Without planning to, Mike drove up to Ground Zero one morning a bit earlier than usual, and saw Roger’s and Terry’s trucks already in the lot. The lights were on inside the shop, and in the darkness, the interior was revealed as if it were a stage. There they both were, standing side by side, facing the counter. Their left legs were bent with their bare feet resting against the insides of their knees, and their arms were raised above their heads each with the palms of his hands touching as if in prayer.
Mike nodded to himself in confirmation of his theory and, unobserved, waited until his usual time to go in. He hadn’t meant to snoop, so out of respect for their privacy he tried not to watch. But despite his resolution, he found his gaze irresistibly pulled back to the activity going on inside. He had to admit that, surprising as it all was, they looked as if they knew what they were doing.
If Island news had a recurring theme, it was the continually dropping lake levels. No one knew exactly why, but there was controversy as to the cause of the change. One theory was that the army corps of engineers had dredged the St. Clair/ Detroit river system three times in the early 20th century, leading to water level drops in Lakes Huron and Michigan.
Another was that it was the result of last year’s drought, and the mild winter, which had, in turn led to increased evaporation. There were other theories, too, ranging in their degrees of seriousness, and all discussed earnestly.
The bottom line, however, was simple: Unless Detroit Harbor were dredged the ferry would no longer be able to operate. Without its lifeline, Washington Island would die. This fundamental problem was the only public policy that mattered. The resulting morass of confusion, complexity, and anxiety was the perfect mix for political opportunity. Stella had a plan.
It was after four on a Saturday afternoon, and Fiona was tired and cold. She had spent the entire day knocking on doors, pausing only to put in an appearance at the public library’s used book sale and raffle. “A meet and greet,” as Emily Martin had called it when they met there by chance. Fiona had felt this a bit grandiose for the casual event, but had kept this thought to herself.
Leaving the warmth of her car, Fiona walked up the long stone path of a farmhouse, a curious mixture of wood smoke and scented dryer sheets wafting in the air around it. She did not recognize the name on her list, but she was beyond caring. Her reticence was long gone, and her little speech was now smooth and unvarying. She had actually woken herself that week reciting it in her sleep. Reaching the porch, she pushed the doorbell. People on the Island weren’t much used to unexpected visitors, and she was never quite sure how she would be received.
The ring was answered with the sound of a dog barking. Fiona waited a minute or so before she heard the latch turning. The door opened and an elderly man stood before her, an impatient grimace on his face, a white-faced black lab standing beside him. There was the smell in the hallway of something that had been fried last night. The dog wagged its tail as it continued to bark.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” said Fiona. “I’m here to discuss the election for chairman of the Town Board.”
The man rolled his eyes irritably.
“Well, get on with it,” he said.
“I’m Fiona Campbell, and I’m running for the office. I have a great deal of respect for Lars Olafsen, and I want to continue his policies of quiet, efficient service.”
The old man’s face was stony. “You know Lars?”
“Yes I do. And his legacy of good government has worked well here for many years.”
“How do you know? You been here, what? A few months? What do you know about it? Shut up!” He said this last to the dog, who sat down promptly and was quiet, still looking hopefully up at the stranger who might possibly have a ball, or at least a kind word.
With an utterly false calm and the new equally false smile, Fiona looked down at cloudy eyes of the dog and reached her hand out for him to sniff. “That’s a nice dog you’ve got there. I used to have a Lab when I was a girl. How old is he?”
The old man looked steadily at her without softening.
“Old enough,” he said, and slammed the door.
Nika watched her son without seeming to, trying to glean some clue about his preoccupation. He had always confided in her, and their conversations had been open and easy. Now he was different: closed away and silent. He had suddenly gone from being her boy to being a mysterious stranger. He ran out the door in the mornings without his usual childish hug, and no longer wanted to talk to her when he came home. Nika watched him one morning as he jogged down the road toward school.
This was what she had expected, and what she had feared. The long process of his drawing away would culminate in him leaving the island. He wouldn’t belong anywhere else—she knew from her own experience—and nowhere else would be enough. It would all be bright and shining and new and exhilarating, but it would be missing the mysterious essence of life on the Island.
Would he care? Would that matter to him? She thought it did now, but as he grew, he could change a great deal. She knew that it was part of the process of growing up; that he would have to go through it all himself. But she dreaded the rejection, and the angst, and the teenage scorn of their beautiful life that was bound to come. Watching his figure disappearing down the road, she wished he could be a little boy for just a bit longer.
Her heart hurt.
Dean Hillard, Door County’s representative to the Wisconsin Assembly had been in office for five years, and although he had been re-elected twice, his popularity was sometimes difficult to fathom. He was a preening, officious little man who liked feeling important and telling people what to do. He wore his hair too long, and he had a habit of continually brushing it back from his face as he spoke. In his youth, he had been arrested for shoplifting; as an adult he drank too much, and his drinking made him nasty. He bullied the people who worked for him. He was smug, rude, arrogant, and under the impression that he was much smarter than he actually was. He had contempt for the people who elected him, and did not hesitate to show it to his colleagues. And yet, standing on the platforms erected before the crowds at county fairs, VFW chicken dinners, and public library open meetings, he was charming, self-deprecating, and, when necessary, just the tiniest bit flirtatious.
