The Second Mother

by Jenny Milchman

  “Peter, say hello to the new teacher,” the woman said, following him toward the stairway. “And wait for me. I ran out of Ms. Newcomb’s house so fast, I forgot to take the flashlight. It’ll be dark in the woods.”

  “You scared again?” Peter let out a laugh, high and humorless.

  Everything inside Julie turned hard, like cement setting. She had heard that laugh before, when she’d climbed in through the window last night. She didn’t speak up, though. Peter clearly had some issue causing him to find his way to this house. Part of her job would be to break through the boy’s shellac coating and determine what that reason was.

  “Hi, Peter,” she said. “My name is Ms. Weathers.”

  Without responding, the boy started down the stairs, taking them two at a time. At that moment, Depot began to mewl in a weepy, undignified way from the bedroom, and Peter halted abruptly, hanging onto the railing as if it were a rope, both feet poised to turn.

  Her dog had been shut up for too long. Julie crossed the hall and pulled the door open.

  Peter shifted midstep, his mouth parting.

  Depot sat on his haunches, filling the doorway from side to side, a giant dog with tricolored patches of fur, oval, liquid eyes, and a lolling tongue.

  “That’s your… You have a dog?” Peter asked.

  “I do,” Julie said softly. “His name is Depot.”

  “Is he nice?” Peter asked.

  “Well, he’s clearly interested in you,” Julie answered. She wasn’t opposed to using her dog to her advantage when it came to winning over a student. “He usually reacts to strangers by barking.”

  “That’s true,” Ellie put in.

  Depot barked then, just once, and both Julie and Ellie laughed. The look they exchanged said they’d take it as agreement.

  Peter extended a long, skinny arm. “Can I pet him?”

  “It’s best not to start right out with petting,” Julie counseled, beckoning the boy to the top of the stairs.

  Peter mounted them slowly.

  “Let him sniff your hand,” Julie said. “Depot will show you what to do after that.”

  Peter followed her instructions, and the dog rested his snout in Peter’s palm, looking searchingly up at Julie. Good boy, she mouthed.

  Peter suppressed a grin. “His breath tickles! I’ve never seen a dog this big!”

  Julie smiled. “I think you can give him a pat or two now,” she said, and the boy obeyed, cautiously lowering his hand to Depot’s broad back.

  Caught up in the magic of the moment, this recalcitrant child coming out of his shell thanks to one very large and noble dog, Julie had nearly forgotten the presence of Peter’s mother. But just then the woman thrust her arm past Depot’s open mouth, heedless of the dog’s teeth, and seized her son’s hand in her own.

  Anger spiked her body like a lightning rod. “Time to go home.”

  “Yeah, right,” Peter said, his tone so aged and weary, it didn’t seem like it could have come from a child. The boy looked suddenly wizened, shrunken from his height, while his eyes bore twin holes into his skull. “Home.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Um, what was that?” Julie asked once the front door had slammed shut, sealing mother and son from view.

  Ellie started down the stairs. “Bet my gift will come in handy right about now.”

  “Gift?” Julie asked, following.

  “For housewarming.” Ellie wound her way over to the table in the hall.

  Julie stared at the object that stood there. She recalled Ellie setting it down earlier, but hadn’t looked closely at the time. A cellophane bag, gathered in a bunch at the top.

  Ellie held it out. “Welcome to Mercy!”

  Julie gave a faint smile. She slid the gift from its crinkly wrapping—it appeared to be a good cabernet, which held no appeal; Julie had never had a taste for the grape—but oh, the feel of glass in her hand, the bottle’s smooth, swanlike neck.

  Ellie’s good humor faded. “Oh shit. I forgot you’re not a wine drinker.”

  Julie shook her head. “Don’t be silly, it’s great.”

  “You sure?” Ellie asked.

  Julie nodded. “Let’s crack it open.”

