Lifesaving Lessons (11 page)

I made a circle and lined up to secure my starboard side to the CG vessel's port side. So far this mission qualified as keystone cop material. My confidence in the result was flagging. Although the weather was fair, the sea was far from calm. The swells rolled the Coast Guard boat nearly rail to rail because she was fairly round bottomed. The CG crew scrambled to secure large fenders to their port side where I could hopefully make a landing long enough for the police officers to jump ship. I stuck the landing and handed one of the crew members a short line to cleat off while the sheriff did the same at the stern.

Three people emerged from within the CG vessel and stepped somewhat athletically from bouncing boat to bouncing boat. The first thing that struck me was the physical appearance of the three officers. Two very fit and handsome men, and one extremely fit and gorgeous woman thanked me for coming out to get them. They could have stepped right off a movie set—they so looked the part of the good guys. The CG crew released my lines, and off we went. My three new passengers introduced themselves—all special agents, two with the state police and one with the FBI. So, I gathered, this was the A team. And as we steamed toward the dock, the conversation restored all of my confidence. I was impressed. Scared, but really impressed.

What scared me most was the new knowledge that this team had neither a warrant for Ken's arrest nor a search warrant. They had experience with similar situations but, it seemed, nothing else. Something about their presence—demeanor or professionalism—prohibited me from asking the logical question: “So what the hell are we doing today?” They obviously knew what they were doing, which was quite comforting. But I was absolutely sick with worry now that I would be transporting this special team back to the Coast Guard vessel without Ken. Then what? Forcing that dark thought back into the depths from where it came, I eased the
Mattie Belle
into the float at our town landing, relieved to have no witnesses. All passengers except the sheriff, who stayed with me, disembarked, asking that I remain at the float until they returned for their ride back offshore. I don't know which was stronger, wanting to be the proverbial fly on the wall at Ken's house or the repulsion of knowing what had happened over the course of years that had led to today and wanting to hide under a rock until it was over. I could do neither. So I had nothing to do but sit aboard the
Mattie Belle
with the sheriff and wait.

“Isn't that the mail boat coming?” the sheriff asked.

Sure enough, the
Mink
was approaching the float with a deck loaded with lumber and other building supplies. All freight coming to Isle au Haut does so across the end of the town landing, where I was now tied. I would need to move to make room for the
Mink
to secure directly under the hydraulic winch so that the freight could be off-loaded. I heard a truck backing down the dock, coming to receive the supplies. Poor timing, I thought, as I started the engine, dropped lines, and idled out of the way. Judging from the size of their load, the
Mink
would be here awhile, I thought. “I guess we might as well hang on my mooring,” I said as I moved in that direction. This was just another wrinkle in the fiasco.

Secured to the mooring, the sheriff and I sat on the engine box of the
Mattie Belle,
where we were sheltered from the cool breeze and fully exposed to the sun. We watched as bundles of cedar shingles and stacks of lumber were lifted from the deck of the
Mink,
swung dangling from the end of the boom, and lowered onto the back of the flatbed truck. Over and over, up and down—it was like clowns climbing out of the tiny circus car. How much freight could the boat possibly carry? My heart skipped a beat when I saw the selectman's red Jeep Cherokee come tearing down the ramp and onto the wharf.

The sheriff and I both jumped to our feet. We watched as the selectman climbed out of the driver's side of the Jeep. The other doors remained closed. Although I peered with all my might, the glare on the Jeep's windshield didn't allow my nervous stare to penetrate. The selectman stepped aboard the
Mink
and disappeared into the cabin. The selectman called me from the
Mink
's radio. When I answered, he said, “They asked him some pointed questions, to which he confessed. Then he faked a seizure. We are now waiting for him to be cleared medically before they can proceed.” I had no idea to what Ken had confessed, nor did I understand how he might get medical clearance or how the officials would proceed. In spite of all of my ignorance, I thanked the selectman for letting me know. I understood that I was to be on standby for something at some time. And that was it.

