“Well, it was something I heard,” continued Lars. “At night. I was coming home and it was kind of late.” He took another drink and looked around at his audience. “You all know the woods next to my place, part of Mountain Park.”
Heads around the bar nodded, but no one spoke.
“Well, to be honest, I was coming from Nelsen’s and I’d had a couple,” here there were some chuckles of recognition, “but I wasn’t imagining things.”
Fiona began to feel vaguely annoyed. Couldn’t he just get on with it? But if she had learned anything this past year, it was to check her need to rush through everything. “Unless,” she reminded herself, “when making outrageous political commitments.” She took a deep breath and waited, but apparently she wasn’t alone in her impatience.
“Come on, Lars. Out with it. Tell us what it was.”
“Well, that’s just it, Ray,” said Lars turning calmly toward the speaker. “I don’t know what it was. I was heading toward the house and I heard something—stopped me cold. I thought at first maybe there were some deer in the woods, there, but it wasn’t the sound of a deer really. Not at all, in fact. No.”
He paused again and looked into his drink before continuing.
“It was a human sound. Not a sound I’ve ever heard an animal make.” He looked around the room at the people whose attention he held. “It sounded like someone was in the woods. And I can’t help wondering—” he stopped. “I can’t help wondering whether we have someone we don’t know on the Island. Someone, maybe, living in the woods.”
Pali was silent all through dinner that night, and spent most of the meal pushing his spaghetti around his plate. Normally he was charming and, if not effusive, then easy and light-hearted. But tonight he seemed distant and preoccupied. Fiona pretended not to notice, and did her best with Nika to keep up the conversation. Friends stopped by the table to comment on Lars’s story and offer their own theories about the mystery, and through it all Pali remained somewhat removed and distant. Fiona was vaguely disturbed. She had never seen him like this.
Fiona waited for a moment when the others at the table were engaged and turned to Pali.
“You seem a million miles away,” she said. “Everything okay?”
Pali compressed his lips and nodded unconvincingly. Fiona was the only real writer he knew, and she had always understood his poetry.
“Going through a bit of a dry spell with my work. Can’t seem to come up with anything.”
Fiona nodded. “Writer’s block. It happens.” She could see that he was troubled, and was surprised that it should affect him so deeply.
Pali lowered his voice and leaned in. “It’s not that, exactly. It’s... my...” he took a deep breath, “… friend. I haven’t felt his presence in a long time. He seems to have abandoned me.”
Fiona looked at him sympathetically, but said nothing.
“I keep wondering what’s different,” said Pali, turning his empty glass in his hands. “Is it me? Am I different? Or has he—whatever he is—moved on?”
And now Pali spoke so quietly that Fiona could barely make out his words.
“Or worse... is that the source of the screaming?”
Fiona looked startled. Pali seemed to be in a strange new place. Believing what he’d seen was a ghost was one thing. But this… .
Pali seemed to sense her reaction. “You’re right, of course. I guess it is just writer’s block.”
“Or in your case, ghost block,” said Fiona, pleased with herself at her little bon mot. Her mood changed when she saw his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mock. I was just trying to cheer you up.”
Pali smiled and shook it off. “It’s okay. I’m not offended. It’s just a hard thing for me to laugh about.”
Fiona nodded. “The writer’s block will pass. It always does.”
Pali smiled again, grimly. “No doubt.”
But he did have doubts. Many doubts. And he wondered seriously if he would ever write again.
Toward the end of the evening, Jim appeared unexpectedly, and responding to the general invitation, sat down at their table.
“Did you eat, Jim?” asked Nika.
“Yes. Hours ago. Just thought I’d stop by for a drink.”
Fiona eyed him skeptically. She recalled that he had told her about some qualification exam he was studying for and that he wouldn’t be around for a while. She had no illusions about the Island grapevine. Someone, she felt sure, had told Jim she was here.
“I’ll buy,” she said.
He started to argue, then smiled. “Thanks. I’ll have a tapper.” Fiona rose to get it.
As soon as she left he turned to Nika and Pali. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Young Joe called me and said I should come down. Some story about a guy in the woods.”
They filled him in and he was silent until Fiona returned.
“Thanks,” he said, as she handed him his beer.
“Jim, what brings you here?”
He shrugged. “Just felt like it.”
Fiona held his glance.
“Did someone tell you about Lars’ story?”
Jim looked sheepish, but he was incapable of deception. “I heard you were here and I didn’t want you to go home alone.”
Fiona could not restrain herself from expressing her irritation. “Good grief, Jim. This is Washington Island. I don’t need a babysitter. What do you think is going to happen?”
Jim looked at her unperturbed. “I don’t know. But as long as we don’t know, I’m going to make sure you’re safe.”
“I’m not ready to go.”
“Fine,” he said, easily. “I’ll wait.”
“I drove myself.”
“I’ll just follow you home and make sure you get in okay.”
