by C B Cox
I notice a golden sticker on the back edge of the wooden frame. It names and shames the man behind the lens. Even back then, the image was stylistically dated and politically incorrect. Charles chose the photographer. I brush my hands together to remove the dust and step down from the footstool.
My tummy rumbles. I need to eat, but the cupboards are bare.
I look around my ankles. “Let’s go shopping, Bella. We need food.”
Chapter Twelve
In the woodshed located at the side of the lodge, we keep two bicycles: his and hers. Mine has a basket attached to the handlebars and is ideal for transporting provisions. The woodshed key hangs from a hook screwed under the porch roof, protected from the weather.
I collect the key and make my way to the woodshed. The key is encrusted with a thin layer of corrosion, and I have to jiggle it into the lock. It takes several attempts to release the mechanism. It gives way, and I pull the rickety door towards me. A fat, furry moth brushes against my cheek as it flutters out through the door opening chasing the light. I step back. Let it pass. Moths freak me the hell out. In its wake, a fine cloud of pixie dust is captured in the sunlight.
I step inside. It’s dark and dank. The fetid sharpness of decaying wood is overpowering. Gossamer fingers lick my face. Something tiny scurries along my arm. I feel dirty. I shake my cardigan; wipe my hair. Silk threads cling to my skin.
Cobwebs. I hate cobwebs.
I find the bicycles leaning against the wall on the left and grab the nearest one by the handlebars. To my relief, it’s mine – the one with the basket. I back out. Outside, in the sanctuary of daylight, I swing the door closed with my butt and check it’s closed. Corral my phobias inside the woodshed.
Dusting the bicycle down, I establish it’s good to go. I fetch my purse from the lodge and close the door on the latch.
With Bella trotting ahead, we set off on a mini adventure to the general store in the small town of Shallow River, a mile and a half distant.
The bicycle’s rear tire kicks up mud as I head off towards the mainland. I approach the causeway with caution, halt, overlooking it. The worn-to-smooth rock surface below me glistens in the sunlight. Small pools of seawater pockmark the surface. I ease onto the saddle and push off. It’s a race to beat the tide. I haven’t ridden for a while. My balance is off. I ride across the causeway with care.
Reaching the other end, I brake to a halt and gaze up at the flight of wooden steps. I’d forgotten all about them. I’m forced to dismount and push the bicycle up the muddy incline beside the steps. I take one step at a time, supporting the bicycle in an almost horizontal position, until I reach the gravel area across the track from the big house where the Explorer is parked. At the top, I stop to gather my breath and waft my shirt to release the heat.
You’re so freaking unfit. I chastise myself.
I lower the bicycle to the tarmac beside the Explorer. Check the doors. Find them locked. All is good. I turn to face the big house. Nothing moves inside or out. No evidence at all of occupation. The house dominates my field of vision. Charles told me once that it could house a family of six and an army of hired help.
The big house is pure New England colonial in style. White clapboard walls sit under a slate gray roof. Tall red brick chimneys project above the roof at gabled apexes. The fenestration is beautifully proportioned. The ground floor elevation features four windows positioned at equidistant intervals and a central black painted door with a glazed panel over. Five windows line the second floor elevation. Over the years, sunlight has taken its toll. Where once the house would have gleamed a migraine inducing brilliant white, now it’s bleached cream by the sun. The paint on the front door is grayed and flaking. The house possesses an unloved, ‘seen better days,’ air.
My curiosity gets the better of me. I step over to the picket fence, drag open the rickety gate, step through and stride along the overgrown path to the front door. I’m compelled to wipe my feet on the threadbare welcome mat. Bella lowers herself onto the ground next to the gate.
Does she sense something?
I rub my hands along my thighs. Rap twice with the ornate lion’s head brass knocker. Dull thuds echo around the interior. I imagine a long hallway with timber parquet flooring, dado rails and exquisite coving.
I listen hard, but hear only silence.
After a long minute, I rise up on my toes and peer through a narrow, grimy rectangle of glass set vertically in the door at eye level. The dirt is baked on. I can’t see through. I give up, crouch down and settle my eye against the keyhole.
