They were so tiny and fragile that Mary kept them in a straw-lined shoe box close to the stove and fed them with an eyedropper until Rowena suggested that one of her nursing mother cats might make a good caregiver.  She delivered a young tabby who'd lost her litter to a fox attack and was - according to Rowena who knew about such things - in mourning and poor health, and the blended family was an instant success.  Mary exchanged the shoe box for her wicker laundry basket, lined it with blankets and old towels, and watched in relief as the tabby curled her thin body around the babies to keep them warm and began nursing.

Well, she said to Rowena, her eyes wide with surprise, I never. I just never.

They're in good hands, Rowena told her, Maisey'll  raise'em right and she's some slick mouser to boot.

Rabbits, though, will be rabbits and it wasn't long before they began to breed.  Mary had Uncle Len come by and build her a dozen hutches out of wooden milk crates and wire mesh - she stacked them on the back porch in neat rows and hung plastic tarp to keep out the cold and snow in anticipation of winter - filled each with straw and wrote each rabbit's name in bold black marker on the outside of each hutch.  She favored Biblical names she told Ruthie and me, Because you ain't likely to run out.

At some point on a mild July summer afternoon a week after my birthday, the rabbits got out.  

When Mary discovered the empty hutches, she ran from her house in just her undergarments and flannel bathrobe, carrying a broom and shrieking Biblical names to the sky.  The noise was ungodly.  Old Hat came racing across her yard, shotgun in hand.  Poor Sparrow was rudely woken from his midday nap and like to fell out his rocking chair when he stumbled over his bewildered old hound dog.  The canteen emptied with a rush of curious fishermen still with napkins tucked neatly under their chins and cursing colorfully.  Even Uncle Bernie who had been about to close the candy store, ducked back inside, quite convinced the end of the world had finally arrived.

LEVITICUS! JEZEBEL! Mary screeched, MALACHI!  NICODEMUS!  SAMUEL! ESTHER!

John Sullivan, walking back to his boat with a yoke of water on his shoulders and suddenly assaulted by a wave of rabbits, did a mad dance trying not to step on the furry little creatures.

WOMAN, WHAT THE HELLFIRE IS WRONG WITH YOU?  he bellowed at Mary as she darted around the circle of light in her front yard like a headless chicken, sweeping frantically at rabbits and still screaming Biblical names.

CLEOPATRA! AARON! she wailed, JOHN THE BAPTIST!

It was John and Jacob Sullivan who finally caught and restrained her.

Be damned if she weren't in nothin' but her foundation garments, John told my grandmother ruefully, she done fought like a trapped wildcat when Jacob went for the nets and it took every one we had to catch them damn rabbits!

They's everywhere, missus, Jacob agreed, reckon we caught a hunnert or more but ain't no tellin' how many got past us.

I know'd she was two cans short of a sixpack with that driveway thing, Sparrow added, but sweet jaysus, all them rabbits!

Rowena was summoned and managed to calm Mary's hysteria.  Miss Clara rode over from her cabin and stayed the night to keep an eye on her.  Nana and Miss Hilda volunteered Uncle Shad and Uncle Willie to repair the damage to the trampled front yard and Noah Nickerson and his brothers arrived to sort out the rabbits. Everything was put to rights except Mary Elizabeth who cried herself to sleep and never again lit the circle of light. 







  

  

House of Cards

On Saturday nights, if you were over 40, didn't dance or drink - at least not to excess - you could always find your way to play cribbage at the Legion Hall.  And if you were very brave or very foolish. you took on Israel Pyne.  And invariably lost.

Uncle Izzle was tall and lean with bright blue eyes, wavy white hair and a neatly trimmed beard,  He had been, according to my grandmother and several other equally respectable island women, quite the ladies man in his prime and had not only aged well and handsomely but had lost none of his charm.  He was a lifelong bachelor, well into his seventies and had slowed down some - Ain't we all, Nana would say with a wistful look -
but he hadn't lost his touch with women or with cards.  He played bridge, canasta, gin rummy and most versions of poker but cribbage was his game of choice.  He never turned down a game and there wasn't a single Legion Hall regular who could recall his losing a match.