I cast off the mooring and steamed to the dock where the selectman was just about to climb into his Jeep. I needed more information and wasn't going to get it over the radio. He saw me coming and surely sensed my bewilderment. I threw the
Mattie Belle
into reverse just long and hard enough to come to a complete stop just astern of the mail boat. He came to the edge of the dock where I was close enough to converse at low volume. He knelt down to get as close as he could and said, “He volunteered enough information for a judge to issue a search warrant and a warrant for his arrest over the phone. I'm not sure how much longer it will be, but they are not leaving the island without him.”

I was greatly relieved to hear of the impending arrest. But I was very unhappy with the thought of being part of whatever would happen from here. “Thanks. That's good news. I'm not having him aboard my boat. The Coast Guard will have to come get him,” I said bluntly. I promptly picked up the radio and called the Coast Guard vessel that was still waiting offshore. I knew that they had heard about the seizure, and assumed they'd had phone contact to know what I had just learned of the arrest. “I don't think it's prudent or safe to do an at-sea transfer of this guy who is having seizures. If fact, I don't think I can be held responsible for getting him to you safely. You'll have to come to the dock and pick him up. There's plenty of water here now, and the tide is rising.” I was asked to stand by, which I did while assuming the young officer was now in contact with his superiors. The answer came back asking that I come out to get one of the officers from the boat, show him the way to the dock, show him the depth of water, and then, if the officer agreed that it was safe to proceed to the dock, I could come back for them and they would follow close behind.

I was so anxious and stressed out, I steamed at full throttle to pick up the officer, who jumped before I was secured to the vessel. I steamed the distance to the dock, talking the entire time about the channel, what to avoid, and which side of the day marker to be on coming and going. I pointed at my depth sounder continually, commenting on the deep water we had everywhere. I prayed for a mark of ten feet at the dock, and was relieved to see twelve. “See? There's plenty of water here, and this is the shoalest point.” The kid was young and inexperienced. I could tell he trusted me but didn't want to be responsible for making a bad decision. “And I'll lead the way. There's no way to get in any trouble,” I pleaded. The sheriff chimed in to support my argument. He added that the Coast Guard should not expect a civilian to transport what was now a suspect under arrest, especially when it was so unnecessary.

We zipped back to the Coast Guard boat, allowed the young officer to hop off the
Mattie Belle,
and headed for the dock for what I hoped would be the final trip of the day. The Coast Guard followed close behind, breaking away when I turned for my mooring. I watched as they tied to the town landing in the berth that the mail boat had now vacated. As I shut electronics and engine down, I couldn't help but have an overwhelming sense of doom. Nothing had gone right today. Was this an omen of some kind telling me that I was making a mistake? It was not a good feeling, and one that I tried desperately to persuade to subside. What if Simon and my parents had been right? The sense of impending doom at the hands of a decision I had made against the advice of the three most relied upon people in my life had the effect of making me feel very weak and small, quite the opposite of what I needed to feel. It wasn't as if I could say “so far, so good” with regard to my relationship with Mariah. In fact, it was strained at best. I had never been more truthful than when I told Simon that I had lived very selfishly to this point in my life. And now I was making a major commitment to share when I had been unwilling to do so with anyone to date. I had made bad decisions before and lived with them. But my mistakes in the past hadn't involved more than someone's paycheck—usually mine. You can always make more money. But how would you go about fixing screwed-up hopes and dreams and futures? I wanted to believe that I would be more than just the best of bad options for Mariah. I
had
to be more than the least of all evils. I was confused. What I knew for certain was that it would have been easier, a lot easier, to spend the rest of my life alone. But I also knew that easier did not always mean better.

If I was doing the right thing, why was I virtually hiding in the parking lot waiting for the red Jeep to reappear? Why was
I
feeling ashamed? All that I had done to this point had been so bold and brave. Why was I now cowardly and unable to face Ken?

I have spent many hours wondering what caused those feelings, and have never been able to justify or psychoanalyze to any satisfaction. But when the Jeep roared down the hill and onto the dock, I had to see and not be seen. I had to watch Ken helped out of the vehicle, unhandcuffed long enough to be helped into a survival suit and rehandcuffed and helped aboard the Coast Guard boat, where he disappeared into the cabin. I raced to my house, arriving in time to watch the Coast Guard boat go by and disappear behind Robinson Point. The kids from Kansas appeared to be off course by about ninety degrees. But Ken was gone, and since then not a day has passed that I haven't been very thankful for that.

