The Twilight Wife

by A. J. Banner

  All the way into town, the old man’s voice plays through my head. You should leave him. Go, right now. To whom did he think he was speaking? The landscape unrolls ahead of me, the air moist with salt and the sea. I pedal past the library, the post office, and the mercantile. At the dock, the mossy sign reads, Mystic Island Ferry, No Service Sunday and Monday. There’s a list of low-tide cancellations, and a note, subject to change based on weather conditions. I take off the helmet and walk my bike around the landing. Doug and his boat do not appear. But he was heading this way. He must’ve turned out to sea.

  “Ferry’s late today,” a soft voice says behind me. The smell of cigarette smoke wafts through the air. I turn to see a young woman in a heavy white sweater, standing nearby in threadbare running shoes and jeans. She smokes, one hand across her waist, tucked beneath her right elbow. She holds the cigarette away from her to flick off the ash.

  “How do you know?” I say.

  She taps her cigarette, then crushes the ash into the dirt with the heel of her worn shoe. “Radio. I’m guessing low tide. Engine breakdown. Or somebody jumped.” She blows a plume of smoke behind her.

  “I hope nobody jumped.”

  “Happens more often than you would think.” She takes another puff. “People disappear around here. Might as well jump from somewhere. People jump from cliffs here sometimes, too.”

  “Like the one out at Windy Reef Park?”

  “But you don’t wanna jump or nothin’. You’re not, like, depressed?”

  “Me? No. But I appreciate your concern.”

  “Hey, I had to ask. ’Cause, like, you weren’t so happy before. You feeling better?”

  “I’m feeling a lot better, yes.” My fingers tighten on the handlebars. “Do I know you?” I don’t recall anything about her. Her memory of me feels creepy, as if she has been watching me through one-way glass.

  She gives me a curious look, her nose wrinkling. “Yeah, you know me. Rachel Spignola. And you’re Kyra Winthrop. But . . . Oh yeah!” She snaps her fingers. “You forget stuff. My mom told me what happened to you.”

  “Word gets around fast.”

  “I know, right? I moved away for a while, came back six months ago, and everyone knew in, like, two seconds. I’m staying with my mom. She owns the mercantile. I’m helping her out. Me and my boyfriend were living in Friday Harbor but we broke up.”

  My boyfriend and I, I think, but I don’t correct her. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, glancing toward the mercantile. The dark windows gaze back at me, reflecting the cloudy sky.

  “Don’t be sorry. I came home to get back on my feet.” She blows smoke from the corner of her mouth. She finishes her cigarette, stamps out the stub, and then picks it up. “Come in?” She turns and heads back up the hill to the mercantile.

  I follow her inside, and I’m hit by a wave of familiarity, in the smells of coffee and apples, tea and bread, in the creak of my shoes on the old wood floor.

  “Anything I can help you find?” She walks around opening curtains, straightening shelves. The slanted sunlight reflects off dust particles in the air.

  “What was I looking for when I came in before, when I wasn’t feeling so well?”

  “You wanted tea to help you sleep. Herbal stuff made from a stinky root. I can’t remember the name.”

  “Valerian root,” I say.

  “Yeah, that’s the one. We only have, like, chamomile.”

  Valerian root and skullcap will prevent the tossing and turning, Eliza Penny said to me in Mystic Thyme. I can’t remember when. Helps when you have a troubled mind.

  “Did I have insomnia?”

  “Not this last time,” she says.

  “Last time?” The edges of the room grow fuzzy.

  “You stopped in last Thursday.”

  A cloak of fear wraps around me. “Did I ride my bike into town?”

  “You were in with your husband. You don’t remember?”

  “Jacob drove us down here.”

  “Yeah,” she says, giving me a curious look. “I was waiting for you to remember.”

  “You didn’t tell me, just now, when I thought I was meeting you again for the first time in at least a year.”

  “Sorry,” she says, looking sheepish. “I didn’t want to freak you out.”

