Aaron slowly slid the blade from the sheath, then caressed its edge with his thumb. “Dad might not like me having this,” he said quietly. “He might think I’m not old enough.”
“Then let him keep it for you until you are. As long as that knife stays in our family, it’s fine by me.”
“Is Dad part of your family?”
“Absolutely, Aaron. And the next time I see him, I’m going to do a better job of making him feel that way.” When he smiled, I found myself hoping I would get that chance. Robert wasn’t the kind of guy I would ever have chosen for a friend, but I shared his love for his kids and, for all their problems, the love I suspected he still held for my sister. That was more than enough to build upon.
***
Tommy woke a while later and took Aaron for a final tour of the campground. I went to check in with Tyler, and when I came out of his cabin, Kim’s Range Rover was back in the parking lot. I found her by the edge of the pond, staring out across the water. I held out my closed hand. When she opened her palm, I dropped in Mara’s bequest.
“Thanks,” she said, “but this isn’t for me. Mom told me a long time ago who should get this.”
Aida joined us a few minutes later. Kim took her hand in hers, then slipped Mara’s emerald ring onto Aida’s finger.
“Gram wanted you to have this,” she said.
Aida’s hand rose slowly, her fingers spreading as she held them up in front of the blue background of the pond. The late afternoon sun flashed to set the green stone on fire.
“There’s a story to that ring,” I said.
Aida smiled.
“I know, Uncle Paul,” she answered, making no move to wipe away her tears. “Gram must have told it to me twenty times.”
“That’s good,” I said, brushing her cheeks with my fingertips. “Then you’re not only the owner of the ring but the owner of the story too. Let’s hear it.”
She lowered her hand and turned to me as she began.
“She never had a real engagement ring. Grandpa gave her a plain silver band when he proposed. It wasn’t till later, after you and Mom were born and his shop started making money, that he bought this. He gave it to her on their tenth anniversary, at the top of Katahdin after you, Mom, and Gram hiked up there with him. He told her it reminded him of the green rectangle set in the heart of the map of Maine, and that it was only fitting that the symbol of his favorite place in the world be worn on the finger of the woman he loved.”
Tommy and Aaron came down to the water to join us.
“I gave the cabin a last sweep,” Tommy said. “We should be good to go.”
“Where you headed?” I asked him.
“I have no idea. I need to see Kelly, but I can’t stay with her. Maybe later, after we’ve both been clean long enough to trust it. Cody’s gonna be pissed I didn’t go to the halfway house and start the job he got me. I’ll probably give him a call, but I’m not sure he’ll give me a second chance.”
“If he doesn’t, call me.”
“What could you do?”
“I can work anywhere when I’m not working here,” I told him. “I could pack up my laptop and come down for a while to help you figure things out. Help you find a place, a job, hang out till you get on track.”
I saw the lump in his throat rise, the blue star on his neck quivering as it passed beneath. When it settled, he spoke. “You’d do that?”
“Of course,” I told him, reaching over and pulling him into a hug. “That’s what big brothers do.”
58
Indian Summer
I put my paddle in the bottom of the canoe and drifted. The birches mixed among the pines along the shore were bare, but the sun lit a world that felt more like midsummer than mid-fall. Circle after circle appeared on the water, echoes of the rising trout around me, their rings expanding to intersect and fade as new ones rose to spread and settle again.
It was the first time I’d been in a canoe since my family had left two weeks before and my last paddle before I closed Kidney Pond for the season.
I’d been surprised at the turnout for Mara’s funeral. She’d touched a lot of lives in Kim’s town, and there were two vans full of old friends from Pennsylvania who’d made the trip to Massachusetts to remember her as well. I’d picked up Tommy at the bus station in Dover. When we got to the church, we took a seat in the second row. I had no idea where things stood between Robert and Kim, but he was there in front of us with the kids. Just before the service, he whispered to Aida and Aaron, turned to me, and tipped his head toward the space beside them. The three of them moved over to make room as Tommy and I slipped into the end of their pew. I nodded to Robert just as the prelude began. We didn’t say much after the service, but I took his silent invitation as a fresh start.
I thought about trying to reconcile with Cassie as well. I stopped in to check on her replacement at Abol Campground. The wiry old guy I found raking the ground outside a lean-to could barely keep still as he talked about how happy he was to be back on duty. I was tempted to ask him about Cassie, but in the end I kept my mouth shut. A long, hard winter alone was probably just what I deserved for playing yo-yo with her affections. I decided to make it up to her by respecting the distance she’d placed between us. The time apart would work either for or against our reunion. I was done trying to change the people in my life into whom I wanted them to be. The best I could do was keep my eyes wide open to see what Cassie might want—and hope that it was me.
I looked up into a cloudless blue to see a large bird circling the far end of the pond. As it turned, I saw its head wink white before it dove. Its huge wings spread as its dark legs and white tail kissed the water. A shower of spray sparkled in his wake as the eagle took his prize to the sky. One bright flash, one quick death, snatched from the birth of one more perfect day.
I watched him disappear, then closed my eyes to feel the sun warm my face. When I opened them, the rises that had spread across the pond’s surface were gone. Not so much as a breeze disturbed the stillness around me. I looked up to watch Katahdin come alive as the sun spread its golden mantle over the mountain’s shoulders. I sat and mourned the transience of that passing beauty, feeling time burn as the shadows fled from the light.