What's Another Cat?

O
ut of sight, but not out of mind, Ken left behind more than a kid, as it turned out. I suppose it was my naïveté that held fast to the notion that all the badness and fear that had enveloped my small circle of friends and family who had endured the burden of the whole truth and kept it secret would be sucked down the drain with the dirty water as soon as the handcuffs snapped around Ken's wrists. It was perhaps idealism that wheedled my heavy mind-set to the lighter prospects of everything working out for the best now that the bad seed had been disinterred. To the contrary; the weeks that followed closely behind the arrest opened a gaping wound that bled freely from the island's heart and soul. The possibility of healing our community bore the same degree of remoteness that the chances of our having a practicing pedophile in our midst had done just a short, innocent while ago. The awareness that Ken had lived among
us
while living such a sleazy, filthy life left more than a scar.

Not the least of what Ken left behind was Cowgirl, the sickly, skinny, stinking cat. Because I am not a lover of all of God's little creatures, I resisted when asked to adopt Cowgirl. And that was before I had laid eyes on the ratty feline. To say that I had a weak moment would be quite an understatement. Weak? I was put under the barrage of the masses at my lowest point. I had been reduced to tears. I totally dissolved in front of the entire town of Isle au Haut. Oh, it wasn't the cat that I was publically bawling my eyes out about. Those tears didn't come until a little later. My public crying jag was a complete culmination of everything that Ken had left behind
but
the cat.

The idea of an informal town meeting designed to dispel any rumors and set straight any misinformation regarding Ken's removal from our island and Mariah's future here seemed logical. The Clarks and I agreed that now that Ken had been arrested and removed from our island, it would be safe and in fact prudent to be forthcoming with the information that we had kept quiet until this time. This was a chance to inform the entire community and begin the healing process. There was little chance that just about everyone had neither seen nor heard about the Coast Guard boat, special agents, and Ken's farewell in cuffs and immersion suit. So it was only fair to let the community in on the truth rather than let a few facts generate more rumors. Mariah's counselor, Lesley, graciously agreed at my request to attend the meeting to provide some statistics, her opinion of what would eventually happen with Ken legally, what Mariah might be experiencing emotionally, and how best for us all to cope with the various ways we might be affected. As a rule, islanders clutch their emotional cards particularly close. We are an emotional and passionate people, but outsiders looking in might feel more of a chill. I know the cliché holds that still waters run deep, but trust me, a blank stare from an islander is indicative of nothing. The surface can be dead calm while things roil within.

With Mariah safely at home on the couch, I chose this particular moment for a meltdown. I stood in front of the town of Isle au Haut (all forty-five of them) thinking it appropriate for me to introduce Lesley and explain why she was there. I didn't get far. I began to sob uncontrollably and had to sit down and allow someone else to take over. While the story of Ken's abuse unfolded, I was joined in tears by many. To this day I recall Sue MacDonald weeping and saying, “Both of my girls have spent many nights at that house.” I also recall the veins in her husband's neck pulsating noticeably as he stared at his feet. Dave Hiltz, also a dad of a young island girl, clenched his jaw and both fists as he listened, staring straight ahead. Yes, it was a good thing word hadn't gotten out prematurely. Ken would have been taken off in a body bag. By the end of the meeting everyone was frightfully in the know.

The questions eventually came around to logistics. What would eventually become of Ken, legally and practically? And in the meantime, what would happen with Ken's lobster traps and skiff? What about his pickup truck and VW Rabbit? What about the house he rented from the town, and could he be evicted? They might seem like petty details, but these were important issues in island life. Nobody had answers even to these more comfortable, less emotional queries. The town's lawyer would be consulted (right, we didn't have a cop, but we had a lawyer!). Everything had to be done by the book. And once we had a clear understanding of what the town's rights were, we assumed that the town would be responsible for cleaning out the house it had rented to Ken now that he had vacated it. I was invited to go through the house to collect whatever might be there in the way of paperwork needed for the pending guardianship, which I assumed would happen quickly and soon. Relieved that I had finally reached the bottom of the well of tears, I was minutes from a clean getaway when someone mentioned Cowgirl.