Damned if'n I know how he does it, Uncle Shad muttered sourly one night after he'd had one too many Molsons,
Jist don'e seem natural to have that long of a run of luck.

You reckon I cheat, Shadrach?  Uncle Izzie asked, real friendly-like but those blue eyes hard like steel.

Ain't what I said, Israel, Uncle Shad replied mildly, I reckon I jist ain't never know'd a man so lucky.

Powerful diff'rence 'tween luck and skill, Shadrach, Uncle Izzie observed with a cold smile, Powerful diff'rence.

Shad considered the words while the rest of us all wondered who would back down first, then he shrugged.

Mebbe so, he finally said, mebbe that's jist exactly so.

You could feel the tension dissipate and most of those who'd heard the exchange declared it a draw.  No one stayed enemies for long on the island.  In a village of less than 400 year round residents, there just weren't enough of us.

Sometimes when Nana would send me to the canteen to fetch a box of kitchen matches or a pint of sweet cream, Israel Pyne would be there, holding court in one of the scratchy leather booths.  He taught us some of the simpler card tricks, two different kinds of solitaire, a bunch of kid card games and the delicate architecture of building a house of cards.  His hands were leathery and bruised with age but sure and steady as the cancer that was slowing taking his life.  He'd survived two heart attacks by then and a mild stroke - they were called "shocks" in those days - but it was the cancer that finally killed him.  Most of the magic in his hands died with him but there are still a few of us left who can build a mean house of cards.

He was laid to his final rest in the tiny cemetery beside the Baptist chucrh on a late summer afternoon, in his fancy boots, button down vest and black frock coat.  Uncle Shad, Uncle Willie and four of the Sullivan brothers carried his coffin.  Nana and the respectable ladies tossed flowers into the grave but the men threw cards from a brand new deck.  They did it discreetly and before he thought better of it and had to hide it, even the preacher smiled.

 

Clara's Roses

Nobody on the island had as green a thumb or as a strong a love of growing things than Miss Clara. She had what the ladies called "the touch" when it came to vegetables and plants and flowers - especially flowers - and during the frozen winters, she mourned for the light and warmth and greenery.

Might oughta build a greenhouse, Uncle Len casually suggested one late January evening, Little lumber, little glass, mebbe some insulation, and you'd have roses year 'round.

Clara had never grown roses but the idea appealed to her.  

You ever build a greenhouse, Len?  she asked thoughtfully.

Cain't say as I ever have, the old man shrugged, but I don't 'spect it'd be much diff'rent than building' anythin' else.

Clara thought about all that winter, sent to Halifax for a "How To" book, paced out her little plot of land and planned how to clear it, studied roses til she knew every color and variety, learned about soil and cultivation. And one fine spring morning, she went to see Uncle Len.

Reckon I'd have you draw up some plans for that greenhouse, Len, she told him.  

Reckon I know'd you would, Clara, he said amiably, Come sit a spell and I'll fetch'em.

The lumber arrived not long after, two pick up trucks full all the way from Dartmouth and by the time the framing was up, The Prince John had docked at the breakwater with its cargo hold piled with layers of glass, each carefully sandwiched between layers of insulation and straw.  It took a caravan of young island men to haul the glass, one sheet at a time, over Cow Ledge and down the often treacherous, narrow path to Clara's but not a single piece was damaged.  She happily gave each a brand new dollar for every trip they made, two (and an icepack) to Johnny when he missed his footing and wrenched his ankle so badly but still managed to save the glass.  Len and Clara oversaw it all from the veranda, drinking lemonade and eating gingersnaps, examining and going over the blueprints, cheerfully bickering like two old crows.