Then something opened inside me to move through, and past, that sorrow. I saw the brush of yellow-green spring grass along the shores of the pond. I heard the full-throated wail of midsummer loons. I smelled the rich decay of autumn leaves mixed among wet moss. I felt the pleasant sting of icy air in my nose and breathed the nascent scent of coming snow. I saw the life of my sister before and after its end, watching the seed of the woman she might become blossom into a thousand possibilities.
My mother had been right about Jordan’s spirit. She and the rest of the past I fought so hard to return to were alive in every peak and valley of Baxter, but the ghosts I chased only led me farther from the only place where life can thrive: the infinite potential that shines within every present moment. And the people I wanted to spend most of those with were family.
I unscrewed the lid of the urn in my hands, tipped it over the water, and watched my mother’s ashes drift across Kidney Pond.
59
A Totem for Tomorrow
“I took the water line out and packed up the radios.”
“I went through the rest of the cabins. They’re clean.”
“Are we done?”
“We’re done.”
Tyler and I stood in the dirt parking lot behind the field. He blew into his cupped hands, rubbed them together, and stamped his feet.
“Cold, when you stop working.”
As soon as he said it, I saw the first few flakes land on the shoulder of his black fleece jacket. He reached down to the pile of gear on the ground behind his open tailgate and picked up a red daypack.
“This yours?”
“Thanks,” I said, taking it from him. “I looked all over for that.”
“It was sitting right on your bunk in Loon’s Nest
.”
“Not the last time I was there,” I said.
“Strange. Missing anything else?”
“Nope,” I told him. “Truck’s packed and ready to go.”
“You headed for Millinocket?”
“For the next few weeks, anyway. Aida has a violin recital mid-November. I may stretch my visit into Thanksgiving, check in on Tommy in between.”
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s in a halfway house in Jersey. Got a night job cleaning restaurants. Boring work and lousy hours, but the owner lent him a guitar and lets him play for tips on the weekend.”
“Sounds like he’s on his way.”
“Yeah. Guess I’ll be on mine too.”
“Thanks, Paul.”
I gave my head a shake. “I’m the one who should be thanking you, Tyler. My crew and I didn’t exactly make your job easy.”
“I got a family too, Paul. There’s only one thing worse than having one.”
“What’s that?”
“Not having one.”
We shook, and I helped him load the rest of the gear into his truck. I watched him rumble off down the dirt road. I was the only one left in the campground. The silence that came in Tyler’s wake was big, and I thought about how much bigger it would get when winter really set in.
I turned to take a last look at the pond. A bank of purple clouds hung low over water the color of lead. I saw its surface shimmer and followed the ripples from the shore to the place where the gray faded into veils of falling snow.
I got into the truck, started the heater, and threw the backpack on the seat beside me. Its top flap dropped open to reveal the curve of a wooden shape tucked inside. I reached in, drew it out, and smiled.
I let my fingers wander over the back of Cassie’s carved moose, following the pattern of dimples her knife left in the wood. Someone else might look at the sculpture’s crown and think she’d ruined the piece, but I recognized the animal she’d captured perfectly, right down to the mismatched halves of the Broken Bull’s rack.
I let my hands wander over it while I watched the snow come down. It was falling heavier now, erasing the world outside my window as it faded to white. While I drifted, the tip of my thumb found a different texture on the beast’s belly. I turned it over to read a line of small, careful letters carved there:
191 e. arctic avenue, folly beach, nc
I put the truck in gear, pulled away, and started to laugh. For the first time in a long time, I was happy to be heading south.
Author’s Note
Thank you so much for reading Autumn Imago. I invite you to share your thoughts and reactions through reviews. Sharing your recommendation of my novel via social media or e-mail would be especially appreciated! To connect with me and other Autumn Imago fans, please visit WigginsCreative.com.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank John W. Neff for the excellent historical and geographic perspective he provided for the setting of my tale in Katahdin, An Historic Journey (AMC Books). Special thanks, also, to Bruce and Mary Hutchison, who first introduced me to Katahdin 35 years ago and whose friendship has remained as steadfast as the state’s highest peak.
I am also indebted to former Baxter State Park ranger and published poet, Paul Corrigan, Jr., who served as the professional resource and trusted friend that helped proof my portrait of BSP.
A special shout-out goes to the other members of The Pine Cone Writers’ Den as well. These fellow scribes in my writing group have offered the criticism and encouragement that have inspired me to keep my fingers on my keyboard during the loneliest hours of shaping this tale.
I have also been blessed with two talented daughters who played such critical roles in the creation of this book. Tess Gionet’s patience as a constant sounding board made her an invaluable developmental editor during the months that I first began imagining this story. Amelia Wiggins’ skill as the copy editor who helped me shepherd my first rough manuscript into the book you hold in your hands is one that I believe rivals many of the best professionals in that field.
Finally, to Dana, whose boundless love and generosity allowed me to carry her to Maine to raise our family within the shadow of the mountain I love.
About the Author
BRYAN WIGGINS is a Maine-based author whose works have been published in The Maine Review, Canoe & Kayak, and Sea Kayaker magazines. He is the host of the Pine Cone Writers’ Den, a Maine novelists’ collective, and a regular speaker on the New England writer circuit. He is also an advertising agency writer and brand strategist. For the past thirty-four years, Bryan has made annual pilgrimages to explore the rugged mountain landscape. Visit him at WigginsCreative.com.
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