The adults agreed that for the time being we should keep Ken’s reprehensible activities very quiet. We surmised that if Ken were tipped off that the beans had been spilled about his abuse and illegal exploits, he would certainly destroy any incriminating evidence. Mariah should remain with me so as not to raise any suspicions and, of course, for her own well-being. I thought I could simply put off the reunion for as long as it would take until Ken was arrested. “And,” Bill added, “if any of the guys hear about this, they’ll kill the bastard. It’s all I can do not to take care of him myself.” I knew this was true. It’s just the way islanders think. Take care of your problems yourself. Four island families had young daughters who had enjoyed sleepovers with Mariah at Ken’s house. Had Mariah’s friends showered there? Although I sort of liked the idea of Ken “falling overboard,” it wouldn’t be fair to Mariah not to have him prosecuted. And this creep was not worth someone else’s going to jail for murdering him. No, death was too easy. And once he was out of the picture, we could make some arrangements for Mariah, we thought vaguely.
The doors of my house were locked for the first time ever that night. I put a sign on the inside of the front door, reminding me to unlock it in the morning as I had no key and didn’t want to lock myself out. After Mariah went to her bedroom, I dug out my shotgun and some shells from a closet, loaded it, and propped it in a corner where I could grab it if needed. I lay on top of my bed and stared at the ceiling with all of the lights on. How could this have happened here, on my island? This place is a paradise where kids need no protection beyond helmets and life jackets and bug repellent and sunblock. How would the news of a predator in our community who preys upon innocence affect us? Would the fabric of the island be stained permanently by this? Will this be a loose thread that could unravel the entire form into a chaotic heap? Will we islanders still have the natural instinct to claim this place for ourselves and long to be claimed by it? The knowledge of what had been happening right under our noses would certainly cause everyone to question many things that we had taken for granted. “Pristine” would no longer be an adjective for what felt sullied to me now. I couldn’t believe that I had locked my doors. I couldn’t turn the lights out. But, I realized, for the first time since she’d come to stay, I didn’t hear Mariah crying herself to sleep
About that lock—well, Mariah and I got good at breaking into the house in the days and weeks that followed. Even the reminder note on the door couldn’t erase so many years of no locks, no keys, and no worries. I also got good at giving Ken excuses for Mariah’s not being able to return to his care. All of our contact was by e-mail, with the exception of a few phone conversations which were preceded by an e-request for a call. Ken was definitely staying within the walls of his house. Anytime I had occasion to do a drive-by, I would sneak a peek into his home, which was easy with the huge window right in front. I never saw anything other than the TV set and lights on at night. Brenda could have been accused of harassing the state police with her constant calls to learn when someone might be coming out to take Ken away before he got nervous or got dead if word leaked out about his activities. Mariah and I went through the motions. Or at least that’s what I remember of what we were doing.
The Department of Health and Human Services was the first state agency to get in gear. They called and informed me that in order for Mariah to remain with me temporarily, rather than go into a foster care program, which was the normal procedure, someone would need to visit to ensure that my place was adequate and a safe, healthy environment. The woman who would visit and check me out called and suggested that I have some of Mariah’s “support” around for her to meet also. My perspective, which was admittedly naïve about this brand of proceedings, was that the process was alarmingly casual. I had seen the official paperwork from the state of Maine declaring that Ken was Mariah’s legal guardian. But other than that one document, there was nothing else. All I knew of the biological mom was rumor, and I assumed that had been generated by Ken when he was looking for support and pats on his back for stepping up to care for his niece.
The social worker, Gretchen, arrived on a morning boat in midweek, which worked well as Mariah headed off to school on that boat’s return trip to the mainland. I had several island women at my kitchen table, all of whom except Brenda knew only the short version of the story, which was that Mariah was staying with me until Ken was healthy and sober enough to care for her again. Before all this, I had thought of them merely as fellow islanders, and not really friends at all, but they had come in support of Mariah and her need to stay with this island family. The women ran the gamut from grandmothers to the childless—but all hearts were in sync.
