She put her hand on Terry’s arm as he passed. “You stick with it. Look at how fast Roger’s made progress!” She smiled her beachy smile at him and watched him go.
“Wow,” said Terry, remembering, as they climbed the stairs from St. Anatole’s Church basement, the way her hair had brushed his face. “Shay’s a dish.”
Roger looked at him with his usual scowl—which could have meant anything from disapproval to agreement—and stalked off to Ground Zero to meet the afternoon crowd, trailing the scent of lavender as he went.
Pali stood at the window of the small room he used as an office and looked out over the adjacent fields. He had a rare day off, and, in an occasion just as rare, was alone in the house.
Behind him on his desk was his computer, its idle screen now dark.
There was nothing to see outside, and, he thought, bitterly, nothing much on the inside, either. He had been sitting at his desk all day, waiting for inspiration. So far, it hadn’t come.
Circumstances had been a bit trying these past weeks with the ghost story circulating around the Island, and Pali had been embarrassed. He and his crewmen, who had shared the experiences of the ferry’s ghost, knew what they had seen. But until very recently, they had all agreed not to discuss it in public for all the reasons that had now been made apparent.
It is difficult enough to believe if you have seen a ghost—even with witnesses—but if you haven’t, and you hear someone tell a story, you are inclined to think that the person who tells it is either a fool or a liar. Pali, who was neither, found this extremely difficult. He took pride in his reputation for honesty and straight shooting, and he felt that his neighbors would never take him seriously again.
Pali couldn’t know that it was only his reputation that had lent any credence whatsoever to the story. Even if he had known, he would have found no consolation there.
The rest of his feelings, however, were more complex. What was the thing they had seen? Was it good or evil? It had saved his life, and the lives of his crew, but, he thought, even Satan could appear to do good in order to achieve evil. If only they knew what this screaming was. If only they could find some explanation for it, then Pali could at least feel more confident that he had not been collaborating with some demon spirit. That somehow he, Pali, had not brought evil to the Island.
And here he was—selfishly, he told himself—longing for its return. Whatever it was. Wherever it came from. “This,” he thought to himself, “is the definition of sin.” He had thought of discussing the situation with his pastor, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the response. The truth of the matter was that Pali did not want to turn his back on this spiritual contact. He did not want his muse to leave him; he was far more troubled by the loss of communication than by its potential for evil. And this, Pali firmly believed, was unforgivable.
Nils Gunlaugssen had spent the evening at his friend Arn’s house with a group of men who had known each other all their lives. They were celebrating the birth of Arn’s first grandchild. By the end of the evening, Nils—like all the others—had had a few too many. He was generally a responsible man, a grandfather himself, and although he knew he probably shouldn’t drive, his house was only up the road a bit, and anyway, there was unlikely to be any traffic. He’d made this gamble many times before, and always without incident. There was no reason to believe that anything would be different this time.
It was a chilly night in early November. The last of the leaves were long gone from the trees, and a premature blast of winter air had brought the first snowflakes just that morning. This was January weather, not usual for late fall, but Nils rather liked the cold, and particularly loved the snow, so he had pulled out his winter parka without grumbling, and departed for Arn’s after dinner in great good humor.
He had been surprised, but undismayed when he emerged from the warmth and cheer of Arn’s into a changed world. The snow had been falling heavily for several hours, and there was already a good four inches on the roads.
Stepping out into the wind, he had hurled his last joke over his shoulder, pulled up the hood of his parka, and hurried to his truck. The island habit of warming up a vehicle in cold weather had not yet kicked in for the season, and Nils was regretting that he hadn’t thought of this as the cold sank in around his feet and ears. He never felt comfortable driving with his hood up, and he pushed it back from his head reluctantly, feeling the instant shift in his body temperature. Damn, it was cold. There hadn’t been any time yet to get used to it, he thought to himself. This was a fast start to winter.
The brand new truck leaped easily to life, and Nils flipped on the seat warmers. They wouldn’t really even have a chance to work before he got home, but this was the first time Nils had had this feature, and he was thoroughly enjoying the luxury. With caution born of care for his new truck and a little extra brandy, Nils pulled out of Arn’s yard and into the road, and began the short drive home. Bed would feel good tonight, that was for sure.
