The Audacity of Goats

by J. F. Riordan

  “I’m working on a project and need some PVC pipe, but”—and here Ben paused—“Christmas is coming,” (this carefully worded sentence was perfectly true, if unrelated: the trickery), “and I don’t want my parents to know.” (Also perfectly true on every level). “Could you help me cut it here so I don’t have to ask my dad?”

  Tom did not hesitate for one moment. “Sure. I’d be happy to.” And then came the inevitable question that Ben had anticipated.

  “What are you making?”

  “A birdfeeder,” said Ben. This was also perfectly true. But it had nothing to do with his reason for buying PVC pipe.

  Chapter Five

  “So what’s the worst she could do?”

  Elisabeth and Fiona were sitting on Elisabeth’s porch discussing the Stella situation. It was still warm for late October, and they were taking advantage of the sun. There was a pot of tea on the small metal table between them, and the remains of very fashionable—though still delicious—buttered toast and cherry jam on their plates.

  “I’ve been trying to figure that out,” said Fiona, absentmindedly folding and re-folding the paper napkin on her lap.

  “She could change the zoning laws, I suppose.”

  “But she can’t do that unilaterally,” said Elisabeth sensibly.

  “Well, no, but everybody’s intimidated by her. They’ll do what she tells them.”

  “Are they really all that spineless?”

  “I’m not sure that it’s spinelessness. It’s an island. People need to get along. I’d say it’s more an aversion to conflict.”

  “That’s how Hitler came to power. And anyway, what if they do change the zoning?” Elisabeth hesitated briefly before completing her thought. “After all, the main point of contention was Robert. Without him, what difference does it make?”

  Fiona nodded solemnly. “I wish I knew. The thing is, she’s up to something. I can tell by the way she’s been taunting me.”

  “Taunting you? You make it sound like an elementary school playground.”

  “It feels like that,” admitted Fiona. “But a really high-stakes playground. One where she can destroy you.”

  Elisabeth looked over the tops of her sunglasses at Fiona.

  “Destroy you? Be serious, Fiona. You give her too much power.”

  Fiona shrugged and gave a rueful smile. “It’s how it is. Ask anyone on the Island.”

  Elisabeth decided to let this go. “Okay, so let’s get back to the original question. What can she do to you?”

  “I think I have to start with what she wants.”

  “Okay,” said Elisabeth again. “What does she want?”

  “She wants my property. I know that, but after what happened last spring, I doubt that’s her main objective. It’s certainly safe to say she wants me off the Island. At least, that’s the best-case scenario. I think it’s entirely possible that she really just wants me dead.” Fiona grinned at the look of schoolmarm-ish disapproval on Elisabeth’s face, and shrugged again. She was beginning to enjoy herself. “Maybe her campaign goal is to establish village stocks so she can publicly humiliate me.”

  “Actually, humiliation probably would be on the top of her list, don’t you think?”

  Fiona’s smile changed. “Yes. Without a doubt. Humiliation would be a good goal.” She paused, remembering the hardware store. “Better than death, actually.”

  They looked at each other for a moment, and silence fell over them as they each considered this possibility.

  Rocco lay nearby, his head carefully positioned to be exactly equidistant from each of them, so as to maximize his ability to love and protect. Fiona’s Italian sandals were under her chair, and she reached out her bare foot to run it along Rocco’s soft fur. Pleased, he made a low, rumbling, cooing sound. A crow called from the woods nearby, and was answered in the same rough pattern by its fellow. A soft breeze had begun, and there was beginning to be a chill in the air. Elisabeth was staring off into the distance. Fiona pulled her sweater tighter and wrapped her arms around herself for a moment in a gesture of comfort before reaching for her mug of tea.

  At last she spoke, a look of grim determination on her face. “I can’t run away from this. I started it by moving to the Island, and now I have to deal with it directly. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but there’s no other way.”

  She put down her mug and looked at Elisabeth.

  “I’m going to have to run against Stella.”

