Four Times Blessed (26 page)

My mind blanks because deep down I know what kind of trouble this means and I can’t think about it. I just go cold.

Then, comes the panic. The shadowy basement isn’t cozy or hazy anymore. Instead it’s sharp, with the bitter smatterings of distinct points of darkness.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know,” I choke out.

Silence pounds in my ears. Then, there’s a hand on my cheek, so light that I don’t even jump. Unsure, I follow the hand with my gaze. I push all the way up the arm, shoulder, neck, face, metal eyes. They’re big and luminous. And not hard at all. I want to dive into them, which is impossible and crazy.

“Hey, hey. I won’t tell,” he says. He’s smart, if he figured everything out so fast. I should tell him that. But I’m afraid all I can do is stand there in a silent, unmoving prayer.

“I won’t tell, Crus,” he repeats.

I stop myself from reminding him that he should. Because he should. I don’t like being caught. I hate the hot angry tears that fill my lids, and spill.

He comes close, and in my fog there is the press of lips on my cheek. For a long moment, then they go, leaving my skin buzzing.

My head, too.

“Give it to me.”

I stumble back, catch myself on the next stair.

One hand busy holding my shoulder, Lium holds out the other one. “I’ll get rid of it. I’m pretty sure this is part of my job,” he softens. I wipe at my eyes, and hesitate.  

I check over my shoulder. “I should put it back.” I wouldn’t feel right, not putting it back, precisely as it was.

Lium insists, though, “And take a second chance at being caught? No way. You got it out clean, you used it, now make it disappear. You did get out clean, right?”

“Yes,” I say, almost annoyed.

“Then hand it over.”

With something that’s not really regret, I do. It goes into a deep pocket inside the leg of his pants. I can’t say I feel lighter. More like hollower.

“Now, let’s go do something with this cheese.”

I nod, and walk under his arm when he opens the basement door.

The next few days, we don’t speak of it. And though I always know right where he is, it’s hard to look at him. I find myself overcompensating for this, meeting his level gaze with one of my own, too hard, too often. Despite not being sure what his is saying.

It’s when he’s left the meetinghouse, and I’m in my room with a candle and a book, pining after my graveyard hideout, apologizing to the stars in my window frame for not admiring them all tonight, after he thinks I’ve gone to bed, that I work it out. That I was right, I do trust him. And it worries me.

              By Friday night, I can’t do any more studying or my brain will explode so I’m in the back of the kitchen helping my aunt Marissa, Larissa’s older sister, wash the last of the dishes. My zizi preps for breakfast tomorrow.

             
“I was talking to Groton this morning, and he said at the last meeting they all agreed with me that something has to be done. The catch has been too poor this season. Everyone knows it. If the winter is too long, forefathers forbid it, we’ll have some problems.”

             
“My husband’s been saying the same thing,” says Marissa, putting a wet plate on the rack.

             
“They all say it. Everyone knows it. Only a fool wouldn’t.” My zizi’s voice is grating on my tired ears. I did an analysis for the weather center that involved opera vocals earlier today.

             
“I think,” she says, and waits until we both stop what we’re doing, “that we need a whale hunt. Now is the time, while they’re migrating. How can anyone not see that! Are they stupid?” my aunt’s voice raises to an impressive pitch. I try to calm her down.

             
“Zizi, maybe it’s not as bad as they say. Those guys exaggerate a lot.”

             
“No, Crusa. You haven’t been around as long as I have. Trust me, I know when the catch isn’t good enough.”

             
“Maybe the winter will be mild. You never know.”

             
“You can’t count on that. You can’t ever count on New England weather. What would we do if we all just said, ‘oh, well.’ You can’t do that. It’s irresponsible. I don’t know how anyone could do that. Are people just that oblivious? Why don’t those people at your lab see this, Crusa? They should send out the information to us. Crusa, are you listening to me? They call themselves smart but if they don’t see this then they’re stupid. Are they stupid? Somebody tell me. They must be stupid. I tell you, they may be smart but they don’t have any common sense.”

             
“I guess they just don’t think of it. Plus, the M.S.A. considers whales a protected species,” I mumble. It’s not like she really wants another explanation.

             
“I know that. But when stupid people make stupid rules why do you follow them? You should just go look up the whales’ locations yourself, if nobody else will do it. Of course they won’t, imbeciles…” she goes on and we finish the dishes.

             
I zone out but at some point realize she’s switched topics to how exhausted she is and gives a detailed list of all her aches and pains. I massage her back for her, and it finally winds her down enough to go sit by the fire and sew.

             
I get into my bed, but I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about what she was saying, about nobody at the base paying attention to how we need a hunt.

              I wake up, still tired after a night of high-wired dreaming. I feed most of my breakfast to Lium and Hale. I function at work like a good, albeit jumpy, specialist all morning, but by the afternoon I can’t focus on the virtual orchestra. I keep loosing the drums somewhere, and I reprimand them like they’re real people.