After some discussion and lots of coffee, it became clear that somebody should place a call to Mariah’s biological mother to make her aware that her daughter was now staying at my place and why, and it seemed that that somebody was going to be me. As with every aspect of Mariah’s case, there was some confusion surrounding the protocol. The social worker had a folder that contained a document that Mariah’s biological mom had signed relinquishing guardianship to Ken. Ken had apparently done some research into the bureaucracy, and had been receiving a welfare check for seventy dollars a week from the state of Maine via Tennessee. The folder held paperwork that showed that the guardianship case and welfare receipt had been done pro bono by an attorney who happened to summer on the island. For a second I bristled at the lack of research the attorney had done and how he would feel when the truth got out. But just as quickly, I recalled that the whole community had been duped. Now that Ken was unfit, shouldn’t the biological mom have the option of caring for her daughter? The state had funds with which to transport Mariah home, but they didn’t seem to be in any hurry to put her on a bus.
From the social worker’s folder came a slip of paper on which a number was scrawled. All eyes turned to me. I was extremely nervous, having no idea what to expect, and assumed that bio mom would be shocked and horrified and would insist that her daughter be returned to her pronto. I dialed with proverbially crossed fingers. My phone was on speaker so that both Gretchen and I could communicate with the mom, Gretchen to answer any legal sort of questions, and I because, well, her daughter was living in my house under my care, so I seemed to be in charge.
“Hello?” The voice was pathetic, I thought. I wanted her to be stronger, and insist that we ship her kid back to Memphis. Family is what was needed here.
Gretchen introduced herself to Mariah’s mother. I introduced myself, and did my usual nervous thing: I started talking quickly before I chickened out and clammed up, which was my other usual thing when uncomfortable. Not knowing how much the mom communicated with Ken, I knew I had to continue to toe the party line. “You don’t know me, but I live on Isle au Haut. Your daughter is staying with me temporarily because Ken is in bad shape right now. He’s abusing alcohol and is getting some help.” This was about the nicest way I could tell the woman that she had mistakenly given her kid to an abusive drunk.
“Oh God!” That was stronger than the initial greeting, and I breathed a relieved sigh. “I have a sinus infection. I didn’t need to hear that today. She can’t come back here!”
Holy shit, I thought. Had I heard that correctly? Looking around the table at the looks of horror, I guessed that I had. I guess our conversation dribbled on from there. I suppose I said good-bye to the mom and hung up. But thinking back on it now, all I remember is being dumbfounded and shaking my head in disbelief while my friends did the same. I found a box of Kleenex and passed it around the table like a plate of cookies. I couldn’t wait for everyone to leave my house so that I could call my own mother and confirm what I knew as normal maternal behavior. The women did leave as soon as they could all pull themselves together. We all shared tight hugs—the kind you give and receive when someone has died and you can’t seem to release the warm embrace. Each woman thanked me with great sincerity for taking care of Mariah while this mess got straightened out. No one want
ed to think about foster care for a fifteen-year-old girl. That would probably not result in a happy ending.
After they left, I felt a closeness to this group of women that I had never experienced before. With the obvious exception of family, my friends, mentors, and support had always been male. Sure, I loved Brenda and Bill, and Kate had become a great friend, but sort of in a comradely way, like my male buddies. With Kate, rather than talking fishing, we talked food. There seemed something quite natural and very right about gaining female friends now. Until this time I had never noticed the unique power and strength in female bonds. I love my mother and sisters. But I had not ever had any real fondness for women other than family, nor had I ever had what I would refer to as a real female friend. I never wanted any. I knew that I had several now. These were not new, budding relationships that needed nurturing. These friendships were tight and immediate and as heartfelt as any I had with my longtime guy friends. Circumstances had plunged us into an unexpected and sudden intimacy, and it actually felt great.
