The Silver Boat

by Luanne Rice

  “That I do,” he said. He had a wonderful, deep voice, and sometimes he would sing to her. She was about to ask, when she heard the first sounds drifting down from Abel’s Hill, up from the trees surrounding Chilmark Cemetery, from deep woods and swamps and millponds all over the island.

  “Pinkletinks!” she said.

  He listened and nodded. “You’re right,” he said.

  Spring peepers: tiny tree frogs whose song sounded like tinkling bells, for one brief period in April. Only on the Vineyard were they called “pinkletinks,” a name dating back to the 1600s, when Bartholomew Gosnold, the English explorer, discovered the island and named it for his daughter Martha.

  Dar closed her eyes, listening to the chorus. She’d felt a little bad about not having dinner with her sisters, but now she imagined them a short walk away, hearing the same song. It united them, and she imagined them being delighted. She held Andy’s hand, rocking on the front porch, listening to the peepers’ high, throbbing call.

  “Would you like to go to a meeting?” he asked.

  “I would,” she said, and got her sweater.

  That night spring woke up. After dinner Rory and Delia stepped into the yard with all the kids, listening to the pinkletinks. They stood still, silent, and then everyone suddenly exploded into trying to make the same sounds: high, exuberant, trebly voices calling back to the frogs. Jenny did cartwheels and Obadiah started running around the yard, discharging tons of cooped-up energy.

  “Grab your sweaters,” Rory said, heading for the station wagon. “We’re taking a ride!”

  She and Delia sat up front, Obadiah next to Vanessa and her doll in the car seat in back, and Silvy and Jenny in the way-back third seat. Rory rolled the window down, elbow cocked outside, letting everyone savor the salt air.

  At first she aimed toward Edgartown, but when she neared the airport road, she glanced at Delia.

  “Detour?” she asked.

  “Do you think he’s there?”

  “I have a feeling,”

  “Where are we going?” Sylvia called as soon as she realized they were bouncing down a rutted side road.

  “To pick up a surprise guest.”

  Rory followed the same route Dar had used, winding down the sandy pine road, turning in to the storage park, driving to the last unit on the top of the low hill. It was dark now, and she couldn’t make out light coming from any of the units. But through the open car window she heard the faint sound of a baseball game.

  “What is this place?” Obadiah asked, looking around. “It’s kind of weird.”

  “Mom, it’s deserted,” Sylvie said.

  “No, honey,” Rory said. “We’re here to visit Uncle Harrison.”

  “Yay!” Obadiah yelled, undoing his seat belt.

  “This might be a mistake,” Delia whispered. “Dropping in at night, unannounced, with the kids?”

  “How would we announce?” Rory asked. “He doesn’t have a phone.” The kids were all out of the car by the time she caught a faint whiff of pot smoke. Delia made sure to slam all the doors loudly, and Rory walked over to the garage door and banged.

  “Are you in there?” she called. “Your gang of admirers has come to kidnap you.”

  Silence. Not even the baseball game; he’d turned off the TV and was hiding inside. Then she heard two squirts from an aerosol can, clearing out the evidence. A minute later the heavy metal door was rolled up, and Harrison stood silhouetted by the blue light of his muted flat screen.

  “Well, well,” he said. “If it isn’t my favorite gang of admirers.”

  “You have more than one?” Obadiah asked, grinning.

  “Hah! Many more,” Harrison said. “You’re the third gang to stop by tonight alone.”

  “Why are you here?” Jenny asked.

  “Here?” Harrison asked, drawing out the word as if it were the strangest thing to be asked. “I live here.”

  “No,” Jenny said. “You live in the big white sea captain’s house in Edgartown.”

  “With the dock!” Obadiah said. “Where you keep your boat.”

  Harrison gave a dismissive wave. “Anyone can live in a big white house with a dock. This is much cooler.”

  “It is, actually,” Sylvia said, glancing inside.

  “Uncle Harrison,” Jenny said. “It’s like a storage unit.”

  “Well, you’re right,” he said. “Many people would call it that. I prefer to call it ‘home.’ Would you care to come inside and watch the ball game? Red Sox versus Yankees. And I have pretzels and beer.”