He was, in short, the perfect politician, and, it just so happened, he was also the nephew of Stella DesRosiers.
Ben had been going to the creek every day and had not had one tiny bit of luck. Even though he was beginning to realize that his plan wasn’t going to work, Ben still felt a sense of obligation to try to save the deer. He had looked in other places, but this was the water source closest to where he had seen the herd the first time, and it just made the most sense to him.
Every day the corn was gone, and every day he carefully laid out more, took his position on the nearby rock, and waited as long as he dared. He was beginning to think that he should change his bait to one less appealing to turkeys. He had been using up a lot of the cracked corn that his mother kept for birds, but so far she hadn’t said anything. If he had one thing going for him, he thought, it was that she was used to his feeding all kinds of animals.
One day after school he dutifully made his way to the creek. There had been snow flurries this morning and more snow was predicted tonight. It was cold, even for Ben, who was used to spending hours out of doors. He was losing hope that he could ever find the little animal.
He was walking as softly as he could, but as the certainty of his mission faded, his mind had wandered, and he was thinking about a book he had read last night about World War II. Ben had acquired his father’s love of history, and he was encouraged to read at night rather than to use the Internet. He had been reading about the London Blitz, and was trying to imagine what it would have been like to hide with so many people in the Underground when a flash of movement caught his eye. He froze and looked through the woods. There it was again. He could just make it out through the trees about twenty yards away. Not a herd of animal
s, just one, and it didn’t seem to have a deer’s normal graceful gait. Holding his breath, Ben waited to see if the animal would move again.
It seemed like an hour that Ben stood frozen in the woods, hoping not to startle the little deer. He couldn’t see it fully, but he could see its brown hide and hear its movement. He was fairly certain it was making its way toward the creek. Now if he could manage to get there, too, without startling it....
With infinite care Ben took a step forward on the path, watching to see if there was any sign of recognition from his quarry. It didn’t move. Ben took another step. Still nothing. Gradually gaining confidence, Ben made his way, slow step by slow step, toward the creek. Suddenly a movement told him that the animal had sensed his presence. Quietly reciting some of the curse words he had heard his father use in private, Ben froze. The animal froze with him, and Ben guessed that it was sniffing the air.
All at once, to Ben’s astonishment, there was a flurry of movement, and the animal began to move in his direction. Ben stayed frozen, and in a moment the object of his long days of preparation and searching stood in front of him. They regarded one another with astonishment, and Ben chided himself for how stupid he had been. The animal took another step. Slowly, incredulously, Ben reached out his hand, and without hesitation, the animal came toward him, sniffing his hand for food.
Terry was showing up at Ground Zero every morning to practice yoga with Roger. At first Roger sighed and rolled his eyes, but never having had many friends, Roger secretly came to look forward to their sessions, and stopped voicing his objections quite so frequently.
For his part, Terry had acquired a yoga mat and stopped having to be told to remove his socks. His technique, however, which Roger had done nothing whatsoever to correct, left something to be desired.
They were in the midst of their practice one morning when they were interrupted by the sudden appearance of The Angel Joshua. He usually arrived after the first burst of the earliest customers, but he had forgotten his phone the day before and was eager to retrieve it.
Roger and Terry had completed their sun salutations and were addressing the challenges of Warrior when the door opened, and The Angel Joshua walked in, bringing with him a blast of cold air.
“Whoa, dudes,” was his first remark. He stood regarding them for a few moments, as they continued unfazed, and then he disappeared back out the door. When he returned, he was carrying his own mat. Without further comment he removed his shoes, spread out his mat, and joined in.
Afterward he and Terry sat on the floor, putting their shoes on while Roger prepared to open the shop.
“That is the worst down dog I have ever seen, man. Seriously,” Joshua said to Terry. “You should come to class.”
Terry nodded solemnly, took his calendar out from his jacket pocket, and looked up. “When did you say it was?” he asked, pencil poised.
The date for the debate was to be one week before the April election, close enough to encompass whatever topics might arise during the campaign.
Fiona had no qualms about speaking in public, but the prospect of a debate with Stella filled her with dread. In her mind’s eye she could see Stella’s sneer, she could hear the voice, dripping with scorn and sarcasm, and feel herself dwindling into a small, ineffectual shadow of herself. This mental approach, she knew, was exactly the opposite of correct preparation, but she found it difficult to focus her mind on anything else. Reluctantly, she sought the help of her advisors.
“You need to anticipate the questions, and practice answering them,” said Elisabeth. “I’ve made a list of everything I could think of, but maybe somebody who actually lives on the Island can come up with better ones.”
“Thank you,” said Fiona. “This is great.”
Terry advised her to speak with Lars Olafsen. “He can tell you what kinds of things have come up in the past, and help you get a sense of the room. That kind of experience will be invaluable.”