  Ellie’s features clenched in a spasm that Julie recognized. A pressing, violent need, beyond hunger to a whole other state, one that didn’t go by a single name. Rabid ardor, greed and longing and urgency, combined in a vicious brew. Depot sometimes wore this expression when they’d gone on a long walk and Julie hadn’t brought enough treats and then they came upon a small, darting animal.

  You’re one too, Julie thought. You’re just like me.

  “Let me go look for a corkscrew,” she said. “There’s got to be one. This house is incredibly well supplied.”

  “No need, it’s a twist top,” Ellie answered.

  Easy access, Julie thought. She led the way into the kitchen where she put Ellie out of her misery, filling a glass with ruby-colored liquid. She set the bottle on the counter, then leaned back against the lip of tile, although the motion felt more like falling.

  “None for you?” Ellie asked, in the midst of raising the glass to her mouth.

  The first drink of the night. Julie licked her lips.

  “Do you not drink at all?” Ellie asked. “Or just don’t like wine?”

  While Julie thought about how to answer, Ellie began looking around the kitchen. Julie suddenly saw, as if with X-ray vision, through the cabinet door behind which her empty lurked. The thought planted a skewer in her brain, rendered her mouth dry and gritty as sand.

  “Um, I drink occasionally, I guess,” she said.

  “Me, I couldn’t keep from diving into the sea at Hangman’s Cove if I didn’t have my glass or two every night,” Ellie remarked, sipping steadily. “But it’s just wine, right? They say it’s practically a health food.”

  Julie tipped the bottle, refilling Ellie’s glass. Her hand shook slightly, a hopefully undetectable flutter.

  “Great job with Peter, by the way,” Ellie said. “Those two can be a tough pair.”

  Julie watched Ellie lift the glass to her lips, overcome by an envy so great, it left her wobbly. To camouflage her desire—if she recognized the beast inside Ellie, surely Ellie might sense it in Julie too—she said, “More than the usual preteen rebellion?”

  Ellie shrugged a little sloppily. “Martha’s sort of a friend of mine, I’ve known her forever. Not a friend-friend, but we get together, catch up every now and again. She and Peter are part of the oldest family on Mercy. Which changes things.”

  “How so?”

  Ellie reached for the wine. “Martha Meyers. Née Hempstead. Martha’s mother—and wait till you meet her, she makes Martha look like a kitten—and father live in the mansion on Old Bluff, which is now the second-highest point of land on-island since that northern tip sinks a few millimeters every year. This place sits on the first, FYI. It was a wedding gift, restored to full luster by the Hempsteads when the first of their heirs married.” She set her glass on the counter, though she didn’t let go of its stem.

  Julie thought. “Wait—are you telling me that this house used to belong to—”

  Ellie nodded, pouring a refill. “Martha and her late husband.”

  A lobsterman passed on last spring, a member of the island’s oldest clan, Laura Hutchins had said. No wonder Peter kept coming back here. It was his childhood home. Had Martha overlooked that fact, or deliberately left it out?

  Ellie tilted her glass for a swallow. “The Hempsteads are island royalty, and you need to tread lightly with them. Like, if Peter’s having problems, maybe you address them with him in private, you know, during school hours, instead of holding, whaddayacallit, a parent-teacher conference.” She drank again, then wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “Things are done differently on Mercy. Especially with th
at family.”

  Julie nodded. “Got it.” It was, ironically, the same advice a teacher might’ve been given about Julie’s uncle and aunt, if they’d had any children, or her own dad and mom, by dint of their name. Not so long ago Weathers signified status in Wedeskyull.

  “But none of this came from me.” Ellie sloshed more wine into her glass. “Not that I don’t trust you. You seem very trustable. Is that a word? You’re the teacher.”

  Julie smiled back weakly. “We teacher types would probably say ‘trustworthy.’”

  “Trustworthy!” Ellie extended a finger in her direction. “That’s it.”

  Julie knew the lightness now filling Ellie, that feeling of liftoff when all your problems started to recede. A film of sweat slicked her body like fish skin. She couldn’t stand to watch Ellie relish her drink. Julie blinked, seeing the tannic hue of scotch in the wood cabinets, the floorboards, her own newly tanned skin.