  “We can’t drink beer,” Obadiah said.

  “Well, you can eat pretzels, can’t you?” Harrison asked.

  Rory took his hand. “You’re coming with us. We’re heading into town for ice cream.”

  His eyes widened. Harrison had never been known to decline ice cream. He smacked his lips, and the kids all laughed. He wore shorts and a T-shirt, but he went inside to get a fleece and a pair of flip-flops. Everyone stood back while he pulled down the garage door.

  “Stealth move,” he said. “Know what I mean, Obadiah?”

  “No.”

  “It means you don’t want anyone to know you live here,” Sylvie said.

  “That’s right, baby,” Harrison said, giving her a high five. “I’m under the radar up here.”

  “Is it illegal?” Sylvie asked.

  “What an unpleasant word. Let’s not use it. Let’s just say I wouldn’t want this place catching on, everyone else moving in. I like it nice and private.”

  “It is private,” Delia said.

  “And so dark and quiet,” Rory said, admiring the stars and the beam of Edgartown light sweeping across the sky.

  “I’m riding shotgun,” Harrison said, climbing in front.

  Delia didn’t argue, squeezing in with Obadiah and Vanessa. Rory felt Harrison take her hand after she started up the car. She glanced over, saw him grinning at her.

  “Except for the fact I have three kids in back,” Rory said, “this feels so much like old times.”

  “Who loves ya, baby?” Harrison asked.

  As Rory backed the car around, the headlights swung low across a thicket of brush. Something gleamed in the brambles, and for an instant she thought she’d caught the eyes of a deer. But then she recognized the intelligent, dignified, familiar face of Harrison M. Thaxter, Sr., and knew she was looking at the infamous bronze bust.

  She saw Harrison salute in his father’s direction as they pulled away, and Rory waved, too. Harrison turned the radio on; the local station was playing reggae. He began to bop his head and sing along to “Breakfast in Bed.”

  “And a kiss or three . . . nothing need be said . . . no need,” he sang, making the kids laugh for absolutely no reason at all except for the fact it was Harrison. Rory headed into Edgartown, parked on Water Street. She’d been holding her breath to see whether Mad Martha’s was open yet for the season, and it was.

  They went through the usual ritual of deciding what flavor to have, entertaining new options, but ordering old favorites: mint Oreo cream, mango sorbet, buttercrunch, sinful chocolate. Everyone but Harrison got double-scoop cones, and he asked for an extra-large hot fudge sundae with five cherries.

  “Mmm,” he said as they walked down Main Street toward the town dock. “Still as good as when you girls worked there.”

  “What girls?” Jenny asked.

  “Your mother and Delia had summer jobs at Mad Martha’s,” Harrison said. “All the boys would have ice cream every day just to get served by them.”

  “Dad too?” Obadiah asked.

  “Of course,” Harrison said. “First in line whenever possible.”

  Rory knew it was true. She’d always work slowly when Jonathan came in, prolong their moments together as she assembled his favorite—two scoops of coffee on a sugar cone, chocolate jimmies on top. Hearing Harrison tell it made Rory feel happy.

  “Did Aunt Dar work there, too?” Sylvia asked.

  “No,” Delia said
. “Even her summer jobs were artistic. One lady hired her to paint tiny bagpipers on her kitchen knobs. And another paid her to tear real vines down from an old barn, because it was wrecking the windows, and to paint trompe l’oeil English ivy and morning glories there instead.”

  “Tromp loy?” Obadiah asked.

  “It means to fool the eye,” Harrison said. “Very useful word. I’d like you to write a memo on it and have it on my desk tomorrow, Obes.”

  The kids giggled.

  When they got to the parking area overlooking the harbor, it was just as if they’d summoned Dar: there she was, sitting beside Andy in his truck, which was facing across the darkly shimmering water toward Chappaquiddick. Rory assumed they must have pulled in after going to a meeting.

  Everyone surrounded the truck; Andy had his radio tuned to the same reggae station, and Harrison told him to turn it up. Handing Andy his almost-finished sundae, Harrison slipped one arm around Rory, grabbed her hand with his sticky one, and began to dance.