  Chapter Six

  Heading home on the ferry, as they crossed Death’s Door, Fiona couldn’t tell whether the light on the water was the reflection of the moon, or mist rising in the warm autumn air.

  The lighthouse of Plum Island was immediately before her as the ferry took the western route, the shorter, summer route less sheltered from the wind and waves, toward Washington Island. Fiona contemplated the view. Elisabeth had once told her that the Island seemed desolate and depressing to her, as if she’d fallen off the edge of the earth. But that feeling was exactly what had always made Fiona feel so completely and utterly safe.

  Washington Islanders liked to say that they were “north of the tension line,” and Fiona had always felt that this was true. There was something about the remoteness that made her feel that nothing could be wrong. Bad things happened on the island, of course. People got sick, they died, there were accidents; all the myriad tragedies of human existence played themselves out here as they did anywhere. But the world and its troubles seemed like something apart, something alien to the golden trees on the shore, the cranes at the dock, the big American flag that flew over the harbor, the warm lights of the houses dotted along the shore. There was no war, no pestilence, no danger of attack. There were no tsunami, no sharks. People left their houses unlocked, their engines running. They walked alone without a second thought, despite the rural isolation. Everyone knew everyone else. And any criminal would have to take the ferry, fly in rather conspicuously at the tiny grass-field airport, or dock at the marina, making stealth impossible.

  For the ten-thousandth time, Fiona contemplated the observation her father had once made: “People are what you should fear most in life, my dear,” he had said. Her life in Chicago had taught Fiona that this was true.

  On the island—Stella notwithstanding—Fiona had always felt safe among these people, and she felt that there was a gulf of distance and of security between her and the world. She was, in every way “north of the tension line,” as the islanders liked to say, far away from the pressures and stresses of modern city life.

  The ferry’s pilot house was half-way between the 2nd and the top decks, and its occupants were visible as if on a stage in the deepening darkness. Lit by a red lamp and the screens of the guidance systems, it had the coziness of a fire-lit hearth. She watched, a trifle enviously, the warm comfort of the men who sat there, talking, perhaps of philosophy, perhaps of the Packers, engaged in the ordinary comforts of human interaction.

  No matter how warmly welcomed by the island community—and the warmth was not universal, to be sure—Fiona felt alone, an outsider. She pondered whether her alien stature was something the islanders truly felt, or merely her own projection, a perpetual feeling of not-belonging she carried with her wherever she went. She’d felt it at school, awkward as she had been in the gay social interactions of the other girls; she’d felt it at the newspaper in Chicago, even after she had been recognized for her reporting; she had felt it in Ephraim, among Elisabeth and Terry and Mike, all of whom had belonged there for much of their lives. Only Roger shared her isolation and differentness, and Fiona wasn’t sure that this particular club was one of which she wanted to be a member.

  For the first time, in the dusk of an autumn evening, Fiona could genuinely understand the crews’ whispered stories of the haunted ferry. The sea smoke, the rising mist from the cold air against the still warm water, the moon, the last rim of light along the horizon, and the sense of isolation made it seem that a ghost was in the natural order of thin
gs. A wave sent a faint spray of water across the deck, and Fiona shivered a little as it hit her. She drew herself deeper into her jacket, and huddled into a niche against the inner cabin, away from the wind. She was cold, but it felt good to be out in the air. Leaning against a corner, Fiona gave herself up to the rocking of the ferry, and felt herself slide into some deep place of the soul.

  After a while, the engines shifted, and the ferry began its pivot toward the dock. The captain—one of Pali’s colleagues, and one she knew—came down to open the piloting box. As she stood in the shadows unseen, Fiona, in her loneliness, was drawn to him for company and conversation. But he was busy. Not wanting to be a bother, she watched for a moment as he guided the ferry home, intent on his work. Then she quietly slipped away so that he wouldn’t think she had been spying on him.