All fingers pointed at me. I should have the cat. The cat, everyone reasoned, was all Mariah loved in the world. Nobody else seemed to want the cat. That should have been a warning to me. Even people who themselves owned many cats didn't step up to the plate for Cowgirl. “What's one more cat?”—I never heard that from any of the cat people. Cats, to my mind, are innately sneaky, not just in their instinctive hunting and preying type of stealth, which I might otherwise admire, but in their deceit. What other animal hides its own poop? That little trick alone points to a degree of cunning that makes me leery. After making it abundantly clear to all that I was less than enthusiastic about the add-on, I reluctantly agreed to take the cat, expecting Mariah to care for it. I could buy the food. The rest would be up to her. And I thought that was absolutely appropriate as I recalled the same arrangement throughout my childhood of pets, both cats and dogs. I would make it work in spite of my qualms. I don't remember who volunteered to deliver Cowgirl to my house, and it's a good thing I don't. But as promised, the cat arrived at my place the next day, litter box and all.

The presence of Cowgirl did make Mariah smile. And I suppose that in and of itself eased the otherwise painful experience of Cowgirl as a housemate. But the smiles were fleeting. Mariah was genuinely unhappy, and she verbalized this unhappiness mostly about her school situation. The daily boat rides back and forth prevented Mariah from having school friends and activity outside of class. She had absolutely no social life beyond dinner with me (I happen to think that I am excellent company, but apparently I am not everyone's cup of tea). All of the island girls Mariah's age were off at boarding schools, so she had nobody to hang out with on weekends (other than me). At first, our home was a bit happier when Simon was around. But soon Mariah stopped putting on her nice face for him, and he experienced our more typical unpleasantness. Mariah and I had many short conversations that all began to sound alike. “Can't you make some friends who have kids my age?” Mariah asked pleadingly.

“Can't you make your own friends?” I asked.

“Right. And
where
would I find these potential friends?”

“Gee. Let me think . . . where would you find kids your age? I know! How about school?” I had learned some of this sarcasm from Mariah herself.

“At Stonington High School?” Mariah's tone now indicated that I had pissed her off by not agreeing to somehow cultivate new friendships with people who had teenage kids. And her opinion of her classmates was, I thought, unjustifiably low. How could I have the audacity to suggest that she become chums with the likes of them? When I saw Mariah begin to withdraw into the couch cushions, I should have let it go. But sometimes it takes awhile for me to learn how best to handle certain emotional situations. I mean, Mariah hadn't exactly come with an owner's manual.

“No. Not Stonington. Are you kidding? I know! Let's place a personal ad for you. ‘Teenage girl
seeks teenage girls for friendship. Likes: Cats. Dislikes: Everything but cats. Interests: None. Residents
of Stonington need not apply.' That ought to get some action.” Now Mariah put a pillow over her head and I knew she was weeping. I learned the hard way that Mariah could dish, but she couldn't take. Whenever I got drawn into this immature banter, I was sure that I ended up feeling worse than she did. I sincerely wanted to be a good guardian, but she just seemed so ridiculous at times.

I was much more sympathetic toward Mariah's complaints about her education than I was toward her social life. Mariah was taking classes at Stonington that she had already had her freshman year at Evergreen. So “bored,” “lame,” “stupid,” and “hate” made up the vast majority of Mariah's vocabulary. She wanted to go back to Evergreen as badly as I wanted it. Yes, it would be a better education for her. Yes, it would be a healthier social situation for her. Yes, she was making me miserable and I couldn't wait to get her out of the house. I promised Mariah to make it my sole mission in life.

Just as I was opening the lines of communication with the administration at Evergreen Academy, I became Mariah's legal guardian. It was a painless and almost scarily simple process. The paperwork was in order. We were met by Mariah's attorney in Rockland, where the county courthouse is. We sat before a judge who asked both Mariah and me to say yes at the appropriate times, which we did. I was asked to sign a legal document, which I did. We drove home locked into a new relationship that would terminate legally and automatically on Mariah's eighteenth birthday. “Well,” I said after an unusually long silence even for us, “I guess we're stuck with each other for the next three years.” I smiled to indicate that I was making a joke even though I wasn't really.

