by A. LaFaye
“Really?”
He laughed to let me know he’d been teasing. “Now’s a good time to build some furniture. Sell it for things. I can’t sew a button.”
“Oh.” I smiled, seeing that Pater might not need Mr. Penwarren as much as I’d thought. Nor me for that matter.
Kissing his check, I said, “Happy axe shopping. I’m off to go apologize to Uncle Marl.”
“Stay safe,” he shouted after me as I headed for Piney Bluff.
Out of breath when I crested the bluff, I was still panting when I rang the front bell. Aunt Gayle Anne came out, drying her hands on her apron. She rushed up to the gate and stood as if to keep me from being seen by anyone inside. “Child, what are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to apologize.”
“Apologize?” She gulped. “He’s ready to string you up for what you did.”
A test. His anger was a test. I’d met a threat of harm with an injury. Now I had the chance to live it down.
“Well, I’ll stay clear of rope,” I said, opening the gate and passing her to go inside. She rushed after me, flustered and nervous.
I found Uncle Marl resting on the davenport, a bandage on his head, pillows piled up behind him. Seeing me, he sat upright, his face instantly red. “What do you think you’re doing here?”
Looking around the room at the upright piano with the tin-framed photographs and tiny figurines of sheep, the lace curtains illuminated with sunlight, the gray velvet chairs on either side of a spindly table, I realized I’d never been in Uncle Marl’s house. Mater and I had walked Quinna and Aunt Gayle Anne home from the market on occasion, but we’d never stepped inside.
“No wonder I’ve never seen the inside of your house. With your temper, a bear would fear to tread in here.”
“Come again?” He moved to the edge of the davenport. Aunt Gayle Anne gasped behind me.
“I came to apologize.”
“Will that fix my head? I can’t fish on account of you!”
“I wish I could say I’d help, but I’d only be a hindrance on a boat.”
“Like your mother.” He softened. “And you make me just as mad as she did. Always taking your own path. Turning your nose up at folks who live a good decent life.”
“I’m not turning my nose up, Uncle Marl. I’m just trying to protect my pater. And me.” I touched my chest. “He can live on his own, Uncle Marl. He’s making ready to start building furniture as we speak.”
Both Aunt Gayle Anne and Uncle Marl looked to the spindly table between the chairs. He mumbled, “He’s a fine hand at that.”
“He made this?” I asked, touching the table.
“From the tree we lost out back when you were just a baby,” Aunt Gayle Anne said.
“He’s a fine hand at a lot of things, just in his own fashion,” I said.
“So he’s eating?” Aunt Gayle Anne asked.
“And cooking.” A discovery filled my mind and spilled out through my lips. “You know, I think maybe he let all those things slide when he was working because he knew Mater was there to help. Now that she’s gone, he’ll take them back up.”
Aunt Gayle Anne laughed, saying, “Sounds like a normal husband to me.”
Uncle Marl glared at her. “Will he take care of the house? Keep it up? There’s a lot of Bradley money tied up in that place.”
“Marl,” Aunt Gayle Anne barked.
In a flash, Uncle Marl had revealed himself. He wanted that money. He wouldn’t think twice about having Pater put away if he could sell the house and have his precious boat money. Giving the spirits sway opened my eyes. Learning to see the spirits who traveled among us had finally allowed me to fathom the physical world and the emotions that lay hidden within it.
“You have a mind to sell our house, don’t you?”
Uncle Marl lowered his head as Aunt Gayle Anne turned toward the window, a hand over her mouth.
“With such a twisted sense of family loyalty, I’d wager your pater would have given Mater that money even if she’d been born second.” I turned and walked out, leaving Uncle Marl to rage at me through the screen door.
Let them think what they want of us Laytons. I now treasured the fact I hadn’t grown up in their world of money, rituals, and the right way of doing things. I favored following the flow of life—eating when hunger took me, dressing as I liked, speaking the truth in whatever order it came to my lips, and never fearing the things that are so often left unseen—lies told to steal what isn’t yours, things left unsaid, and spirits set adrift by the desperate need to finish what they’ve left undone. Accepting these things struck a note inside me, the end of a keening, a lament for all the things I feared and had to leave behind.
Heading downtown, I realized Kingsley Cove could never be emptied out. Those who came before would always leave hints for those who came after. And it didn’t matter if I stayed or left for college or beyond. The path I chose might change the scenery, but God would place the things I needed to learn before me no matter where I laid my feet. I could see that now that I finally had my eyes open. And with the gift God had given me, I might just be able to help a few folks along the way.
With my eyes set on the future, I could see that gray weathered boat, pulled to ground on the shore, feel my feet in the rocky sand, see the staircase leading up the cliff to home. To college. To anywhere the spirits and the Good Lord cared to lead me.
A few summers back, as the tree grows, I traveled through Maine, by car, by ferry, and by foot—the sway of the sea, the character of the people, and the spirit of the place lingered with me. I’ve wanted to set a novel on the Maine Coast ever since then. Lyza’s tale arrived in a dream, so I thought it was only fitting to give it a dreamlike quality. When I’m not dreaming up new stories to tell, I’m usually with my daughter, Adia, and our friendly pets Nigel and Maida, in our home with a clear path to my mater and pater’s house. But I do love traveling to do school visits and teach in the low-residency MFA programs at Hamline and Hollins University. Speaking of visiting, feel free to stop by my website: www.alafaye.com.
Thanks to Ben for all his thoughtful suggestions on this book. I’m grateful to God that I’ve been given the spirit of a writer. I pray I use it well. My gratitude goes out to everyone at Milkweed Editions and each and every person who reads this book.
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
© 2010 Text by A. LaFaye
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
LaFaye, A.
eISBN : 978-1-571-31807-7
I. Title.
PZ7.L1413Ke 2010
[Fic]—dc22
2009040444