Little Gale Gumbo (12 page)

Matthew pressed his palm against the glass, his fingers weightless, numb.

I'm here, Pop. I'm here
.

 

Josie swore she felt it when Matthew stepped off the ferry.

She'd been in the kitchen, cleaning up from dinner, a sorry little meal of tuna sandwiches and canned soup, but it had sufficed. And besides, neither she nor Wayne had much of an appetite.

She frowned at the clock on the stove. Nine fifteen. She'd considered making up an excuse to take the car just so she could coast down Ocean Avenue to have a look at the landing, maybe see Matthew step off the boat, pretend to be running an errand. She still wondered why he'd chosen to stay on the island when Ben was on the mainland, but a part of her—a big part, too big, really—liked to think it was because Matthew wanted to be near them too, wanted things to be as they were in the old days.

She heard the patio door slide open, glanced over to find Wayne stepping in from the deck, looking drained. He crossed the kitchen to leave his empty mug in the sink. Josie smiled at him when he passed and he briefly touched her shoulder.

She tried to remember the last time they'd made love, but couldn't.

When he scooped his car keys off the table, she asked, “Where are you going?”

“The mower needs gas,” he said.

“Now? It's almost nine thirty.”

“I know. Clem's is open till ten.” He offered her a weary smile, tugging down his Windbreaker from its hook and shrugging into it. “I won't be long.”

Josie nodded, saying nothing as he crossed to plant a light kiss on her temple, knowing better than to press him. It had been an unimaginable day; she couldn't begrudge him his distance. Her father had been a burden in their marriage for so long, and even now in his death, the fog of Charles Bergeron's violence would remain in their hearts, hurtling them backward to a time they'd nearly put away, a time of suspicion and fear, when the islanders had demanded proof of their innocence before relinquishing their trust. Even Wayne, as native to the island as the stones along its shores, had been cast out for a time by people who had practically raised him, all because he'd loved a Bergeron girl.

Josie stood at the sink, listening for the sound of the Buick's engine, then the telltale crunch of gravel under tires as it pulled away, a familiar ache returning instantly, seamlessly.

 

“Here you are, Mr. Haskell. Room three ten.”

The young woman at the front desk of the Sand Dollar handed Matthew his key, smiling blankly. Matthew had felt her eyes on him as he'd filled out his information, possibly trying to decide whether he was any relation to the Haskell who'd been found slumped over a dead man that morning.

Fifteen years ago, it would have been Lenora Parsons at that desk, knowing Matthew almost as well as she had known her own son Tim. But these days, the island was a new place, filled with new faces. Matthew had been spared any reunions on the ferry ride over, easily hiding himself in the thickening dark on the lower deck. To avoid the crowds on Ocean, he'd taken Franklin to Bartlett. To avoid the old house, he'd taken Orchard to Douglas, feeling guilty with every circuitous step.

It still seemed unimaginable to him that he wouldn't be climbing the driveway to the old house, wouldn't be laying his suitcase across the creaking twin bed that he'd tossed and turned in hundreds of nights in his youth, wouldn't be waking to the familiar squeal of his father's router in his woodshop: Ben getting an early start on the latest project, a bookshelf or a new bathroom cabinet. The countless Saturday mornings he and the sisters had met in the hallway, squinting and yawning, their mouths sour with morning breath as they'd collectively groaned at the noise outside.

The woodshop, the whole rambling house, was silent now. A chisel had been left on a piece of wood, a mortise started, rough and waiting to be finished.

Matthew took the two flights to his room, came in and collapsed on the king-size brass bed. A complimentary copy of the
Portland Press Herald
lay on the night table. He read the headline and dared to flip it over, dreading what he would find, but there was nothing about his father. There would be, of course, farther in. But at least today it wasn't front-page news.

He kicked off his shoes and lay on the flowered bedspread, watching the curtains curl in the breeze. He felt an instinct return to him that he had lost years ago. He wanted to call the sisters, but that wasn't right. They had never called one another; there had never been any need. What he wanted was to walk out of his room and cross the house to their apartment, as he had done so many times, for so many years.

Matthew sat up and reached for the phone. He didn't know which sister's voice he wanted to hear first.

No, that wasn't right either. He knew.

But it was too late to call.

 

When Dahlia heard the knock on her door at a quarter to ten, she knew it was Matthew. She'd been so sure he'd come to her first that she'd left the porch light on for him. Now, thumping down the stairs in her robe, wearing only a thin T-shirt and hiking socks beneath it, Dahlia could see the blurry shape of a man on the other side of the frosted glass panel, and her heart shuddered briefly.

But when she opened the door, she found Wayne filling out the doorway instead, his face drained, his shoulders slumped.

A fierce hope gripped her. “Ben.”

“No, it's not that.” Wayne tugged off his baseball cap. “I just needed some air.” He gestured behind her. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

Wayne stepped into the foyer, rubbing his hands as if he were cold. “He's not here yet then?”

“Matthew? No.” Dahlia closed the door, watching her brother-in-law as he looked into the dimly lit rooms that flanked the entry. Wayne walked into the parlor and dropped onto the love seat, cupping the bill of his cap between his hands.

“I didn't mean to wake you; I just . . .” He paused, sighed. “Rough day, huh?”

Dahlia walked to the other end of the love seat and sat down, pulling her legs under her. “Yeah. You could say that.” But Dahlia knew he wasn't just talking about Charles or Ben. Josie's comment in the car had stuck with her too, finding its way through the fog of Charles's attack all night.

Dahlia blinked and felt the prickle of tears.

