Death and a Pot of Chowder

by Cornelia Kidd

  “Thank you for bringing that, Willis,” I said, giving him a quick hug.

  “Seemed the right day to pass it on to you folks,” Willis answered. “Been thinking I’d do a painting of Carl one of these days, but never have. The sketch is all I have of him.”

  “It’s perfect,” I assured him.

  It was. But it reminded me of funerals, when people brought old pictures of the deceased to share. This wasn’t a funeral. Not yet.

  Matt and Jake were helping themselves to the crackers and cheeses, which Izzie had moved to the dining room table. Matt was gangly; Jake was shorter, but wiry. Both of them were always hungry.

  Matt shoved Jake as he reached for an extra slice of cheese. Jake responded by taking two crackers off Matt’s plate. Both of their heads were down. I couldn’t see whether they were teasing each other, or something more.

  “How’d the boys do today?” I asked Burt quietly as he reached into the refrigerator for his own beer.

  “Pretty well,” he said, keeping his voice low, too. “They were more uptight and scared than they wanted each other to know. Showed lots of bravado at first, then didn’t talk much, not even to each other, and stood on opposite sides of the boat the rest of the time we were searching. Both of them were clearly relieved when I said it was time to come in.”

  I nodded, glancing into the dining room. The cheeses and crackers were disappearing. “Plus, I can see they were starving.”

  “They’d both eaten lunch at your mom’s. When they heard about Carl they came right to the wharf and volunteered to help.”

  “Good for them,” I said. “But I’m not surprised.”

  I sent a proud glance in Jake’s direction. No matter what his future would be, he was an island boy, for sure. In a crisis, he showed up.

  Izzie was checking the food in the oven.

  “Izzie, you haven’t met my husband or son yet. This is Burt,” I said, turning him toward her. “And, Jake?” I called, “Come meet your Aunt Izzie.”

  Burt swallowed his surprise, but Jake didn’t. “Are you Chinese?” he asked, joining us in the kitchen.

  “Half Korean,” Izzie said, comfortably. “I like the sound of Aunt Izzie. I’ve never been anyone’s aunt before.”

  Jake grinned. “Good to meet you. Whatever’s in that oven smells good.”

  “It’s about ready to eat,” she confirmed, taking the three dishes out.

  “Put them on top of these,” I directed, putting wooden trivets on the dining table. “Folks,” I announced in the door to the living room. “Come and get some supper. Mamie’s brought her potato and salmon pie and anadama bread, there’s a macaroni and cheese casserole, and Izzie’s made a frittata for us, which smells delicious. A pot of Mamie’s bean soup is on the stove and mugs are on the kitchen table. Make yourselves at home.”

  Rose hadn’t come, at least not yet. Maybe she wanted to be alone. Some folks were like that. Or maybe she had another obligation. Cynthia was working tonight. Hospital staff had funny hours, so far as I was concerned. I couldn’t count the number of times we’d told Carl to bring Rose over to our place for supper, and Rose had to work.

  Jake and Matt, not surprisingly, filled their plates and headed to Jake’s room. Just as well. They’d heard enough grownup talk today.

  Izzie and I waited until everyone else had taken their suppers. I made sure a piece of Mamie’s fish pie was left for Izzie, and saved myself a helping of her frittata. “Delicious,” I told her as soon as I’d tasted it. “I hope you’ll give me the recipe.”

  She finished her fish pie quickly, sending positive glances toward Mamie.

  The gathering was quieter than when neighbors usually visited. A wake without a body. Dolan and Burt talked about where they’d each searched for Carl, and Mamie tried to soothe Lucy. After a glass or two of wine, Lucy finally stopped dabbing her eyes with the tissues she’d stuffed in the sleeve of her orange sweater, and started telling stories of escapades she and Carl had shared as children.

  Behind our conversations, we could hear the sounds of gunshots and car crashes from the video games Matt and Jake were playing upstairs.

  Everyone stopped talking when we heard a knock on the door.

  People on the island didn’t knock. They walked in.

  I glanced at Burt. He swallowed deeply and went to see who it was, although we all had already guessed. I followed him.