The finished product was a marvel of simplicity and minimalism - a pristine structure of wood and glass, placed where the sun would reach it most of each day and encased in a tight wrap of clear, strong plastic.   A floor of flagstones had been meticulously laid to withstand the weather and provide drainage and the plastic as well as the glass panels on the slanted roof could be removed come summer.  Clara was delighted.  She set out to order potting soil and plant food, a new wheelbarrow and an extra pair of gardening gloves and went to work.
By summers end, she had African violets, lilies, hibiscus, ivy and ferns everywhere, a thriving pair of orchids and of course, her roses - red, white, yellow and pale pink - the little greenhouse was a blaze of color and so it stayed all that wretched winter.  Each Sunday, Clara would cut and wrap a bouquet of roses, climb on the painted pony and no matter the weather or the depth of the snow, deliver it to the Baptist church where James would place it on the altar for all to see.

Surely, Miss Clara, he would say with a smile, tis your labor but the good Lord's design.

And Clara, who had never put her faith in pridefulness or its evil sister, false modesty, looked at her roses and fairly shone.

A year or so afterward, Uncle Len took sick - powerful sick, his only daughter who had come from the mainland to care for him said - and to no one's surprise, he didn't last the winter.  His was not the only grave Clara tended in the old cemetery but it was the only one with year round roses.

Flight

No, my grandmother announced as she latched the screen door from the inside and gave me one of her most withering glares, no seagulls in the house.  This is where I draw the line.

The limp, injured bird gave an indignant squawk and tried half-heartedly to nip at my fingers.

But it'll die! I wailed.

Nana would not be moved.

Then  it'll die, I reckon, she said coldly, Ain't like there's a shortage of gulls, now is there.  They's nasty, filthy
diseased creatures and.....

I burst into tears.  

The bird struggled.

She relented some. 

I reckon you kin take it to the woodshed, she finally said, mebbe Rowena kin do something for it.  If it don't die first.  But you're to change your clothes and wash your hands in lye soap after, you hear me?

I made it a nest of kindling, old towels and sawdust, brought it a tin cup of water and some bits of salt fish.  It lay on its side and regarded me with suspicious, beady eyes.  I didn't think it would last the night but the next morning when Rowena arrived to doctor it, it seemed better and when I opened the woodshed door it rushed at us with a flutter of wings and a loud, unhappy caw, then promptly fell over.  Rowena quickly snatched it up and before I could blink had wrapped her hands around its body and wings.  It went immediately still and after a few more moments, she set it down in her lap and I watched in awe as it relaxed.  She talked to it softly and stroked its wings, probing its sides and underbelly gently but thoroughly.

I declare, she said after several more minutes, I do believe she's been shot.

She lifted the gull with both hands, peering into it's feathers and brushing them backwards with one thumb.

Ayuh, here it is, she announced and I saw a tiny indentation in its side, barely visible and ringed faintly with dried blood the color of rust. Pellet gun, by the feel of it, she added, and there was more than a hint of disgust in her voice, One of those Sullivan boys, I reckon, target practicin' on whatever was handy.

Can you fix it? I asked anxiously.

Most likely, she told me and gave me a reassuring smile, Fetch me your grandmother's sewing scissors, the little ones, some tweezers, a bottle of iodine and some cotton balls.  


I was already running when she called after me, And some rubber bands, thick ones or some ribbon!

We sat in the summer sun and I watched her tie the gull's beak with a length of ribbon, snip gently at its feathers until the wound was exposed and then pull out three pellets.  When she was done, she dipped a cotton ball in iodine and pressed it against the gull's smooth side, holding it firmly and reciting Bible verses in a soft, calm voice.  The gull stayed bewilderingly motionless.

Beasts and birds ain't got language like us, she explained, So it don't matter what you say to'em.  All's they hear is your tone of voice.  But, I reckon, they do know a kindness when it's offered.

That was in late June.  A month or so later, Rowena came back and pronounced the gull ready for release.  

Don't hold her too tight, she warned me, Jist so she won't go until you're ready, then throw her into the air with both hands, like you was throwin' leaves or mebbe snow.  She'll know what to do.

And she did. 

She unfolded her wings and soared out across the passage, circled Gull Rock, came back and dove gracefully toward the tide, then flew straight and level across the whitecaps, finally turning toward open water.  We watched  until she was just a speck against the blue summer sky.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my grandmother, watching from the window and trying not to smile.