“Oh boy,” Mariah said in her most monotone sarcasm ever. So I guessed the joke was on me. When our friends, family, and neighbors congratulated us on achieving our new guardianship/ward status, Mariah's response was “yeah, whatever.” Although I was glad to hear something other than “lame,” I couldn't ignore the way two words from this kid could suck the life out of me. The best part—Did I really say best? That might indicate some number of good parts—okay, the only positive note about being granted legal guardianship was my upgraded standing with Evergreen Academy in negotiating Mariah's matriculation. Mariah was so seldom fun to be around that I became driven to get her off to school. I was like a pit bull. Just when I was feeling particularly guilty about the selfish reasons for my doggedness in getting Mariah what
she
wanted, and feeling twice as bad about becoming her guardian and certain that it was the single biggest mistake of my life, a news story on the local channel floored me as I was making dinner that Mariah would surely not like.

There was a mug shot of Ken. He had been arraigned on charges of trafficking and possession of child pornography. The police had discovered more than a thousand images of children on his computer, some as young as four years old and some engaged in bestiality. The news described Ken as a fisherman from Isle au Haut. That hurt. The inclusion of this creep in my two most treasured identities killed me. Mariah was horrified. Her face turned scarlet and she began to cry. I spent an hour consoling her and trying to convince her that she had nothing to be ashamed of. Why did doing what I assumed was the right thing feel so awkward?

And having nothing to be ashamed of was my mantra in working with the folks at Evergreen Academy. Although some of her peers' computers had been confiscated by the police—and because kids talk, most of the school community knew a bit of the ugly story—it was a huge step for Mariah to want to return there. But as she had nothing to be ashamed of, why not? Mariah had done nothing wrong. Why shouldn't she go back with her head held high? The only glitch was that when Ken refused to let her return at the beginning of the sophomore year, Evergreen had given the twenty-five thousand dollars in scholarship money awarded to Mariah to another student who was waiting in the wings for funding. So, Evergreen reasoned, if I could pay, she could return. Not that it wouldn't have been worth it just to have my happy house back, but I didn't have that kind of money sitting in my checking account. After all, the stork had dropped this bundle of joy on my doorstep just a few weeks earlier. I hadn't had years to save and plan for the little darling's education.

Evergreen listened to my pleadings for Mariah and what was best for her. They listened as I used their own mission statement to convince them. Mariah may not have filled the bill in their “academically motivated” department, but she was the poster child for needing “help to become an independent, ethical citizen who would lead a life of purpose, action, excellence, and compassion.” At the end of all discussions, the bottom line was that I would show up at Evergreen with Mariah after Thanksgiving break. I would leave her there. They would have a room for her. She would be enrolled in appropriate classes. And I would not pay. I had stepped up. And now the fine school would do the same.

I wondered whether I would make it to Thanksgiving without shooting myself in the head. Honestly, although Cowgirl had been exiled to Mariah's bedroom and bath, my entire house smelled like cat shit. I argued with Mariah on a daily basis about emptying the litter box. Why couldn't the cat shit outside? Oh, because Cowgirl is not an outdoor cat. She might get eaten by a coyote. I should be so lucky! And when Mariah
did
empty the
full
litter box, she did so nearly on the doorstep. I made the mistake of wandering into Mariah's bathroom while she was out one day (which was an anomaly in itself as she seldom left the couch unless it was begrudgingly to go to school ) in search of the stench that was oozing from under her door and into my kitchen. To this day I am still wondering how the cat managed to shit on the wall. Thanksgiving could not come soon enough! Of course I would need a steam cleaner beforehand. Dingle berries are something I normally equate with the ass of a donkey. Not anymore. Cowgirl had permanent balls of shit all tangled up in her hair in her behind area. Really? Aren't cats the only things on planet Earth other than an oven that are truly self-cleaning?