  “Tell me more about the island,” she said, grasping for distraction. “How did the Hempsteads come to be royalty?”

  Ellie tilted the bottle, taking the measure of its dwindling contents. It didn’t seem as if she were going to answer the question, then she said, “Okay, so there are highliners and gangs.”

  “Highliners?” Julie echoed. “Gangs?”

  Ellie laughed, low and slurry. “You didn’t read up much about the place you’ve come to live, did you?”

  Julie looked away. “My move might’ve been a bit of an impulsive decision.”

  Ellie headed over to the sink, wavering a little on the way. “A gang is what you call a group of lobstermen who fish together. People who control a certain stretch of water, where other gangs won’t drop their traps. Lobstering is a territorial industry. People die, or survive, or thrive for that matter, based on where they’re allowed to drop.”

  Julie considered. “It’s that tightly regulated?”

  “Unofficially. Without any rules or laws or governance from outside.”

  Like a group of outlaws, Julie thought. “And a highliner?”

  “Is a top lobsterman,” Ellie replied. “Versus the lowliest, who used to be called dubs. The term’s fallen out of use, not PC, I guess. Highliners catch the most lobster, earn the highest wages, get the best women”—this with a waggle of brows over her light-gray eyes—“and are looked up to, gone to for advice. Ours are known as the Men of Mercy.”

  Julie smiled. “Could be a calendar.”

  Ellie’s laugh sounded giddy. She held her empty glass beneath the tap, then took a gulp of pinkish liquid. Julie recognized the trick. Don’t want to miss the watered-down dregs.

  “Most of our island men are so hoary and ancient”—Ellie drained the last of the water—“they probably evolved before the calendar was invented. They spend so much time with seawater on them, they practically have scales.”

  Julie smiled again. “It can’t be that bad.”

  Ellie gave a mock shudder. “Wait till you meet Peter’s grandfather.”

  “Which brings us full circle.”

  “And me without more wine.” Ellie shivered again; this time it looked like it was for real. “But hey, can I ask you something now?”

  “Sure,” Julie said. “You’ve certainly let me pepper you with enough questions.”

  “You’re single, right?” Ellie gestured with a floppy wave. “I mean, I would’ve noticed a husband or boyfriend, or wife for that matter, anyone besides a gigantic dog.”

  “Speaking of, I’d better go check on him. But to answer your question, I’m single now, yes. My husband and I separated just before I came to Mercy.”

  Ellie’s drink-dulled gaze sparked. “The aforementioned impulsive decision.”

  “Right,” Julie said. “That.”

  Ellie pushed herself off her slouch against the sink. “Okay. I’m a mess. I’ll let you see to Depot while I start making my way home.”

  “Sure you’ll be all right?” Julie asked.

  Ellie grinned. “Best part of no cars on the island. No designated drivers.”

  They hugged goodbye at the door, and Julie twitched the bolt to lock it. She would make sure to remember to do so from now on, at least until she had figured out how to keep Peter off her roof.

  Julie went upstairs to the bedroom, where Depot had fallen asleep. He didn’t stir even when Julie offered him a belated meal. She left the dog snuffling on the floor beside the bed, and walked over to the dresser, removing a T-shirt from the freshly stowed stack in the drawer. It was an old one of David’s, and Julie was again taken aback by how reminders of her husband prompted not the slightest tug of loss or longing.

  She bent down and deposited a kiss on Hedley’s photo, then changed before crossing to the bathroom on the other side of the hall. As she brushed her teeth, she became aware of something. This was the first night she’d gone without alcohol in over a year. Julie walked back across the hall, consumed by her thoughts. Being cut off—the island store certainly wouldn’t be open right now—wasn’t having the effect of making her feel trapped, scrabbling to get free of her sober self. Instead she felt something like liberation.