  She started her car up, gave a polite wave to the crewman who directed her off the ramp, and turned her car along the dark and wooded road toward home. She would make herself something good for dinner, she thought. Comfort and warmth and light were what she needed. But her greatest source of comfort would not be there. And he was probably in greater need of it than she.

  It was nearly 3:00 in the morning. Eddie had closed up the bar and was heading home to his little cottage on the harbor. It was a calm starry night, and he was glad to be alive. Eddie lived alone, and on nights like this it was his habit to make himself something to drink and sit on the porch watching the water. It was calming after the fuss and clatter of the bar and the chatter of his clientele. Sometimes he would forget himself and sit there until dawn, listening to the sound of the waves, of the fish jumping, sometimes watching the moon, sometimes the northern lights. Usually he had a book waiting by his bedside, but he had the luxury of being able to pick it up in the morning for a while if he didn’t get to it before he slept.

  Eddie was a methodical reader, and was now working his way through Russian literature. He was reading his second Dostoevsky—The Idiot—and finding it dreary. He smiled to himself as he thought about this. He had not yet discovered Russian art that was anything else.

  As he seated himself, his mug of tea in his hand, two great horned owls were somewhere near, calling to one another, and it was still warm enough that a few tree frogs still sang. Eddie sighed a deep relaxing sigh and leaned back in his rocking chair. There was a slight mist just near the water that gave everything a blurred softness. The stars seemed very near.

  Eddie was going over in his mind a conversation he had had with Jim that evening. Jim was a good guy, and Eddie sympathized with his passion for Fiona Campbell. Jim might still have a chance with her if that boyfriend continued to be so elusive, but Eddie knew from sad experience the pain of unreturned love. Things were rough for Jim right now.

  The sound that ripped through the darkness shocked him so thoroughly that Eddie leapt to his feet and threw his cup of tea into the air, heart pounding. It was the sound of a woman screaming as if she were in desperate fear for her life. Without a pause, Eddie was off the porch and running in the direction of the screams, dialing his phone as he ran. He saw the lights come on in the cottages nearby, and doors slamming as his two neighbors joined him, clad variously in sweat pants and pajamas.

  “Where is it coming from?” asked John, who lived two houses up, as he dashed into the street.

  “It sounds like the marina,” said Kevin.

  Together they sprinted toward the sound, which continued unceasingly. The marina was about a half mile off. Kevin was a heavy man, and began to breathe hard, but he bravely pushed on. Eddie was a runner, and he led the way, John was somewhere in the middle. They heard the siren of the police car approaching, and they moved off to the side of the road to let it pass.

  As the Island police officer slowed the car and rolled down the window, Eddie shouted to him,

  “We think it’s the marina!” and the officer sped off.

  “Listen!” said Kevin suddenly. “It’s stopped.”

  Not knowing whether this was good news or bad, they continued to run, reaching the marina only a few minutes after the patrol car.

  Sergeant Johnsson had disappeared around the building, and there was the sound of more sirens approaching. In the ensuing chaos of fire, police, and rescue vehicles, of volunteers arriving in their trucks and SUV’s, no one heard another scream. Every inch of land from the marina to Eddie’s, and in a mile radius beyond, was searched for some sign of the woman whose scream had been so terrifying to hear. By the end of the second day, the searchers were forced to give up.

  Chief Bill Yahr stood on the marina dock with some of his team, shaking his head. “So we have two screamers: a man and a woman. Multiple witnesses. All reliable. No sign of anyone injured or of any struggles. We have searched every field, every tree, looked under every rock, and in every house.” He paused and rubbed his forehead wearily. “My best theory is that it’s a prankster.”

  “Several pranksters,” pointed out Sergeant Johnsson. “A man and a woman.”

  “Or a boy and a girl. It’s got to be some kids enjoying making us jump.”

  “Or some summer people gone nuts,” added one of the volunteers helpfully.

  Chief Yahr shook his head again. “I don’t know.” He turned to Young Joe, who had been among the hardest-working of the volunteers, and at twenty years old, the one, presumably, with the closest connections to the underworld that was adolescence.