“Hello?” I shout.
Silence.
I’m about to turn and leave, when I hear a shuffling noise from deep within the bowels of the house. I listen hard.
Silence.
I knock again. Wait.
I must be mistaken. Did I hear a rat scuttling across the basement floor? Perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Jackson are on vacation? I suddenly remember they enjoy skiing in Aspen. However, it’s early summer: there won’t be much skiing this time of year. Then, I recall how Angela Jackson was ill the previous September. I pray all is well with my nearest neighbors and resign myself to the fact that, for whatever reason, the house is unoccupied. I collect the bicycle and set a course for Wiley’s General Store.
I ride slowly, on the pretense of allowing Bella to keep up. I don’t want a tire getting stuck in a rut and ditching me headlong over the handlebars. Truth is, I’m not confident on two wheels.
After fifteen minutes of unsteady cycling along a stone sett path that dips in and out of woodland as it skirts the ocean, we reach the outskirts of Shallow River. As I dismount, I realize it probably would have been quicker to walk. I huff and shake my head.
In the weeks after he’d acquired the island from the Jacksons, Charles went to enormous lengths to research the history of Shallow River. He made a point of schooling me on his findings. Keen to impress, he wanted to hold his own with the locals. He saw value in being well-versed in local tradition and folklore. Charles hated being thought of as an interloper: just another rich city dweller throwing his weight and money around, with zero emotional investment in the area.
With a population of less than a thousand, Shallow River is a sleepy town. The economy relies on rich salt and fresh water fisheries: mackerel fishing from the fertile ocean, and salmon and trout from the rivers. Thousands of visitors arrive annually to enjoy ocean game fishing for tuna, shark and tope.
Municipal life centers on the church, post office, the pub – a throwback to the town’s Irish ancestry – the old school house, and Wiley’s General Store.
A member of the Wiley family has run the general store in Shallow River for over a hundred years. Its latest proprietor, Eliah Wiley, has doggedly built a fine reputation. The store sells just about everything. It specializes in sustainable local produce, chicken and eggs sourced from smallholdings, fresh fish, homegrown vegetables, and salad from local growers. Wiley’s hardware section is second to none. Should Eliah not stock something, he’ll source and arrange delivery from his network of suppliers within days. With Eliah managing the supply chain, no one need ever leave town.
I pedal up to the storefront, dismount beneath a buzzing, flickering red neon sign and prop my bicycle against a brickwork pillar. Bella pads up alongside me. I instruct her to sit. She sits by the door. I collect my purse from the basket, step over to and push through the entrance door. As I enter, I look up. Above my head, I locate the problem. The apostrophe and hanging ‘S’ in Wiley’s storefront sign – hung from the window soffit – flickers and buzzes like an annoyed wasp caught behind glass in a heatwave.
A cheerful bell announces my arrival. Within ten seconds, a sixty-something, gray haired man in a functional brown smock, appears from in back.
I smile a warm smile. “Hello, Eliah.”
He settles his hands on his hips, narrows his eyes to take a better look. A concentrated frown appears central on his brow and the lower part of his forehead.
/> “Hello? Do I know you, Miss?”
“It’s me. Hope Madison. From Tern Island. Don’t you remember me?”
Recognition flits across Eliah’s creased face. The cogs whirl behind his eyes. His brow stays furrowed. Then, slowly, his frown relaxes. “Of course, I’ve got you now… Mrs. Madison, so nice to see you.” His teeth click as he speaks. He wipes the palms of his hands on his smock, thrusts them at me. I cup both hands around his. We exchange warm smiles. “It’s been a while. Are you here for long?”
Not wanting to give too much away, I shrug. “This year has been crazy. No time for a vacation.” I check myself. I don’t feel the need to elaborate, further. I don’t want to burden Eliah with my troubles.
“Well, you’re here now, that’s the main thing. Did you bring a list?”
I’m in the presence of one of the world’s greatest salesman.
“Sorry, no. I didn’t write anything down. I’m not that organized,” I say with a shrug.