  “Too late. I’m freaked out.” A puzzle piece falls into place. As if from a dream, the memory returns, of the drive down here for groceries last week. The mercantile was closed. A sign on the door read, Back at 2pm. Jacob cursed, and we got out of the truck and strolled around town until Rachel showed up again. “He said he came down here to buy coffee this morning, too.”

  A beat of time passes, then she says, “Yeah, he was in a rush.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No,” she says.

  “The last time we were here together. I don’t remember what we bought.” The shelves were half bare.

  “We were out of a lot of things,” she says.

  “I know,” I say.

  “You got dizzy, waited in the truck. Your husband bought some stuff . . . And, um . . .” She looks out the window, bites her lip.

  “And?”

  “Nancy stopped by, too . . . had a chat with him. They were talking about old times.”

  “What do you mean, old times?”

  She drums her fingernails on the countertop, shifting from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable. “I thought it was weird. She said, I’m so glad you’re back for good. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but it’s kind of hard not to in here.”

  “And how did he respond?” I say, picking up a box of Lipton tea. I try to sound casual, but my voice comes out slightly tremulous.

  “He said, Yeah, for good. She said, Was this the right thing for you?”

  I put the box of Lipton tea back on the shelf. “What did he say to that?”

  She reaches into her back pocket, places her slightly squished carton of Marlboro Lights on the counter next to the register. “I didn’t totally hear that part. Someone came in. I thought he said, That’s not your business.”

  I lean against the counter, surprised at how relieved I feel. “And . . .?”

  “She nodded and . . . she left.”

  “I see. Anything else?”

  She looks out the window, then at me. “She seemed, like, mad at him for something.”

  “For what?”

  “Beats me. She slammed her stuff down on the counter and stormed out.”

  “Maybe she was upset about something else,” I say.

  “Can’t say. Seemed like they knew each other pretty well.”

  “They grew up here together. On holidays.”

  “Yeah, and so did me and my mom. She grew up here. I grew up here. Once you live here, you never leave. Except I did. When I can get my act together, I’m leaving again.”

  “You don’t want to stay in the long run,” I say.

  “Hell no,” she says. “You know what the problem is with living on a small island? Nothing to do. For me, anyway.”

  “I can see that,” I say. “But for me, it’s a treasure trove of marine life. You can find things to do if you put your mind to it.”

  “If you like that kind of thing. Living in the middle of nowhere. But for me, no way. And you know what else? Everybody’s in your business. You can’t get no privacy.”

  You can’t get any privacy, I want to say, but again I refrain from correcting her grammar. I’ll only insult and annoy her. In fact, I have a feeling I’ve done so before.

  “I can see the drawbacks of living in a small community,” I say diplomatically.

  “I can’t get an acting job, for one thing. If I can get back to Friday Harbor, I could audition for Island Stage Left. I’m pretty good at Shakespeare.”

  “Well, that sounds lovely,” I say, smiling.

  “I could even play a guy. All you need to do is dress me up, add a white beard. I could be Sir John Falstaff, knight of the realm in King Henry the Fourth!”

 
“Speaking of beards,” I say. “I was wondering about a man with a beard. Kind of eccentric. He ties his boat to the dock. He lives up our way. He said his name was Doug.”

  “You mean Doug Ingram? He’s a fisherman, built his log house all by himself.”

  “Yes, I think that’s him.”

  “He’s handsome for an old guy. Sorry. You know.”

  “He is good-looking,” I say.

  “In a gnarled sort of way, right? Keeps to himself. Total hermit,” she says, examining her fingernails. “But he’s a good artist. You can see his paintings on display in the library.”

  My excitement must be obvious. Rachel gestures to the door. “You’d better hurry if you want to go see them. Sometimes they close for lunch.”

  As I park my bike outside the library, I recall rolling my suitcase down the cracked sidewalk, briskly, toward the ferry landing. Where was I going, walking so fast? The clang of metal against the dock, the abrasive call of seagulls—it all echoes in the wind. I take a deep breath and climb the steps. The sign on the window reads, Mystic Community Library. The heavy wooden door squeaks as I push it open.