  Officer Carmela Heedles and a Marine Patrol officer were standing at the door.

  The officers exchanged glances. They weren’t smiling.

  Burt spoke first. “You found him?” His voice was low and slightly quavering.

  “Sorry to have to bring you bad news,” said Officer Heedles. “He was about three miles out, off Granite Point, near Maiden Island.”

  “Drowned,” Burt said, almost to himself.

  I shuddered to hear it said out loud.

  “Officially, the medical examiner has to determine that,” the officer said.

  “Medical examiner? Why does Augusta have to be involved?” Burt asked.

  “It’s the law. Unattended death,” she explained. “Really sorry about your brother, Burt. Knew him a lot of years, and he got himself in some trouble, but never anything serious. A good guy.”

  Had Carl dated Carmela once? I couldn’t remember. But, then, he’d dated practically every appropriately aged female on the island and the nearby mainland.

  “But you found him three miles out. What could it be but a drowning?”

  The two officers exchanged glances. “We’ll get him up to Augusta tonight. You should hear from the state police tomorrow or Monday.”

  Rob Erickson stood up. “You’ve brought in the state police?”

  “Had to, Rob,” said the Marine Patrol guy. “You know what has to be done in these cases.”

  Rob shook his head. “Yup. Just wicked sorry. Carl was a friend of mine.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Oyster Over-Eating: When too many oysters have been eaten, and they lie cold and heavy upon the stomach, drink a half-pint of hot milk and it will dissolve the oysters into a cream jelly that can be quickly digested.”

  —Old Doctor Carlin’s Recipes: A Complete Collection of Recipes on Every Known Subject by Doctor William Carlin. Boston, Massachusetts: The Locker Publishing Company, 1881

  “I’m sorry, Burt,” said Rob. “Carl was a good man. If I can help with anything, let me know.”

  Burt stood there, frozen.

  Lucy was sobbing again.

  “We need to tell the boys,” I said. “And call Rose.”

  “I’ll get Jake and Matt,” said Izzie.

  In a few minutes, the three of them were back. Izzie let us talk while she cleaned up empty plates and cups.

  “Boys, I’m afraid the Marine Patrol found him,” Burt told them.

  “Then Uncle Carl…” Jake made him say it.

  “He’s dead, Jake. They found him three miles out.”

  Dolan stood, reached for Lucy’s hand, and pulled her up after him. “It’s time for us to go home. We’ve had a long day, and are so sorry it ended like this. Matt, c’mon. We need to leave. The Winslows should have some privacy.”

  Matt hesitated, looking at Jake.

  “You can see Jake tomorrow. Thanks for the food, Anna, and nice to meet you, Izzie. We’ll see you all tomorrow in church. If we can help with anything, let us know.” The Martins knew Burt and I didn’t go to services every week—we were more Christmas and Easter congregants. But they also knew us well enough to know we’d be attending tomorrow.

  “We all could use a prayer or two today,” I agreed, and Burt nodded as the Martins left.

  In tomorrow’s sermon Reverend Beaman would be talking not only to her regular congregation, but to everyone on the island who’d known Carl. His death was a painful reminder to our whole community that we could never underestimate the treacherous waters surrounding us.

  Mamie and Izzie took over the kitchen, putting leftovers away. “If there
’s enough food left, make up a plate for Gus,” I said. “We’ll send it home with Rob. Mom didn’t come tonight, and you brought your food here, Mamie. Do you have enough for her at home?” I often slipped and called their house “home.” Burt teased me about it sometimes. But I really did have two homes.

  “Don’t you worry about your mom. Maybe she wanted a little quiet time. We have plenty of food over to the house.” Mamie handed me a tissue and I realized I was crying. “You take care of yourself, and your men tonight, Anna. Don’t be worrying about the rest of the world.”

  I nodded. “I’ll call Rose first. One of us needs to do that.”

  Izzie had already filled a plate for Gus, and handed it to Rob. “For your dad,” she said.

  “Thank you. Both of you,” Rob said, looking from one of us to another. “Right now, you all need to get some rest. The next few days won’t be easy.”