He sighs without making a sound. “Not to worry. We’ll work it out together,” he says, wringing his hands, imagining the dollars racking up.
“I plan on staying for the summer. You’ll be seeing quite a lot of me. Perhaps, we can arrange a regular delivery?” His mouth turns up at the edges. His brow – above cloudy gray eyes – lightens. The hand wringing quickens.
We agree on a shopping basket of coffee, eggs, chicken, steak, fruit and vegetables. It represents my usual dietary choices. Eliah suggests I add fresh fish, bread and treats.
Who am I to argue?
I ask him if he stocks Bella’s favorite dog food. Eliah says he doesn’t but can order it in.
“I need wild bird seed, too. Poor things, they keep pecking an empty table,” I say.
Eliah licks his pencil, adds bird seed to the growing list. We agree a list of essentials to see me through until the main order is ready. I remind him that I’m cycling. Eliah disappears in back. Five minutes pass. He returns clutching a torso-sized brown paper bag against his chest. Sets it carefully on the counter.
“I’ll add everything to your account. You can settle up at month end. Mr. Madison, he came in and wiped the slate clean,” he says, sealing the bag with tape.
“My husband was here?” My blood turns to ice. “When?”
Eliah takes his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Now, let me think… I reckon it must have been around mid-February – the February just gone. I seem to remember there being snow on the ground. Ordered half a ton of firewood, he did. Never collected it.”
“You sure?”
He senses that I’m unaware of Charles’s visit. That he may have dropped Charles in the brown stuff. “I think so. Of course, I could be wrong. I’m getting a little long in the tooth. My memory, it isn’t what it once was.”
I feel for him. “Silly me, I remember now.” I lie. Inside, I’m screaming.
You cheating bastard, I know what you were up to.
Eliah throws me an understanding smile. My cheeks flush red. I’m angry and embarrassed. I bite my lip. Look away. Swallow hard.
“I’ll have Levi deliver the rest of your order to the island. Reckon, it’ll take two, maximum three days. Is that all right?” Eliah asks.
“Perfect.” I say.
He nods. “Good. Is there anything else I can do for you, Mrs. Madison?”
“Please. Call me Hope … Eliah.”
“Hope, it is.” He winks. I start to relax.
A thought pops into my head.
“Actually, there is something else, yes. I almost forgot. Is the Jackson house empty? I’ve been past several times and there doesn’t appear to be anyone in residence. Are they on vacation?”
Eliah frowns. His lips purse. He makes to speak, then falls silent. Grips the glass counter top with both hands. Arms wide, like he’s steadying himself following a shock. He says, “I take it you’ve not heard?”
I shake my head. “Heard what?”
I pray my dark thoughts of earlier were simply a product of an overactive imagination.
“Last December, Carl and Angela Jackson, they died in a skiing accident,” he says, flatly.
“What happened?” I can hardly believe what I’m hearing.
“They say it was a freak accident. A caterpillar machine ran out of control. Drove right over them.”
I imagine Eliah reliving reading newspaper clippings, studying photographs from the scene. He shudders.
“That’s terrible, and so sad. I seem to remember they had a son at boarding school. How is he? His name, it’s slipped my mind.” I wrack my brains, but can’t recollect the name of the awkward teenager I’d met ten years before.
“Curtis. He’s an adult now. He was living in Montana when the accident happened.” Eliah scratches the side of his nose. I watch his eyes roll past my right shoulder towards the door.
I glance over my shoulder, but see no one.
“Last time I saw him, he was only a boy. Being orphaned is horrid. I know from personal experience,” I say, adding. “The house looks deserted. Unloved. Does anyone live there, now?”
Eliah shrugs. “To be honest, I’m not sure. I haven’t been over that way for quite a while.”
We seem to be spending a lot of time shrugging. Eliah releases his grip on the counter and places his hand on the bag of provisions.
“I’ll carry this out to your bicycle, if you like?”
Suddenly, he seems in a hurry to get rid of me. His gaze passes through me like I don’t exist.
“It’s okay,” I say, scooping up the bag. “That won’t be necessary.” I turn to leave.