  Inside, the library smells of old books and wood floors, pine cleaner and dust. Two large rooms, on either side of a narrow central hallway and staircase, are lined with shelves of books. To my left, a woman sits behind a desk marked Checkout/Information. Trim and elegant, her cinnamon-colored hair tied back, she sports a soft gray sweater, jeans, and rimless oval glasses. The library is quiet, except for the occasional swish of paper.

  She looks up briefly and smiles at me, and I slip down an aisle. I’m in the mystery section. Two other patrons peruse the shelves, and a woman in a knit cap and sweater sits in a study carrel, reading.

  I wander around and spot a series of vibrant watercolors along the back wall, and all down the hall leading to the restrooms. The signature at the bottom right of the paintings is barely legible: D. Ingram. The man with the wild white beard and crazy eyes captures whimsical images of Mystic Island—the desolate, starkly beautiful beaches strewn with driftwood and kelp; crabs scuttling across the sand; cormorants floating on a log on the sea; a breaching orca in the distance, against a backdrop of gray mist. Ingram understands the shades of gray of the northwest winter, but when I look closely, the layers of yellow and blue appear, brushstrokes of green, an underlying brightness.

  The landscapes of dense fir forests and the stark seascapes give way to close-up studies of conch shells, volcanic rock, an outcropping along a sheltered cove. I recognize Doug Ingram’s dock in one painting, and his boat bobbing on the waves. Another image suggests his view of the ocean from high on the bluff. And then, he painted a person, a woman walking away from him on the beach. Barely a black silhouette with her hair flying, her summer dress flapping in a splash of red against the dark hues of a Northwest autumn evening. Something about the painting evokes a sense of deep melancholy, regret—the past walking away. The woman’s beauty is conveyed in her shape, in her gait, in the way the sky lights up around her, like a faint halo.

  In the next painting, he moves closer to her, and now the pattern of roses on her dress comes into focus. In the next image, he leaves the beach and offers a view of the woman through a café window, as if he is glancing in at her as he passes on the sidewalk. I recognize the Moonside Café down the road. The ocean is faintly reflected in the glass, her profile in shadow inside. Strong jaw, full lips, high cheekbones. Wild, dark hair. She looks like me, but not enough to give me pause. Not enough to make me believe she’s a doppelgänger. The paintings end here.

  Who is she? Why does she haunt Douglas Ingram? It can’t be a coincidence that he mistook me for her on an island I’ve visited before. I can’t help but believe he holds a key—to what, I don’t yet know.

  I go back to the front desk. The librarian smiles up at me. Her nametag reads Frances. At close range, she appears older than before, white hair mixed in with the cinnamon, tiny creases next to her eyes, giving her a perpetual smile. “How may I help you?”

  “The painting in the hall,” I whisper, although there is nobody around to hear.

  “Yes, isn’t he gifted?” She clasps her hands on the desk.

  “Do you know any of the history behind the paintings?”

  Her brows rise, and her smile widens. “Are you thinking of purchasing one? He’ll be thrilled. He may not show that he’s thrilled, but he will be.”

  “I’m interested in the one with the woman in the café. Do you know anything more about that one?”

  Her nose wrinkles, and she looks perplexed. “Let me see which one you’re talking about.”

  I lead her down the back hall to the painting. Her rubber-soled shoes squeak on the floor. She gives off a faint scent of gardenia. When we reach the painting, she draws in a breath, tapping her chin with her index finger. “Gorgeous, isn’t it? I do know she was a real person. The café is fairly new in the picture, as you can see. Could be his wife, but she left the island some time ago. She didn’t want to live out here, or so the story goes. Nobody knows his background, so people gossip. He’s a bit reclusive.”

  “But the paintings show how sensitive he is. He has an eye.”

  “People aren’t always the way they seem to be, are they? We all have secrets. Rumors were that he was quite a handsome guy when he was young. He’s still handsome, but he’s gotten so . . . eccentric. One of the older librarians suggested that the woman in the painting was another island resident. A married woman. But that may have been idle gossip.”

  “I’m curious about his relationship with her,” I say. “He mistook me for her. But if she’s still around, she must be much older than me.”