  “Thanks for your help,” said Burt, as Rob and Mamie left.

  Jake had already retreated into his bedroom and shut the door.

  “He needs to digest today in his own way,” Izzie said.

  Was she remembering when she’d been fourteen and her mother had died?

  I dialed Rose. She answered right away.

  “Rose, this is Anna.”

  “Yes?” Her voice quavered.

  “I’m so sorry, but we just heard. The Marine Patrol found Carl’s body.”

  At first Rose was silent. Then she started to sob.

  “I knew you’d want to hear as soon as we did.”

  Rose stumbled through, “Thank you for calling. I knew he might be gone. I just didn’t want to believe it.”

  “Are you all right? Is someone with you?” I asked. She didn’t sound all right.

  “How would you feel if the love of your life died? I’ll never be all right again!”

  Carl had so many women in his life over the years I hadn’t taken any of them seriously. I’d never know how Carl felt about Rose, but clearly she’d cared about him. “I’m so sorry, Rose. Will we see you in church tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, her sobs overpowering her words. “I need to be alone.”

  She hung up, and I put the phone down.

  “Not an easy call?” asked Izzie.

  I shook my head. “She’s taking it badly.”

  “Some people react immediately. Some people take longer,” Izzie said. “You and Burt seem amazingly calm. To lose a brother must be very hard.”

  It wasn’t easy to lose a brother-in-law, either. But I knew my Burt. He’d react later. When his parents died he’d held his grief inside, eating at him until, unseen, it turned to anger and was released in an explosion that blew the hurt out. It would take time, but I suspected the same would happen now. I’d coped with the shrapnel then, and I could again. “This has been a horrible day. But I’m glad you were here.” My words were automatic, under the circumstances. But I meant them. I was glad Izzie was here on Quarry Island.

  “I’m going to take a hot shower,” said Burt, looking at the two of us. “And then see if I can sleep. Rob was right. Tomorrow won’t be easy.”

  “I’ll be up in a few minutes,” I assured him.

  “What will happen tomorrow?” Izzie asked a few minutes later as we sat in the living room sipping small glasses of cooking sherry. It seemed an appropriate way to end the day.

  “Church is in the morning,” I said. “Nine o’clock. I expect most people on the island will be there. You can come with us or stay here or go for a walk … whatever you’d like.”

  “I’m not very religious,” Izzie said. “The last time I was in church was for Dad’s funeral. I’m not ready to be reminded of that. I’ll explore the island a little.”

  “That’s fine. I understand. I expect people will be stopping in here during the afternoon. And after we hear officially from Augusta, we’ll have to plan a funeral.” Carl’s death still seemed unreal. Two days ago, he’d been sitting at our kitchen table devouring cheeseburgers and macaroni salad. Now he was gone. “This must not be easy for you: going through another death so soon. If you want to go to Portland or even go home, I’ll understand.”

  “If you don’t mind my being here,” said Izzie, “I’d like to stay. I can be an extra pair of hands if you need them. And I need to move on and accept Dad’s death. Seeing you and Burt accepting Carl’s may help me deal with my own loss.”

  Neither Burt nor I were accepting Carl’s death right now. But we were dealing with it. What other choice was there? Maybe that’s what Izzie meant.

  We sat for a few minutes in silence. I’d planned to ask Izzie so many questions today. But it wasn’t the right time to start sharing confidences. Izzie put down her empty glass. “I’ll go on to bed. I was up before dawn this morning.”

  “Of course,” I agreed. “I’ll be going upstairs myself in a few minutes. We’ve hardly had a chance to talk. But I am glad you’re here. I hope you’ll stay with us, at least for the week.”

  Izzie bent over and hugged me. “I’d like to. As long as I won’t be in the way.”

  “You won’t,” I assured her. “You’re family. Family is never in the way.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

  “Well, hardly ever!” I smiled back. It was good to smile. I hadn’t done that a lot today.

  I poured myself a little more sherry and some for Burt, and took our glasses upstairs.

  Sunday would be another long day.

  * * *

  And it was.