It was Emily Martin, however, who, unsolicited—as always—offered advice on presentation style. She stopped Fiona one afternoon at the grocery store. “I had a debate coach in college,” she said, “who advised holding a pen while you speak. It gives you something to do with your hands, looks professional—as if you’re just about to write down something important—and it’s very helpful to gesture with.”
For once, Fiona felt, Emily’s advice was both welcome and useful.
The Angel Joshua had not waited for an invitation to join the morning yoga practice at Ground Zero, he simply started showing up. This was a great help to Terry. Unlike Roger, who, in his usual way, was oblivious to Terry’s efforts, Joshua—who had many years of yoga experience—gave advice, made minor corrections, and demonstrated poses. Terry was not gifted, but he was in earnest, and his desire to improve was rooted in a desire to be healthy.
Roger continued his own practice without comment, only occasionally shooting a poisonous glance at the others when they talked too much. Even Joshua—who was as immune to Roger’s criticism as Roger was immune to everyone else—did not dare to offer corrections to him.
Through observation in class, Roger had picked up on the need for music during yoga, and he implemented this in idiosyncratic ways. Subtlety not being his strong suit, the detail that Roger missed was that the music for yoga generally tended to be quiet, soothing, and somewhat monotonous. Not being quiet, soothing, or monotonous himself, it was hardly surprising that Roger should not have noticed this particular detail.
One of Roger’s frequent choices was a Beethoven piano sonata, which, though quiet in places, had a pattern of sudden crescendos and abrupt changes in tempo or volume, which tended to be jarring. Roger appeared to be oblivious to this, but his companions—particularly Terry—were occasionally shocked into losing their balance. The frequency of these events made it necessary for Joshua to begin to issue warnings about a coming change in the music.
“Incoming!” he would hiss at Terry, and Terry would accordingly steady himself in preparation for a shock.
The system only worked occasionally.
“OOPS! Damn!” said Terry under his breath as he toppled into The Angel Joshua for the third time one morning and they both went down.
“Sorry,” he muttered to Joshua as he scrambled back onto his mat and tried to reassemble himself.
“No worries,” said Joshua in a low voice. “But maybe you should move your mat a little further over there.”
Roger said nothing, but glared at them from under his right leg. The music began a crashing phase that made Terry think of horses galloping to battle. He wasn’t convinced that the choice of music was ideal. He had nothing against Beethoven per se, but it wasn’t soothing.
Ben, whose conscience was increasingly complicated, had reluctantly determined from the beginning that if he were to say he was making a birdfeeder, he would have to actually make one. Ideally, it should be one made from PVC, but this shouldn’t be hard. There were hundreds of projects of this kind online. The birdfeeder’s construction would be something he would have to accomplish away from home, and this, in turn, would provide him with an excuse to be away without too many questions from his mom.
Jim was the obvious person to ask. He wouldn’t mind, he would be helpful in the construction of the birdfeeder, and since they were old friends, his parents wouldn’t object to Ben being at Jim’s house. Besides, he would be good company.
Ben wasted no time in presenting himself at Jim’s house after school. As predicted, Jim was more than happy to help with the birdfeeder, and cleared a space on a table in the sitting room where the project could remain during its construction.
“Let’s see your plans, Ben, so we can figure out what tools you’ll need.”
Ben pulled the crumpled printouts from the pocket of his backpack, and they spread them out on the table.
On Tuesday, Shay was pleased to see a new pupil in her class at St. Anatole’s basement.
“Hey, everyone. Meet Terry. He’s going to be joini
ng us from now on.”
Her wild blonde hair swirled around her as she sat, cross-legged and swaying before the class in her traditional warm-up. After the class began, Shay walked the room making corrections to her students’ form, gently pushing a head down here, pulling a leg straight there. She spent a great deal of time at the back of the room where her male students gathered. It may not have been equitable, but it was clearly necessary. At least for the two newest. “Wow, Roger, great plank! You are making amazing progress!”
“Terry, you need to keep that foot straight, not turned in. No, the other way. There you go! Good job!”
“Oh, Joshua, you’re such an old pro! I can tell you’re from California!”
The class slowly progressed to the traditional ending, the Dead Man’s Pose. As the students lay on their backs with their eyes closed, Shay went around to each of them and massaged their temples with the lavender oil she kept in a tiny brown bottle in her bag. Sometimes her hair brushed their faces as she bent over them.
When she had finished, they were invited to sit up, cross-legged on their mats, touch their fingertips together and bow to the teacher, to the student, and to the light within. “Namaste,” Shay told them.
“Namaste,” said the class, dutifully, without having any idea of its meaning.
In the shuffle of rolling up mats, putting on socks and shoes, and gathering up coats, there was a little quiet conversation. It was a shock to the system to come back to the world after the intensity and calm of the class.
Only Shay remained as always, bright, light, and cheerful.
“Bye everybody! See you next time, and don’t forget to practice!”
The Audacity of Goats Page 15