             
It’s then that I decide to close my analysis program for the day. I spin around in my chair for a while. Then I suddenly decide to click on the NOA icon, hands shaking like I’m on a sugar rush. The screens flash by, and before I know it, I have the marine life data pages sprawled across my visual display.

             
I can only glance at them for a few seconds before I feel like throwing up, but that’s enough. Not only do I logout, but I also shutdown the entire computer and unplug it from the power source before I slip on my heels and go wait at the lobby door.

             
At five oh five, I kick off the ridiculously high regulation heels and they land in some ferns. I’ll come get them later. Or not.

             
Possibly.

             
After practically falling down the side of the island, I find my Uncle Groton fiddling around with some crates on his boat              

             
“Uncle Groton, Uncle Groton!”

             
“What’s wrong, child?”

             
“There’s a whole pod of shark-whales off the eastern side of the island, right past the drop-off.” I point out to sea. He looks at me, and that’s about it. 

             
“What dear?”

             
I have to repeat myself twice and then assure him three times that it is actually true before he can a, actually hear me, b, comprehend what I’m trying to explain, and c, actually take me seriously. The last part takes the longest because apparently the chipmunk voice and bare feet do not lend credibility to a point, no matter how valid.

             
Eventually, my uncle yells at a fisherman passing by to get the harpoons and hunting skiffs ready, and in a burst the whole marina is off and running about.

             
I stand, barefoot and panting, as the men scurry around in frantic activity.

             
I decide to stay and watch, because now I’ll feel guilty for making them run around if the whales don’t come close enough, and I feel like I should be there if they want to yell at me. It’s only fair.

             
I go down to the end of my uncle’s dock and hang my legs over the edge, and it’s good I don’t have shoes now because I don’t have to worry about remembering them later. I also have to unbutton my blouse and roll up the long cuffed sleeves to my elbows before I can relax.

             
There are three skiffs in the water, and two of my poppy’s that are too old to hunt watching nearby, by the time I’m comfortable. The skiffs are small, lithe things that sit close to the surface and I don’t know how they don’t tip over every five seconds. I ask my grandfathers, and they say they can.

             
Ok, then. One says that’s why teams are put together based on body mass as well as hunting skill. I nod and say I hope none tip over. They’re all armed with pointed and barbed harpoons, as tall as they are themselves. My poppy Sal starts going on about all the times they’ve accidentally caught themselves in the hunt. I tell him I don’t think that actually happened. He laughs.

             
The wood under me vibrates with unhurried steps.

             
“Hey, Sal, Crusa, what’s going on? We missed you on the path.”

             
“Sorry, I didn’t take the path.”

             
Lium comes up with Hale lagging behind him, squinting out at the water. They come to the edge of the dock and sit on either side of me. It’s a little too cozy for my taste, but I try not to fidget. This week, back in our routine, I feel we got back on an even keel, and I don’t want to mess it up again so soon.

             
“It’s a whale hunt. There’s a pod not too far out. It’s pretty lucky. We don’t usually get them so close to the islands, but the meat and the blubber and the bones are all really good. Have you guys ever hunted shark whales before?”

             
“No, what are they?” asks Hale, still watching the boats, now numbering at least ten or twelve, with the rest of the men gathering up knives and making space on the beach.

             
I shrug, “They’re just whales that look like sharks. About the size of that rowboat, there. And they’re grey and have white bellies. They’ve got really pointy teeth because they hunt fish, too. That must be why they’re near us, I bet.”

             
“We should go join them,” says Hale to his brother.

             
Lium looks like he’s already thought of that.

             
“Mm, I don’t think you want to do that,” I say.

             
I glance over at one of my poppy’s, and he says, “No, shark whales are aggressive, and hard to hunt. You have to circle them in, just right, and then harpoon each one many times before it gets too weak to fight back, and they don’t go quietly. Our men out there have been hunting them forever. But it’s still dangerous, even for them. You two don’t want to be out there today. We’ll teach you, though. Watch carefully, and you can go next time.”

             
Neither of the boys looks too happy, but there’s really nothing they can do about it since all the skiffs are out. I’m glad of it, but I still feel sorry about their frowning faces.

             
“Hey, if you guys stick around, you can get a portion of the meat. You just wait, everyone in town will be down here to get some soon, you’ll see.”

             
While we wait, they tell me their funniest rodeo stories. It’s the first time I’ve heard such stories, since that day Lium first told me about it. I hear about rodeo clowns and Lium’s adventures in searching for the cowgirls’ tents and the time Hale wrestled a sheep when he was twelve. Only good memories. They sound like two big honking seals, by the end. No wonder the shark whales are in so close.

              I can just barely make out the harpoons. They’ve been floating around out in one area for a while now. Hale’s asleep and Lium and I lean against a pillar.

             
“Hey!”

             
“What?”

             
My poppy who isn’t snoring points. The boats have moved. There are some men sitting low, paddling, spiraling the skiffs around. There’s a burst of white spray and they all start pointing at it.

             
Someone throws a harpoon and it disappears into the water. They all shift position, and do it again. I glimpse a lump, covered in spikes rising above the surface and disappearing down again. Over and over.