  “Joe, what do you think?”

  Joe looked embarrassed and fumbled with something in his pocket.

  “I don’t know anyone who’d think it was funny. Nobody’s that bored.”

  The Chief stared at him for a moment, sizing up his truthfulness, then shrugged slightly. “Hard to say.”

  Suddenly brisk, he looked up at the people gathered around him. Their expressions were serious, each following his own thoughts and theories, each wondering if evil had suddenly come to the Island and whether they should be afraid.

  “Well, I guess we’d all better get back to business. If any of you see anything or hear anything, make sure you let me know.”

  With a murmur of assents and farewells, the group dispersed, and Chief Yahr walked slowly to his car. He had no better theories than anyone else. And he was beginning to feel uneasy. Most pranks didn’t go this far.

  Roger had no illusions about himself. He knew he was not good with other people. But his awareness of this basic fact was not sufficient information to assist him in understanding exactly why it was so. In evaluating the ways and means of human emotion, he was like a visitor to unknown lands. He could follow a map if one were provided, but once on the path, he could not recognize the meanings of the signs along the way. He could, however, see that there was something different about the way Elisabeth was behaving, and this he took as a sign that something was wrong. Since Elisabeth, in his view, was perfection itself, this could only mean that he, Roger, was doing something wrong. What this could be he could not imagine.

  When Joshua suggested that yoga would be a means of achieving his feminine side, Roger had no idea of what this could mean, or why it would be useful. Nevertheless, with his usual dogged persistence—and in the absence of any other guidance—Roger had determined that he would do this thing. It did not occur to him that Joshua had never been married and might not know anything about marriage. But he had observed that Joshua had a comfort with other people—like, for example, women, who were also people—which gave him an air of authority on the subject.

  His backpack loaded with his deer-saving equipment—several garbage bags, PVC pipe, and all the rest, Ben was ready to launch his rescue attempt.

  He chose a path that led to a place he knew where deer liked to come for water. It was sheltered in the woods from the worst of the wind, and he had often found the tracks of deer, raccoons, and foxes criss-crossing the mud or snow. Ben was excited to be ready to execute the plan that had consumed him now for so long. He hoped he would not be too late. He had tried to get everything together quickly
, knowing that the animal must already be suffering; but it hadn’t been easy, hampered, as he was, by adult observation and restrictions.

  Suddenly a thought struck Ben that caused him to stop in the middle of the path. What if the animal didn’t have a broken leg? He had been assuming this without ever actually knowing for sure. What if the problem were something else? Ben considered what else might have caused the deer’s irregular gait. An injured hoof, maybe, or a bad cut. One thing for sure: his opportunities to get close to the deer would be extremely limited. He had to get this right the first time. What an idiot he had been! Still, at this point, he might as well keep going. His plan today was just to put out the bait. He wasn’t likely to meet the animal just along the trail anyway.

  As he went along, his plan seemed more and more stupid. How was he expecting a wild animal to hold still while he applied the splint—or whatever it needed? He had been imagining befriending the animal and waiting until it learned to trust him. But every day with that bad leg lengthened the odds that the deer would not survive. Ben realized now that he might not have that kind of time.

  He was mad at himself for his poor planning. His father always told him that he jumped into things without thinking, and here was another example. Ben felt ashamed. He needed to think about this the way his father had taught him: consider the situation, list the obstacles, and try to find solutions.

  His father’s steady voice in his head, Ben began to reason his way through his problem. The only real predators on the Island were the coyotes. Foxes weren’t likely to bother a deer. Even an injured one. He’d seen that the deer was getting around pretty well for now. It could find food and eat. So unless it had an infection—in which case there was nothing Ben could do—the animal would probably be okay for a while. Taking the time to make friends would probably not be a factor in survival. The only significant problem they faced was another one Ben could not control: a human being. Ben knew that if an adult found an injured animal, there would be no hesitation over shooting it. Maybe if he kept the food supply steady and in a remote place, no one else would see the animal before he could befriend it.