The Possession (11 page)

He laughed. “Not if I can help it.”

“Hmmm. That’s a maybe.” We headed toward the shed and the outdoor hose to rinse our hands. “I guess you should write down directions, then.”

*    *    *

Grandmother Philbrook, or Kiju as Zach called her, held tea at her house every couple of months, a gathering of Native women. Most of the older women, or elders, had stories to tell and the younger women were expected to listen and learn. From the look on several faces, they were stories well remembered and often told.

Many of the younger girls took off after the first round of tea, as beadwork and basket grasses were brought out. Zach’s grandmother explained to me, laughing, that this signaled ‘old lady talk and hard work’ coming, and only those dedicated to their craft remained.

I still hadn’t figured out why she invited me, but everyone was kind and I realized I had a unique opportunity to learn about Zach’s people.

Talk started out general, but though Kiju Philbrook tried to keep the conversation to English, that did not always happen. Between trying to listen and learn words, figure out what was being said, and learn simple beading, I was a mess.

Kiju Philbrook didn’t seem to mind, so I moved a bit closer to her chair and soldiered on.

Two of the women held an animated debate across from me, and I noticed Zach’s grandmother paying special attention to their conversation. Suddenly, it switched to English and one of the old women looked right at me.

“The old lady from the lighthouse—she came to visit one day. Said she had to make things right so the spirits won’t bother her, maybe even into Waso’q. Said she was not a Wentworth by blood and it had to go back—go back to the family. I gave her the name of your grandmother. Figured she would know who among you was the one.”

“You knew my grandmother?” I wasn’t sure if it was polite or not to interrupt, but the question left my lips before I could stop it.

The old woman smiled and nodded at Kiju. “She had brought her friend, your grandmother, to visit often when they were younger.” And she turned her attention back to her tea.

“Dorothea.” Zach’s grandmother took over, ignoring the reference. “It is said the children of the town called her Dottie. They thought her strange to love the lighthouse work, and themselves clever for taunting her with her own name.”

One of the younger girls who had remained with us whispered to the beader on her left, who tapped a finger to her temple and rolled her eyes about.

“Ah, Dottie.”

“Eve would know about dotty!”

“Hush up, Rita!”

Zach’s grandmother continued when the twittering died down. “But Fire Spotter, Vincent, called her Ro. He saw her in the boat, rowing herself to the seaside of the light to check it, and he knew she was more than just the comely maid he first met in the cemetery.”

“They met in the cemetery.” It was not really a question on my part, but Kiju Philbrook nodded in answer.

“Returning home from hunting, he saw a fire in the woods, near the white burial ground. It was sunset, the rays slanting oddly through the trees. When he reached the place, he saw the girl, kneeling among the stones. The sun had caught on the brilliant red of her hair.”

“Like fire,” I murmured. Had I looked beyond her, I’d have seen the others staring at me.

Her eyes were quick upon mine. “Yes. Like fire.”

“After that,” Rita chimed in, “he was lost. Literally.” She nodded at me with firm conviction. “No one could ever find him because he was always at the lighthouse.”

“Ro never turned him away,” Kiju Philbrook added.

“Why would she?” Eve lifted her eyebrows in our direction. “It is said he was as handsome as your James.”

“But was he handy?”

“Not if he was never around.”

“Which he wasn’t, if he was always at the lighthouse.”

“I’m sure he was handy there.”

“That must have gotten tribal tongues wagging.”

Five minutes later Zach’s grandmother lifted her hand and patted the verbal ping pong down to silence. One of the young women still there, around my age, put her beading aside and stood. “More tea?” she asked to the room in general.

“Yes, please, Rose.”

“Thank you, Roselea. Yes.”

“That sounds good.”

Rose looked to me and motioned to the kitchen with her head. “Want to help?”

“Sure.”

I followed her out. She turned the heat on under the kettle and filled a tea ball with loose herbs after pushing the sugar bowl and canister to me.

“It can get tedious, listening to them repeat the same stories over and over.”

Their voices filtered in through the doorway, old, wise, sometimes surprisingly girlish, and now totally indecipherable to me as they had switched to the Micmac language with my parting.