How strange?
I feel uneasy.
Is there something, or someone, he doesn’t want me to see?
He steps around the counter, strides over to the door, drags and holds it open.
“As I say, Levi will fetch the rest of your order. Take care of yourself, Mrs. Madison.” Eliah thrusts out a hand. I juggle the grocery bag into the nook of my left elbow and accept his outstretched hand. His handshake is limp and sweaty.
“Thank you. It’s been nice talking to you, Eliah. I’ll catch up with you next week.” The return of his confident manner eases my anxiety.
“I’ll look forward to it. By the way… Make sure to watch out for the tide times.” He taps his forehead with a forefinger and waves me off. “It’s easy to get caught out.”
Thanks a million, Eliah.
Once again, an uneasy feeling bubbles deep in my gut.
At the bicycle, I check the groceries are secure in the basket, get comfortable in the saddle and click my cheek at Bella. My mind races.
I never mentioned I’m here alone. Maybe, he just assumed I was. Am I becoming paranoid?
Stop. I’m letting my imagination get the better of me. It’s a common ailment amongst writers, romantics and worriers like me.
With a shake of my head and a sharp intake of breath, I push off. As I pedal, I try hard to quieten the incoherent ramblings jangling around my brain, like a stick caught in the spokes of a bicycle wheel. I cycle along the ancient stone sett path running parallel with the shore. Nature seems intent on reclaiming it. Verdant moss and shoots of grass fill the joints. Tree roots thrust from the mossy banking: gnarly arms intent on bringing me down.
My mind drifts to the tragic death of Carl and Angela Jackson. Mr. Jackson loved to talk about their skiing prowess. It was his passion. He was an expert skier.
A movie plays inside my head.
Carl and Angela swoop off-piste. They glide down the slopes of Aspen in bright-colored ski suits. Stunning alpine vistas reflect in oversized, black-tinted goggles. They whoosh to a sudden halt across the slope. Their smiles are radiant. Fifteen feet separate them. Diamonds of sunlight return from the snow. They stab their ski poles into the snow. Carl’s expression twists with terror as the massive mechanical snow monster thunders down the slope towards Angela. She’s oblivious to it. Carl sets off across the slope with a gloved hand cupped around his mouth. He
yells, “Angela!” But it’s already too late. The giant snow monster gobbles Angela up. She disappears beneath its distended belly. The last thing Carl Jackson sees is a huge radiator grille before he becomes one with it.
As I reach the big house, my guts churn. My heart performs somersaults. I operate the brakes, bring the bicycle to a halt, plant both feet firmly on the ground and catch my breath. My chest heaves. I eject the snowy video nasty playing inside my head.
Oblivious to my state of mind, Bella trots ahead. She knows the way home from here. Within a minute, she’s disappeared.
“Are you all right?” A male voice asks.
My hand flies to my chest. The bicycle wobbles. I turn and look. Someone has stepped out of the undergrowth.
A tall, slender man in his mid-to-late twenties with a beard, wearing denim-on-denim – his look finished off with tan cowboy boots, belt and buckle – stands between the big house and me. He sets his feet shoulder width apart and places his hands on his hips. Concern flashes across his face.
“Shit. You made me jump,” I say. My voice is an octave higher than usual.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He tips his head on one side. I recognize confusion in his eyes. He strokes his close trimmed, ginger-flecked beard: takes two paces towards me.
“I didn’t notice you as I rode past,” I say, moving back in the saddle, hoping to regain a little personal space and composure.
He turns and points toward the house. “I live here.”
“You’re Curtis? I’m sorry to hear about your parents,” I blurt without thinking.
Me, and my big mouth.
“That’s right, I’m Curtis,” he says. “Me, too. I loved them, dearly.”
“Sorry. That was very insensitive of me. The accident … was tragic. I’m Hope Madison. I own Tern Island. I knew your parents.” I recover some of my composure, but my cheeks remain flushed rouge.
Breathe. I tell myself.
A half minute of silence fills the space between us.
“I know who you are. What you own,” he says.