  To begin with, Jake refused to go to church. Instead, he insisted on going to the bookstore to work. “Mr. Burnham doesn’t go to church,” he pointed out, which was true. “And I missed an afternoon’s work yesterday.”

  “Jake, this won’t be a regular church service. Reverend Beaman will be talking about Uncle Carl, and those who loved him.”

  Jake shook his head stubbornly. “I get it, Mom. And I don’t want everyone crying and telling me they’re sorry.”

  “Leave him alone, Anna,” said Burt.

  I finally agreed. Jake had had a harrowing day Saturday, and his swollen eyes said he was grieving. I’d heard wild, discordant sounds coming from his room late last night and wondered at his choice of music. Maybe he was covering the sound of crying. I’d left our door ajar, in case he wanted to talk, but he’d stayed in his own room. After a while I’d knocked lightly, and then peeked in. He’d been asleep despite the noise, curled up the way he’d slept when he was a baby.

  “You do what you need to do, then, Jake. Everyone knows you and your uncle were close.” Maybe Izzie was right. Jake needed time by himself, or with someone who wasn’t mourning every moment.

  Burt hadn’t slept much, but he’d stayed on his side of our bed. He hadn’t wanted my comfort. He’d been lost in his own thoughts and, probably, memories. He’d talk when he was ready.

  Izzie’d slept in. She hadn’t known Carl; and although I was pretty sure by now everyone knew my sister was visiting, her presence would draw attention away from Carl’s death. She’d be here for a few days; there’d be plenty of time for her to meet people.

  In the meantime, we’d all have to absorb Carl’s death before normal life could begin again. A new normal. Our lives would never again be the way they were when Carl was alive.

  How different had Izzie’s life been before her father was killed?

  I didn’t feel up to making our usual Sunday morning blueberry pancakes. All I could do that was usual for a Sunday morning was feed Blue. He purred his appreciation.

  I pulled a brown flowered skirt out of the back of my closet, added a dark sweater, and let my hair hang down the way Burt liked it, instead of pulling it back in a ponytail as I did most days. Burt found a navy sport jacket that came close to fitting even when he put it on over a sweater.

  We held hands as we walked across the street to the church and sat in our usual pew, fourth from the front on the right. Burt’s family had claimed that pew over a hundred years ago. The
town considered it ours. When I was in church, I felt all those I’d loved and those they’d loved were somehow still here, watching and supporting us. Burt and my great-grandparents on both sides had been married here, as Burt and I had been. Their children had been christened here, like Jake, and their funerals had been held here.

  Carl’s would be, too.

  Daffodils were my favorite flower; their bright yellow color after the dark days of winter always promised spring. The daffodils on the altar this morning reminded me that from now on, early April would also be a time for remembrance of loss.

  Many people stopped to pay their respects and murmur words of condolence. I focused on smiling and saying “thank you,” wishing Reverend Beaman would start the service so we’d be left alone.

  During the service, my mind drifted. I stared at the pine pews, their seats covered with the red velvet cushions Mom had helped make twenty years before. All those years of sun streaming through the tall, clear windows on both sides of the aisle had faded the once-crimson fabric to a pale rose. Nothing lasted forever.

  I wiped away tears as Burt and I joined in singing Amazing Grace and I Would Be True, both familiarly off-tune, and listened to a sermon with references to Noah and Jonah and the deep seas we must confront in life. Jake had been right. I wasn’t the only one crying.

  After the service Burt toughed it out, facing our friends and neighbors and accepting condolences, but his face was pale and stiff, and his hand shook so much that he spilled his coffee on the Ladies Auxiliary’s pink floral tablecloth.

  His mother and father were gone, and now he’d lost his only brother. Just imagining losing Mom or Mamie made me cry.

  He and I stayed as long as we could after the service and then walked home to brace ourselves for what we assumed would come next: baked bean casseroles and coffee cakes and more condolences.

  Instead, a tall, dark-haired man was waiting on our front porch.

  “Burt Winslow?” he asked, pulling out an identification badge. “Detective Jonas Preston, Maine State Police, homicide division. I’d like to talk with you.”