Fiona, not pleased, could see no graceful way to change his mind. She caught herself just before asking him whether he was planning to come in to check under the bed. No point in giving him any ideas. Resignedly, she said no more.
When she had postponed her departure as long as possible, Fiona said her goodnights and left, Jim faithfully at her heels. He waited until she was in her car before going to his truck. As she pulled out of the parking lot, she saw him back out and pull in neatly behind her on the road. “What,” she wondered, “will happen now?” Jim’s feelings for her were now fully on display. Would he be content to stay in his truck, or would he follow her into the house? Her head abuzz with these thoughts, she pulled into her driveway, hoping that Jim would stay in his truck. But he turned off the ignition, and walked up the path with her in silence.
She opened the door, and turned reluctantly to say good night, but he was already running lightly down the steps, and calling his good bye. She heard the sound of the engine as he started his truck and drove away. In the silence of the little house, her loneliness rose within her and curled itself tightly around her heart.
She tried calling Pete, the unbroken sound of the ringtone underscoring her solitude. There was no answer.
Nika and Pali stopped to pick up Ben, and he chattered all the way home about the Scouts’ animal sciences badge and what they were learning about goats and goat milking from Mr. Martin. Nika asked questions and feigned enthusiasm, but Pali was silent.
After Ben was in bed, Nika made a pot of tea, brought it into the living room on a tray, and sat down with Pali next to the fire.
He sat with his head down, his eyes troubled.
“What is it, Ver?” she asked. “Something’s bothering you.”
He shook his head.
They sat in silence as Nika’s thoughts ran through the possibilities. Suddenly she felt a spark of insight.
“It’s the screaming, isn’t it?”
Pali looked at her and nodded once.
“But why? Why is that upsetting you?” Then she had a terrible thought. “Do you know something?”
Pali took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I don’t think I know.”
Nika frowned.
“But I’m wondering.”
Nika sat waiting. She would let him tell it his own way, whatever it was.
Pali got up and began to walk around the room, then sat down again and ran his hands through his hair.
“What if my experiences on the water aren’t benign? What if I have been consorting with… something? What if I have brought evil here?”
Nika stared at her husband. “You can’t be serious. You can’t honestly believe that the screaming is something supernatural. That’s crazy!” She stood up and went over to him, putting her hands on his shoulders. “This isn’t like you, Pali. You’re not a superstitious man.”
“I know what I’ve seen Nika. I know what I experienced. Or at least, I know that I experienced it, and so do the crew. We don’t actually know what. That’s the problem.”
Nika went over to the sideboard, poured him a brandy and put it in his hand.
“Ver Palsson, you need to get a grip on yourself. In the first place, there is a logical explanation for this screaming. It’s either some kids pranking or it’s some crazy in the woods. But it’s NOT a ghost, or the devil, or whatever you’re thinking. In the second place, you are the best man I know, and you have not brought evil to anyone. It’s not even possible. Now drink that and come to bed.”
Pali shot back the brandy, stood up and put his arms around her, crushing her against his chest. They stood that way for a long time before they went up to bed in silence. Just before he turned out the light, Pali turned to look at her.
“What bothers me most is that I don’t care what it is. I just want it to speak to me again.”
He turned out the light. Nika moved close to him and put her face against his neck. Soon she could hear his measured breathing, and he slept soundly all night.
Nika, however, did not.
It was before dawn when Terry pulled up in front of Ground Zero. The lights were not yet on inside, so he knew that neither Roger nor The Angel Joshua had arrived.
There was no definite pattern as to which of the two would open the shop, but generally speaking, it was Roger who opened and The Angel Joshua who stayed later in the day. The habit of early rising was one long established with Roger, and he was not usually interested in changing his habits. At least, thought Terry, when he did make changes, they were big ones, not minor ones like opening times.
He waited in his truck for a few moments before he saw the headlights of Roger’s truck.
Terry got out and waited for Roger on the walk. Roger did not loiter in the driver’s seat gathering belongings. As soon as the truck stopped, the door was open and he was out.
“Morning,” said Terry cheerfully. “I’m a little early today.”
Roger made a noise that might have been a greeting and unlocked the door. Carrying a small black duffle bag, Terry followed him in. He was already regretting this idea. He should have stayed home and gotten an extra hour of sleep. He waited while Roger turned on the lights, flicked the switches of some gadgets, and started the brewing. Terry noticed that the big coffee machine was already on, ready to be put to use. Without further preliminaries, Roger took a mug from the shelf.
“Macchiato?”
“No. Well, yes. Well—” Terry paused.
Roger gazed at him with what might pass for patience.
“The thing is, umm, yes. Yes, I would like a macchiato.”
Somewhat discomfited by Roger’s glare, Terry settled himself at the counter.
Without comment, Roger turned to the machine and began the process of making the coffee. The unpronounceable Italian name announced itself across the top of the gleaming copper apparatus, and Terry, who admired good design of all kinds, watched with interest as his macchiato was being prepared.