  She didn’t recognize the song, but it didn’t matter. Her feet knew what to do as she leaned into Harrison, let him twirl her away, dip her and pull her close again. The music was sweet, the salt air fresh, the bell buoy ringing, and suddenly everyone was pairing up to dance.

  Dar and Andy got out of the truck, began to move. Sylvia held Vanessa, whirling her around, pointing up at stars in the sky. Obadiah tried to cut in on his mother, but Harrison wouldn’t let go. Instead he swept Obadiah and Jenny in with him and Rory, and the water sparkled and the dance went on.

  The night had been so beautiful, and when morning came, Dar didn’t want Andy to leave. She held him tight, trying to remember her dream. It had started with the bell buoy, the one they’d heard last night, tolling in the channel while the family danced. And then the dream-sound had turned to a phone ringing, with her father calling.

  “What are you thinking?” Andy asked, stroking her hair.

  “About my father,” she said. “It’s so strange. A dream that’s been a nightmare before suddenly feels different.”

  “Why do you think?” Andy asked.

  “I’m not sure. Cleaning out the house,” she said. “Having my sisters and the kids here, going through all our old things. It’s comforting, in a way.”

  “You sure did seem happy last night,” Andy said.

  “We were,” Dar said.

  “Do you think you’re making peace with the idea?” he asked.

  “The opposite,” Dar said. “Fighting as hard as ever, but coming up with a new idea.”

  “Which is?”

  Dar shook her head, edging more deeply against his body. “I’m not completely sure. Getting there, though.”

  Andy kissed her and got up to take a shower, and Dar went straight back to sleep. By the time she woke up again, the sun was streaming through the open window. The earth smelled soft, green shoots half an inch high had emerged in the gardens, and the ocean was perfectly still.

  Dar sat at her drawing table. She’d begun using the small pewter dory as a pen rest, and she gave it a long look before starting to shade her most recent work. She made lines so fine, even she could barely see them; she was pleased at the job she’d done making Argideen’s SUV look evil. Lost in crosshatching, she barely heard the phone.

  “Hey, where are you?” Rory asked when she picked up.

  “I slept late,” she said.

  “We all did. I think yesterday was harder than we expected.”

  “It was.”

  “Delia and I were thinking . . . would you feel like taking a walk to see Mom?”

  “Yes,” Dar said. “I’d love it.”

  The three sisters met on the road; they’d each picked a handful of dried herbs, beach grass, and lilac tips. They walked single file down the main road, turned left onto a country lane, and entered the Chilmark Cemetery. The land had small hills, granite boulders, and very old, tall trees; some of the oldest graves on the island were here, tombstones worn by time and weather, bearing carvings of death’s-heads, angels of mercy, skulls and crossbones.

  Colonel John Allen was buried here, having died in 1767; Mrs. Bethia Clark, whose tombstone read:

  HERE LYES ye BODY

  OF Mrs. BETHIAH CLARK

  WIFE TO Mr. WILLIAM

  CLARK DECD. FEBry. ye

  22D. 1734/5 IN ye 49th

  YEAR OF HER AGE

  Andy had told Dar that she was a Mayhew, a distant relative, along with many other Mayhew graves in his family’s plot here. Dar touched the stone as they walked past.

  Over in the corner was John Belushi’s grave, where his fans regularly left bouquets, letters, poems, bottles of beer. Sometimes they left cheeseburgers, but the food attracted raccoons and the caretaker took everything away.

  Approaching the graves of their mother and grandmother, Dar felt a shock wave of grief. It still seemed so new and raw, to have lost their mother last fall. The three sisters fanned out before the granite stone. The inscription was simple: her name, dates, and the words Beloved Mother.

  Each sister took her turn placing the dry herbs, lilac branches, and tall grass by their mother’s stone. They couldn’t help touching it, placing their palms flat against its cold surface, as if they could somehow reach her, let her know they were there.

  They’d saved some lilac branches for their grandmother’s grave, just a few feet away, and spent a few minutes arranging them there before turning back to their mother.

  They listened to the breeze in the trees, one of their mother’s favorite island sounds. This was their first visit together since her funeral, and Dar knew they were all thinking it would be their last for a while.