The next few days were strange and strained. We waited not so patiently for some form of law enforcement to come and take Ken off our island. Brenda and my cousin, Dianne, had become the point people for all phone conversation and relaying of information in all directions. The truth of the situation was slowly but surely seeping from cracks and wicking to different nooks and crannies. Nothing was said directly to me. But I could tell that more and more community members were in the loop by their reactions to Mariah and me. The state police were eventually coming out to arrest Ken, but they hadn’t told us when. Mariah continued to go to school, returning every afternoon and asking, “When are they coming?” Our county sheriff was so thoughtful, and worked hard to get answers to all persistent inquiries. The social worker from the Department of Health and Human Services, who called to check in daily, asked if I needed any money to help with the feeding and caring of Mariah, which I did not. The wheels were turning, just not quickly enough from an extremely anxious perspective.
I had not laid eyes on Ken since Mariah and I had gone to see Lesley six weeks before, which was fine by me. By all accounts, he was keeping to himself, only going out to the post office and off island to his agreed-upon therapy or counseling. Everyone was aware that he was not to see Mariah without her consent, which she was in no way willing to give even though he did make daily requests to me by e-mail, all very cordial. Our e-mail correspondence was civil, considering what I knew and assuming that he felt I was standing in the way of what he wanted. Ken was far from stupid. And he knew enough not to push too hard. He was acting in exactly the way I would have expected him to, considering what he knew of his own vulnerability if the truth were known, but he remained unaware that it was.
I was taking one day at a time, as recommended by a good bumper sticker, and wondering what would eventually become of Mariah. I knew that wherever she ended up would be a huge improvement over where she’d been. People were treating me like some kind of hero for taking her in, which was embarrassing because I’d been looking forward to her exit from my house and life. Mariah spoke fondly of an aunt and uncle in Tennessee with whom she had lived from time to time before coming to Maine. They sounded like decent folks who had really cared for her. I assumed Mariah would end up with them. She also spoke often and lovingly of her grandmother. Mariah was proud to show me a photograph of this grandmother. Friends are great, but nothing compares to your own family. Returning to her true home, Memphis, would work out best for everyone in the long run, I thought.
My sister Bif was the only one with whom I could be honest about how I was really feeling—which was put upon; I was no self-sacrificing angel to my sister. I complained that Mariah was hard to have around. She just wanted to watch TV all of her waking hours, which were honestly too few for me to complain about. I didn’t like having to lock my doors and have a loaded gun handy. Shouldn’t Mariah be staying with someone who had a man in the house? And she was so sad, she’d put me in a major funk. And I was very uncomfortable knowing all that I did about how she had been abused. Bif always listened and never judged, although I am sure she should have.
Simon had just come to the island after having been home in Vermont, and he was at my place having a late lunch. We were basically catching up on my present unhappily not-alone status when the phone rang. It was the mail boat captain. He was calling to let me know that Ken was on the dock and waiting for the late boat for a ride home. Exasperated, I recalled that this was the day Ken had alcohol counseling, and of course that required a boat trip. But in the past he had taken his own boat, avoiding the mail boat for whatever reason. So until this second I hadn’t worried that he might try to see Mariah. I knew that Mariah would be arriving from school at the dock in about thirty minutes. I thanked the captain for the heads-up and sprang into action. Simon’s boat was faster than mine, so I recruited him for a ride to the mail boat dock in Stonington to intercept any chance (or not) meeting. It was the longest seven miles of my life. My heart was racing and I prayed that we would beat the school bus and head Mariah off before she might be forced to face Ken. I was frantic. The one thing I was supposed to do was to ensure that Mariah and Ken did not see each other until she was ready—and that was going to be never. Jesus! If I didn’t get there in time, she’d be a basket case tonight, I thought. I begged Simon to push the throttle up. He assured me that Scalawag was doing all she could.
We arrived at the mail boat landing and I hit the dock running before Simon had a single line ashore. Thankfully, the bus was not yet in sight. But Ken was. I approached him quickly. “Ken! You know you aren’t supposed to ride this boat without letting me know. You agreed!”