“I don’t know, Rose. I like it. And if they didn’t keep repeating them, wouldn’t the stories die? Be forgotten?”

“Some stories are better forgotten.”

The kettle whistle screeched. She turned away to tend to the tea. Once she set it to steeping, she twisted back to me. Leaning against the counter, she folded her arms and stared at me.

I capped the sugar bowl then stared back.

“Don’t mess with Zach, Daphne.”

Her words stung, but I remained silent.

“He’s a good guy. A nice guy. He’s had some tough times. Don’t make this another one.”

She loaded the tea pot and sugar onto the tray. I replaced the canister and she added fresh spoons to the tray, too. Before she lifted it, she pinned me with a steely gaze.

“The crap finally died down from your aunt showing up here. Don’t stir it up again. Leave Zach alone.”

I lifted an eyebrow, looking a lot cooler I hoped then how I felt. I kept my voice measured. “I don’t think that decision is yours to make.”

She narrowed her eyes at me.

I stood my ground, unfazed. “Zach makes his own choices, Rose, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“The legend is bullshit,” she fired off at me.

“The legend has nothing to do with it,” I shot back.

With that I pushed open the door and she had no alternative but to follow me through.

Everyone had departed, but I had stayed behind to help her clean up. Kiju Philbrook now walked me to her door.

“Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Philbrook.”

She took my hand. “I’m glad you came. The old . . . sometimes they have something to say.”

Her smile was bright, but she didn’t release my hand. I looked at her, trying to decide if there was some protocol I had missed.

“You know, Daphne, sometimes things just are.” She opened the door and we crossed onto her landing, her hand still gripping mine. “Everyone has shadows. Things that go bump in the night. Fears. If you find someone who can help you through those times, then you are wise to keep them close.”

She patted my hand. “My grandson, he is a good boy—and smiling more.”

The kiss to my carnation-pink cheek a dismissal, she shooed me off with, “Lock your doors, child. This is not always a safe place at night.”

It wasn’t night to me, but I obliged her in case she could hear from where she stood.

When I reached the lighthouse, night was settling in. The porch light shined off Aunt’s car, but the house was in darkness. I let myself in and found Aunt’s note in the kitchen.

DINNER IN PORTLAND. BE HOME SOON.

I went to my room and changed. Not hungry, I checked on the lighthouse, making sure the lights were lit, then slid through the fence to perch on the rocks along the gulley between our base and the small rock outcrop that broke the waves.

The sea lapped the stones, fog misting me. As night settled further and fog thickened, I would hear the horn wail its warning.

I shouldn’t be out here. Aunt had warned me repeatedly not to venture beyond the fence.

“You never know when the water will swell. If a wave crashed over, it could sweep you out to sea.”

I had to know, though, what Ro had seen when she’d braved the point to check the lighthouse seaside. Back then, there would have been no life-preservers or two-ways or Coast Guard patrols. Only Ro and the lights and the sea.

She would have been responsible for keeping sailors safe. Keeping the lights burning. Keeping the townfolk at bay.

Ro
.

The word whispered through me. Anxious. I rose and carefully picked my way back to the fence, climbing through to the safety of the yard. I returned to my room, and readied myself for bed.

The fog horn sounded.

I pushed back my covers and crossed to my windows overlooking the sea. The lighthouse beam slashed through the sky. The fog bell rang, three distinct tones, a silence, then three distinct tones, telling travelers this was the Bay Head Lighthouse.

I could not tell the time by the light of the moon; it was obscured by cloud cover and deceptive. I could not see into the keeper’s yard, too thick was the incoming mist.

A scattered tap sounded at my window. I snatched my robe and pulled it over my nightdress, tying the foolish ribbons as I rushed down the stairs.

I hurried through the connecting buildings, to keep dry for as long as I could. At the lighthouse, I slipped out into the yard and waited by the base, where the fence would be constructed come spring. The wind blew the crashing spray across the rocks.