After a few moments, Roger turned and put the mug in front of Terry with a thunk. Terry gazed blankly at the design in the froth at the top. It was, he always thought, an incongruous touch from Roger, these delicate pieces of coffee froth art. Today it was an autumn leaf—an oak leaf—with stem, and veins, and rounded lobes, filling almost half of the top of the cup.
“Thanks,” said Terry to Roger’s back. “So, uh, Roger,” he continued. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here so early.”
“No,” said Roger, without looking back.
Terry paused a moment. He was used to Roger under ordinary circumstances, but this morning he certainly wasn’t making things any easier. Obliquely he wondered whether Roger ever made anything easier. He rather doubted it.
“Well, um, there um, there is a reason.” Terry took out his reading glasses and began polishing them with his handkerchief.
Roger remained silent, wiping off the stainless steel counter with a pristine white cloth he had just taken out.
Terry looked at Roger’s back and took a deep breath. “Out with it,” he thought to himself.
“I was wondering if you could show me some of those yoga poses. I’ve been thinking I need to do something to get myself in shape, and I just thought, well, you could help me get started.” He pressed his lips together in a hard line and nodded once, briefly to himself. There. He had said it.
In the ensuing silence, the stereo seemed particularly loud. Music at Ground Zero was something Terry had difficulty getting used to. He had grown accustomed to the various changes at the shop over the course of the past year, and he had almost completely succeeded in not referring to it any longer as “Coffee.” But he never could get used to having jazz playing in the background. It was unsettling somehow. So different from the way things had been before.
Beginning to think Roger had not heard the question, Terry asked again.
“So what do you think? About the yoga?”
“No,” said Roger.
“No?” This was the response Terry had been expecting.
“No.”
“Uh… why not?”
“I’m not a teacher. I can’t tell you how to do it.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll just watch you.”
“No.”
Terry was silent for a few minutes. He sat down at the counter and watched Roger begin to set up his yoga mat.
“Are you going to throw me out?”
Roger stopped and looked at him, puzzled. “No.”
Terry picked up his duffle bag and disappeared into the men’s room.
In a few minutes he reappeared wearing sweats, a t-shirt, and white socks.
Roger was just beginning his sun salutation. He ignored Terry and went on with his routine.
Without a word, Terry took up a position a few feet away and began to copy Roger’s movements.
His head facing the ground in downward dog, Roger’s voice was a bit muffled.
“Take off your socks.”
Obediently, Terry removed his socks, and barefooted, they continued in silence.
After Lars Olafsen’s story, there was a rush on ground beef at the grocery store meat section, the traditional location for local gossip. Islanders clustered around the refrigerator case as if they hadn’t eaten meat in weeks, the smell of fresh-baked bread wafting enticingly around them.
“Did you hear about what happened to Lars?”
They had.
“Don’t you think it makes sense after what’s been happening?”
They did.
“Is it possible that there’s someone we don’t know living somewhere in the woods?”
It was.
“But even if there’s someone there, we still haven’t found anyone hurt or…”
There was a silence as this mystery was considered.
“There’s no body,” ventured someone, timidly.
“Maybe not. Or maybe we just haven’t found it yet.”
Glances were exchanged as this idea, not new to any of them, was spoken out loud.
“Balderdash,” said Nancy Iverssen in her inimitable fashion. “There’s no body. “We’d have found it by now if there was.”
“Or the coyotes would have.”
Ther
e was general relief as everyone agreed that this was probably true.
“But it’s still damned worrying to have all this going on.”
Everyone agreed that it was.
The grocery store had record sales that week.
Chapter Twelve
Fiona’s announcement of her candidacy immediately raised the question of a most delightful prospect: a debate. A political event of any kind was always greeted with interest on the Island, but this one promised to be particularly enticing. It would have required the soul of a saint and the disposition of a hermit not to look forward to a confrontation between Stella and her despised neighbor, that new woman who was running for Lars’s seat. No one particularly expected Fiona to win an argument with Stella—who could?—but they all figured they’d vote for her anyway, so the debate itself could hold no peril, only pure enjoyment. “Anybody But Stella” was the phrase on everyone’s lips, but they murmured it privately, just in case Stella overheard.
Knowing this, Fiona found herself in a quandary. Having declared her intention to run, and what’s more, having further declared her intention to leave everything pretty much as it was, she really didn’t have much of anything to say. She did some desultory research on the responsibilities of the chairman, and had a long conversation with Lars at Nelsen’s one evening, but beyond that, she really didn’t have much to prepare.
“Well, for one thing,” said Elisabeth impatiently, “you’d better know what Stella’s running on.”
“Something about dredging the harbor.”
“Well, what about it?”
“I’m not quite sure.”
“Fiona, do you want to win or don’t you?” Elisabeth was exasperated. “There’s no point in going to all this trouble if you won’t do anything to help yourself.”
Fiona looked apologetic. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m just a little distracted. I haven’t heard from Pete in a while, and every time one of those hostage videos comes up, I’m afraid to look.”
The Audacity of Goats Page 13