“Sometimes I think I should just tell Josie the truth,” she whispered. “Just get it over with, so she can start hating me for the rest of her life.”

Wayne looked back at his cap, his hands now practically rolling the bill into a tube. “Hating
us
, you mean.”

“It was never your idea, Wayne.”

“It might as well have been.” Wayne tossed the hat onto the coffee table and dragged a hand down his forehead, along his beard. He stood up, too anxious to stay in one spot. He paced in front of the fireplace, staring at Dahlia's cluttered mantel, the framed gallery of portraits, all of their young faces looking back at him, smiles and laughter, reminders of an uncomplicated time. One of Matthew and the sisters on Christmas morning, mugging in front of the tree.

He reached out and slammed it down.

“Don't do this to yourself, Wayne.” Dahlia looked at him. “It never would have worked. We both know that.”

Wayne nodded, righting the picture. He stared enviously at Matthew's teenage face, lips drawn in an exaggerated smile while Josie looked up at Matthew with unveiled infatuation.

It hadn't been easy loving a woman who'd always wanted another man, but Wayne had learned to live with his secrets.

“We sent off the application to the adoption agency last week,” he said. “Jo tell you that?”

Dahlia nodded. “It's going to happen for you guys this time. I know it.”

“Jeezum, I hope so.” Wayne dragged his sleeve roughly across his wet eyes once, then twice. “Anyway.” He grabbed his cap off the coffee table. “I have to go. I told Jo I was just getting gas. She'll worry.”

“Okay.”

Dahlia walked Wayne to the door. She stood on the porch, the sea air brushing her cheeks, and watched her brother-in-law as he took the stairs to the driveway, feeling a fierce surge of pity for him. It hadn't been easy for him to keep their secret all these years. They both loved Josie more than anything in the world; it was hard to say which of them felt the greater betrayer.

So many secrets, Dahlia thought to herself, coming back inside, looking around at the rooms of her small house, crowded with twenty-five years of their island life. She never imagined there would have to be so many.

Eleven

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sisters' first day of school came on a bitterly cold Tuesday when the island's sky was the color of limestone, but Dahlia wasn't about to let temperature get in the way of making a first impression on the mainland boys of Portland High.

When she bounded downstairs to meet Matthew and Josie at a quarter to seven, the two already buried under layers of wool in the foyer, they blinked at her bare legs, her hand-me-down jacket flying open to reveal only a thin blouse and a corduroy miniskirt beneath it.

“Where are your tights?” demanded Josie, her own tiny hands useless in puffy snowmobile gloves, her red braids peeking out from under one of Matthew's old knit caps. “And your hat and mittens?”

“I don't need tights,” Dahlia said, glancing into the nautical mirror to check her haircombs.

“But you'll freeze!”

“You will,” Matthew said firmly. “It's like ice on the water. You'll catch pneumonia on the boat dressed like that.”

Dahlia just shrugged, reaching for the door, and Josie knew there was no use in trying to change her sister's mind. Dahlia would risk pneumonia if it meant making a spectacle of herself. And sure enough, when they joined the crush of students who packed into the boat's upper deck, Dahlia stood out like a peacock feather in a pile of down. Josie was just grateful to have Matthew's escort, his firm shoulder against her, the smell of woodsmoke from his sweater filling her nostrils each time he shifted to let someone pass their seats.

But Matthew's escort could take them only so far. As soon as they reached the crowded halls of the high school, the three of them parted ways, and Josie felt a swift and heavy depression. In the weeks leading up to their first day of school, she had worried deeply that their arrival would be ill received. Though no one had spoken outright, Josie had seen the veiled looks of suspicion when they'd walked to and from town, the side glances in the grocery store and the post office. Matthew's allegiance was important, but it might not be enough. Within hours, Josie realized that acceptance would have to come too in the form of Marsha Daley, Peggy Posner, and Tracy Jenkins, a trio of juniors who ruled the corridors and the bathrooms, who traded shiny pearl lip gloss and scrawled their boyfriends' initials on the thighs of their jeans.

“Five bucks says I can make every one of those goons fall in love with me by the end of the week,” Dahlia announced, glaring across the cafeteria to where Marsha, Peggy, and Tracy dined with their thick-necked boyfriends in a haze of Avon perfume and Tinactin.

“Please don't,” said Josie, genuinely afraid of the familiar flash of mischief in her sister's eyes.

Matthew looked up from his slab of meat loaf, a swift rush of jealousy turning his stomach.

“Old lady McGraw totally gypped me on the fries.” A skinny boy with shaggy blond hair and braces arrived at their table and slid in beside Matthew, surveying Dahlia and Josie from behind thick glasses. “Who are you guys?”

“This is Dahlia and Josie,” Matthew said. “This is Josh Moody.”

Josie waved politely. Dahlia looked around.

“Where you guys from?” Josh asked.

“New Orleans,” said Josie.

“Oh, sure, New Orleans,” the boy said. “That's cool.”

Dahlia leaned forward. “You have no idea where that is, do you?”

“Dahlia!” Josie's cheeks burned with embarrassment. “That's so rude.”

“What? It's no big deal,” Dahlia said, munching on a french fry. “Nobody does.”

“It's far from here, Josh,” Josie said. “Really far.”

“I figured.” Josh opened his milk. “Most things are, aren't they, Matt?”

Matthew nodded, his eyes still fixed on Dahlia, wondering why she always had to be such a snot about everything. “You're one to talk, you know,” he said to her. “You didn't even know Maine existed until you showed up here.”