“Oh, sorry, Linda.” He flicked his cigarette butt into the ocean. “I was just off having a counseling session, and I guess I forgot the rules.” He rolled his eyes to emphasize his feelings. “But really, the crisis is over. It’s time for Mariah to come home. She can’t live with you forever.”
Absolutely repulsed by his casual, cavalier attitude, I felt every part of me tense up. I gritted my teeth. I took a deep breath and said, “She can. And she will. We have always been up front with each other, so I want you to hear this from me. I am going to become Mariah’s legal guardian. If you choose to fight me on this, you will lose.”
CHAPTER 7
A Little Family
Whoa. Imagine my surprise to hear that from me. I might have been more shocked than Ken was. And yet, though it went directly against everything I had been saying and thinking, at least internally, it also felt right. Ken took two steps back because I was literally in his face. “I’m not ready for that to happen; maybe I never will be. Mariah is the only family I have. I just want her to come home,” he said rather pathetically. His clothes, which were noticeably grungy, stood out now only because most island residents have an off-island wardrobe we save for trips to the mainland. I couldn’t believe that Ken and I were the same age. He looked old and worn in his down-and-out drunk slump. His face was thin and hung sadly from his forehead, which was fully exposed in a bit of breeze that swept greasy tendrils of hair to his temples. He placed a hand over a silk-screened Jerry Garcia on the chest of his T-shirt and tapped his heart as if consoling it tenderly. The same hand reached for the breast pocket and flipped out a cigarette that magically landed in his mouth, lit in what seemed a fraction of a second.
On the very edge of my visual field, I saw Simon whisking Mariah behind and by Ken. They exited my peripheral border stage right and headed toward Scalawag. The image of a suspect with head draped in a coat to hide identity from a camera flashed in my mind. I didn’t have another syllable to share with Ken. I repeated what I had already said, just to make it clear, and added that if he really cared about Mariah’s well-being, he would sign off on the guardianship and allow the switch to be seamless. He said that it was a big decision and one that he wasn’t emotionally healthy enough to make at this time. He acknowledged that he understood that should he resist, he would certain
ly lose. I then did what any good American would do and said, “You’ll be hearing from my attorney.” I turned from him and walked calmly and purposely to Scalawag, which bobbed slightly at the end of the wharf while I wondered why I didn’t have an attorney.
Scalawag’s engines purred happily while the external outdrives sputtered, burped, and whizzed strong saltwater streams. I threw the lines and stepped aboard while Simon maneuvered away from the dock and zigzagged through the lobster boats that rested on moorings after long, hard days of honest work. I stood in the stern and looked over the bow at Isle au Haut, which loomed above the smaller, lower islands that studded the sides of our path. Simon stood at the helm with Mariah beside him. I had better inform her now what my intentions are, I thought. Ultimately it would be her decision, not mine. But until now I was sure she hadn’t anything to contemplate, just fears that are cultivated by the unknown. It was time to thumb-up the eyelid.
I don’t typically hem and haw or tiptoe around awkward conversation topics. I dive in headfirst and worry about the depth of water in midair. I moved to Mariah’s left and joined her in holding the dash for balance as the boat sped along toward home. “Sorry the bus-to-boat transition was so dramatic,” I offered with a smile.
“It’s okay.” Mariah’s eyes focused on something over the bow. There was a short pause, and then she asked, “Why were you talking to him?” She was nervous, nearly accusatory.
“I was informing him that I am going to become your legal guardian.” I was looking directly at Mariah, who had no physical reaction to the grenade I had just tossed other than a narrowing of her eyes. I felt Simon tense up. Awkward doesn’t come close to describing how I felt in the silence that followed. I stared at Mariah and Simon, both of whom stared straight ahead, seemingly preferring nothingness to eye contact with me. I sighed in a bit of relief after unloading. I knew it was unfair of me to expect any verbal reaction from Mariah right now. She needed time to digest what I hadn’t taken time to chew. “Of course,” I continued, “it is entirely up to you.”
Lifesaving Lessons Page 10