Vincent appeared out of the mist, returned from his hunt. He took me at once into his arms, loving me with his embrace, his kiss, his touch. I pushed him gently away at last.

“They’ve gone out. Come inside. I’ve news.”

We hurried across the lawn and slipped into the house. I pulled him along the silent hall to the parlor, where the heat of a recent fire still warmed the air. Sea mist condensed, beading on his chest.

I took a seat on the sofa. Pulling my reluctant love down beside me, I gathered his hands in mine. With a smile, I placed them against my abdomen. His look questioned.

“A child, Vincent. Our child.”

The joy I expected slid away to confusion.

All hell broke loose.

“What the hell is going on?”

Maman
?

“I can explain.”

A flash of memory. A child. Our child
.

“Oh, you’ll explain all right.” A man’s voice.

I clung to my love. They would not separate us.

“I swear. Rowdy showed up at our house, wigging. I brought him back, to make sure everything was all right. He flipped when we hit the shed and tore off like a bat out of hell to the yard.”

Rowdy? What was this?

“So she’s half naked in that, that whatever she’s wearing, and you’re . . . well, look at you! She says a baby, your hands are all over her and we’re supposed to believe—”

“Stop, Papa! Stop.” Silence descended on the parlor. I sagged against the sofa pillows, exhaustion overtaking me, “There is no shame. We are wed. Tell them, Vincent!”

A pandemonium of voices rang in my ears.

“Do we wake her?”

“Daphne. Daphne.” Someone rubbed my wrist vigorously.

The voices sorted themselves. I heard him. Zach had come to call. This late?

And why was everyone in my room?

I tried to speak to him, but my voice wouldn’t move out of my throat. My eyes fluttered open and I peeked around. Zach perched beside me, his hand over his eyes. His voice, earnest, begged understanding.

“She was on the other side of the fence. Don’t you understand? Trying to get around the light. I had to bring her in.”

An intense conversation took place between father and son. Too bad it wasn’t in English.

Mr. Philbrook crossed to Aunt Dwill. “Kiju Philbrook put stories in her head today. Zach says Daphne is sensitive to the lighthouse tales. She ‘sees’ things. And he thinks she sleepwalks.”

I pushed myself up in time to see Aunt and Jay have some kind of silent communication. Zach stiffened at my movement.

“Aunt?”

The word finally emerged. All eyes turned to me. I focused on her, bleary-eyed, feeling a need to explain. “Zach is always a perfect gentleman.”

Aunt and Mr. Philbrook frowned.

Zach gazed down at me and for the first time I realized the adults’ problem.

The chemise, damp with mist, was barely a cover. Except for Zach’s sleeveless t-shirt. Which I wore over it.

In only basketball shorts and sneakers, more of Zach was visible than I had ever been privy to.

We were wrapped around each other on the couch.

Extricating myself as delicately as I could, I excused myself and ran from the room.

*    *    *

“You were no help at all, Daphne.”

I pouted at the phone, lifting the neckline of Zach’s shirt up over my nose to enjoy his scent.

“Though I did like your pajamas.”

“Hey!” But I laughed. “You should. You have the same shirt in three colors.”

I heard him snort through the phone.

We had been banned from visual contact with each other. Probably until Aunt and Mr. P. decided we’d ‘cooled off’. It had been twelve hours. I don’t know about Zach, but my vision was as clear as ever.

“Did you have to tell them about the ‘sleepwalking’?”

“Yes. You did tell them we were married.” I heard him shift the phone to his other ear. “After announcing the baby, of course.”

My face flamed, even though he couldn’t see me. I remembered the feel of his fingers splayed across my abdomen, where I had placed them. “Zach, did I—”

“No.”

Did a chuckle follow that? Oh yeah.

“You were a perfect gentleman, Daph.”

“You aren’t funny, Zach.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

I ran my finger around the mouthpiece, so wishing he stood before me so I could kiss him or kick him; I wasn’t sure which.

“Did you have to go outside the fence?”

His question surprised me. Silence hung on the line.

“Yes,” I finally managed, “I didn’t know . . .”

“Then I had to tell. Someone needs to keep an eye on you at night.”