  Who had poured their nightly drinks over the past year, and then the second nip, and often a third, before the rest accumulated in an uncountable blur? David. The person Julie had just been aware of hardly missing. Had she been the one to turn bereavement into self-destruction? Or had she been helped along in that?

  Suddenly her husband, so capable and exacting, if a little bloodless, began to transform in her head into something truly zombie-like. The already ghoulish process of grief swamped by wave after wave of scotch. Julie staggered—as if drunk again, as if never having sobered up—into the bedroom, seeing only a dark trail of lost days before her. She stooped down, bracing herself against a wall, and delivered a blind stroke to Depot as he settled more heavily into dreams, smacking the loose flaps of his lips.

  Poor guy was probably hungry.

  The sight of her dog grounded her, and she was able to rise.

  David was out of her life now. Perhaps she could follow her uncle’s advice and make sure alcohol was too. Julie threw back the covers on the bed and plumped up her pillows with a couple of brisk, decided pats.

  When she went to close the bedroom door, Peter stood in the shadows behind it.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The first thing Julie did was think, Thank God I’m not drunk right now.

  The next was to suck in a breath so hard it raked her throat.

  Peter looked an unearthly sight, lurking in the dark triangle of space behind the door. Like many tall kids, he was used to slumping, and his back appeared rounded, hunched over like an old man’s. His thinness made him seem whittled. And the light locks of his hair, long in front, concealed most of his eyes.

  He was the stillest child Julie had ever seen. She would have had to creep closer to make sure he was breathing. From this distance Peter might’ve been a mannequin, propped up in the juncture between door and wall. A sudden conviction shook Julie by the shoulders—Peter wasn’t alive. Like the worst drunk dream, the story took shape, accruing an inexplicable logic. After leaving earlier that night, the boy had been killed by his mother, and his ghost had come back to inhabit the home he once loved.

  Not so inexplicable. Julie had known more than one abusive parent in her time as a teacher. And Martha had grabbed Peter at the end of their unscheduled visit with real force: his hand crumpled inside hers as if she were balling up a piece of paper.

  Then Peter moved, and Julie screamed.

  She clamped down on the scream the second it burst forth. Whatever was happening here, she was the adult and what she did now would set the course of things to come with Peter. Plus, the boy must have been in her bedroom for some time—oh God, she had changed in front of him, she hoped she’d been shielded from sight by the door—and Depot had been sl
eeping deeply. If her dog wasn’t disturbed, then Julie shouldn’t be.

  “I’m sorry,” she said calmly, of her momentary outburst. “You startled me.”

  Depot had started to rouse when she screamed; now he got onto all fours, positioning himself beside the child watchfully.

  No point in asking why Peter had returned, or failed to leave; Julie had a feeling he wouldn’t answer. She needed to come at this child sideways.

  “Would you like to pet Depot again?”

  Peter didn’t reply, but interest kindled in his eyes.

  “Come on.” Julie crouched, making sure that David’s T-shirt covered her thighs, and beckoned the boy forward.

  Depot lowered his head, and Peter flung his arms around the dog’s neck. Depot was a patient, tolerant jumble of breeds and never became agitated, not even when Hedley used to thrash and wail with her chronic stuffed noses. But Peter was a bigger child than Depot had ever gotten the chance to grow accustomed to.

  Julie had to return the boy to his family, but Ellie’s warning about being careful where the Hempsteads were concerned repeated itself in her head. She got to her feet, giving Depot an assessing glance, which the dog met with a pleading look in return. Peter was clinging to him awfully hard, but that wasn’t the reason for the urgency in the dog’s eyes.

  “Look, Depot needs to go out,” Julie said. “How about we take him for a walk?”

  Peter lifted his head. “Really? Right now?”

  “Just a short one.” It would give her time to get to know Peter a little bit better, make sure she wasn’t returning him to an unsafe situation.

  The boy’s face remained expressionless, his eyes blank screens, as they emerged from the house. Depot went scrambling over to a distant tree, farther than he would’ve chosen if it’d been just him and Julie out there alone, as if he felt modest in front of their guest.