  She looks from the painting to me and back again. “I see the similarity. He must still miss her after all these years. Maybe she’s your long-lost mother.”

  I laugh. “Definitely not. I’m fairly sure my mother never came out to these islands. She passed away many years ago.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, dear.” Her eyes register sympathy, but to her credit, not pity.

  “Thank you. I do wonder about this woman and who she was to him.”

  “Did you ask him?” she says.

  “I tried to—but he wouldn’t say more, and I didn’t want to pry.”

  “I don’t know for sure, but word is, after his wife left, he stayed on for a reason. He might’ve fallen in love with this . . . femme fatale. But it didn’t work out. Sad story. Maybe that was why he kept to himself.”

  “I would love to know more about his background and the mysterious other woman.”

  “I could talk to the librarian who used to work here. She retired, but she knows a lot about the history of the island.”

  “If you don’t mind,” I say.

  “It’s no trouble at all. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  The current swirls around us, the water aglow in emerald light. We’re diving along a sea wall teeming with life—swaying yellow urchins and orange-tufted anemones. I’m pushed along faster than I expected. A tiny crab snaps at me, then withdraws its pincers. Striped fish dart in and out of the rock crevices. Lingcod, cutthroat trout. The variety of life forms clinging to the vertical rock face steals my breath away. Where are we diving? Strange, multicolored fish swim by in schools—they’re not like any real fish I’ve ever seen. Dream fish.

  I wake in the dimness of dawn. Where am I? When? In the cottage, in the room I share with Jacob now. A half moon shines in through the window, casting a meager light on the bedspread. The clock on the nightstand reads 6:31 a.m. Nearly dawn. A soft wind slinks in from the sea. Jacob is snoring softly next to me, one arm flung over his forehead.

  I turn on my side, facing away from him, away from the window. I close my eyes, but sleep eludes me. Jacob rolls over, rests his arm on my waist, and pulls me back toward him. “You okay?”

  “Fine,” I whisper, settling against him.

  “Diving dream?” he whispers in my ear.

  “Everything was vivid this
time.”

  “How so?”

  “I could see everything. We dove along this . . . solid, steep rock wall. There were so many anemones. White ones, lavender, orange. Tinted green from zoochlorellae—”

  “Zoo what?”

  “Zoochlorellae. Commensal algae. The word just came to me.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “It grows inside the anemone. It’s a complicated symbiotic relationship.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “There was so much to see . . .”

  His arm relaxes on my waist. He has drifted off. His breathing takes on a steady rhythm. I lie awake, playing back the dream, a calm precursor to something much darker and unremembered. My mind drifts back to yesterday, when I asked Jacob about our trip to the mercantile last week. We rode our bicycles and found the store closed, the downtown road deserted. Later, we returned to the store in the truck. He remembered Nancy stopping in, but he didn’t remember Douglas Ingram. Vaguely, maybe, he says. But we were young. We didn’t pay attention to the old survivalists who hid out in the woods. He was probably one of them.

  I slip out of bed, pull on layers of clothing for the cold. The sun is just rising as I reach the beach, but the tide is high. The waves crash against the cliffside where the shore juts into the sea, making the route impassable to Douglas Ingram’s secluded beach.

  To avoid wading in ice-cold water, I have to hike back home through the grassy dunes. The terrain looks different here, littered with driftwood. I come across the skeletal remains of a fort built of weathered limbs coughed up by the sea. I’ve been here before, inside this makeshift teepee, with Jacob, only the day was warm, the ocean calm. It was summertime. I wore a sleeveless silk shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. I took off the flip-flops, dug my toes into the warm sand to feel the cool, damp underlying layer. Jacob pulled his shirt up over his head. He was utterly appealing. He took me in his arms. Nobody can see us here, he said, kissing my neck, my shoulders. We made love right here, on this deserted beach on a beautiful summer afternoon, when the sun shimmered on the water, the salty smell of the sea wrapped around us. Sand got into our clothes and all over our skin. Every sensation was heightened by the heat, intensified by the recklessness of our lovemaking. I felt daring, exposed, but we were alone.