  “She’s not in there, you know,” Delia said finally. “She’s in heaven. She’s looking over us all the time, like a guardian angel.”

  Neither Dar nor Rory replied. Dar nodded to Delia, wishing it could be true.

  “She’s in heaven,” Delia said again. “I know it.”

  “We believe you,” Rory said in a voice that said the opposite.

  They stood there for a few minutes, total silence except for the bare branches scraping overhead. The spot was peaceful and comforting. A few robins hopped around the new grass, and a downy woodpecker tapped high in an old maple.

  “Mom and Dad have definitely been around this week. You know what I keep thinking?” Dar asked.

  Her sisters waited.

  “I know this is out of the blue,” Dar said, “but could the land grant be real?”

  “Are you talking about Dad’s idea?” Delia said.

  “Yes,” Dar said, thinking of their early-evening walks. “Whether it was true or not, he was convinced that his family had been granted land here on the Vineyard.”

  “By some English king,” Rory said.

  “Talk about a pipe dream,” Rory said. “A British monarch giving land in America to a poor Irish potato farmer, or whatever he was.”

  “Slightly far-fetched,” Delia said.

  Dar didn’t reply. After her father was gone, she had accompanied her mother to the Chilmark Town Hall at Beetlebung Corner. The memory was vague, but she knew they’d spent an afternoon looking through land records and talking to the town clerk. Nothing had come of it.

  Her mother had researched land grants. They were far from rare—land given to colonists, granted by kings, to establish settlements. In the 1700s, Spain issued land to anyone willing to settle in Florida. Revolutionary War veterans were given property by George Washington to pay them for their service.

  “Besides, don’t you think if there was anything to it, the Littles’ real estate lawyers would have turned it up?” Rory asked.

  “The title search takes awhile. That’s part of why we’re holding their deposit in escrow,” Delia said. “Not that I believe they’ll find anything. We’ll be closing in a month at most.”

  “Dad believed it was real. It’s why he went away,” Dar said.

  “If he’d found it, don’t you think he’d have come
back?” Rory asked.

  “But no one thinks he even had the chance to look, right?” Delia asked. “Something happened sailing from Kerry to Cork, and he never made it.”

  “I know,” Dar said. “But here we are, visiting Mom. We’ve never done the same for Dad.”

  “How would we even try?” Delia asked.

  “We have no idea where his boat went down,” Rory said.

  “That’s true,” Dar said. “I’m not thinking of a particular spot in the sea. This morning I was drawing, and I looked at that little dory Dad took from his grandfather’s boat shed . . .”

  “You’re thinking we should go over there?” Rory asked.

  “I don’t know,” Dar said. “Maybe.”

  “Ireland?” Delia asked.

  “What if he did have the chance to look?” Rory asked after a minute.

  “For . . . ?” Delia asked.

  “We think he never made it to Cork at all. But what if he did? And went looking for proof, the king’s document, or whatever it was.”

  “He would have come home,” Delia said.

  “But what if he didn’t find it?” Rory asked. “Whatever was eating him so badly—he had to leave his family, go looking for this thing—if he made it there safely, but couldn’t put his hands on the deed, might he decide he couldn’t come back?”

  They stayed in the cemetery a little while longer, cleaning up the leaves around their mother’s grave. Dar had always imagined her father in the ocean, his spirit in every wave. Something tugged at her memory, but she could not believe that if her father was alive, even if he’d decided not to come home, he wouldn’t have let them know. He couldn’t have had it in him to be so cruel.

  Gathering a small pile of leaves, twigs, and pinecones, she thought of her father’s pride. The look in his eyes when he’d shown her around the Irish Darling. All those twilight walks around her grandmother’s land, looking for property markers. His determination to sail solo across the Atlantic. And the letters he’d written to Dar’s mother during the months they were separated.

  Dar glanced at Rory, caught her sister’s sharp gaze and wondered what she was thinking. They walked home, met the kids in the yard, trying to untangle the line on an old fishing rod. An osprey flew overhead, long wings streaked black and white underneath, sticks in her beak. Everyone watched, following the hawk’s progress to a nest pole across the salt pond.