He was rounding the last curve of the twisting wooded road that led to the house he shared with his wife of thirty years, Paula. She would be sitting up for him with the television on, fast asleep in her favorite chair, her crocheting on her lap and Og, their big old black lab, sound asleep, too, with his head on her feet. Nils smiled to himself imagining this scene. He was lucky to have a happy home life. Not all of the fellows he’d spent the evening with could say the same. Poor Danny had a devil of a time with his sharp-tongued, critical wife, and although they had been married for nearly as long as Nils and Paula, their time together had not been bliss. Of course, thought Nils, Danny was no prize himself, truth be told.
Nils was almost dreaming at the wheel when he caught himself with a start. Was that something in the road? Without thinking he slammed on the brakes. The still warm asphalt had melted the fresh snow next to the surface of the road and refrozen into a thin layer of ice coated with more snow, and Nils’s reactions were blurred with brandy. The rear wheels drifted sideways, and before Nils could catch it, the truck was spinning almost in slow motion toward the side of the road, where a boulder and a clump of birch trees stood waiting to reshape the pristine black paint of the beautiful new truck. There was a sickening thud and a grinding noise as it came to a halt, and then just the sound of the engine running and the windshield wipers.
Unhurt, Nils sat for a moment and lay his head on the steering wheel in exasperation and disgust. Sighing, he shook his head, sat up, and got out to survey the damage. Cold and adrenaline had sobered him up, and he stood resignedly in the snow, playing out the inevitable “if only”s. If only he had let Jake drive him home. If only he had taken Paula’s old Jeep, as she had suggested. If only he hadn’t had that last brandy old-fashioned. If only… Nils paused in his self-recrimination and frowned. An image of what had just happened flashed across his mind. He saw again the image of something in the road. A deer, probably. He frowned again. The movement had been kind of… jerky… awkward, even. And then… He tilted his head and stared blindly off into the falling snow, thinking hard. There had been something else, too. Something really strange. He struggled to gather the flash of images in that moment of crisis. Slowly, his head came up and his eyes moved from side to side as he pursued an elusive memory. And then in his mind’s eye, the memory came again: an animal in the road, leaping clumsily across his path, and then turning to look back, a sharp gleam of eyes caught in the headlights just as the truck began to spin.
Turning quickly, Nils shivered uneasily, zipped up the pocket of his jacket where he kept the keys, and quick-marched up the road toward home. He would call for a tow truck in the morning.
Ben burst in through the back door one night, smelling of fresh air and snow. He was late again, and it was nearly dark, and he came in without his usual exuberant greeting. Nika looked at him, trying to read his face.
“Come and kiss your mother.” She sounded old to herself as she said this. Matronly, dull, and disapproving. She smiled warmly at her son, unc
onsciously counteracting this self-image.
Dutifully, Ben gave her a kiss. He had always been a cuddly boy and didn’t seem to mind his mother’s caresses. Tonight, though, his mind was elsewhere again, and Nika didn’t probe.
“You’re just in time to set the table,” she said cheerfully. “You were about to owe me a dollar.” This was their system. Setting the table was Ben’s job, and if he forgot or was late, he had to pay for his mother to do it.
“Sorry,” said Ben without conveying any actual remorse. He began to get dishes from the hutch.
“Wash your hands, first,” said Nika in the singsong way that comes from thousands of repetitions.
Ben went to do as he had been told, Pali arrived a few minutes later, and the household went on in its usual routine.
Later that evening, after Ben had gone to bed, Nika sat in her rocking chair, thinking. Ben had always been a good boy, easy to be around, easy to please. She had listened over the years to her friends’ stories about raising their children and considered herself lucky. Ben was no trouble. He was generally affectionate and respectful, healthy, did well in school, ate what was put before him, and seemed to be happy.
It was true that he didn’t have any particularly close friends, but there were so few opportunities on the Island to meet new people, and there weren’t many boys his age. Maybe he just hadn’t clicked with anyone. Or maybe he was like his father, content with his own company, content with others’, and perfectly happy to roll with whatever came his way.
But he had been coming home from school later and later. Nika gave Ben a lot of freedom; there was no reason not to. He was a good boy with good sense, and the Island was a pretty safe place. But this change in his routine meant something beyond the mere approach of adolescence, and she was wondering what it was. There was no real reason to worry, she told herself, but still, it was important to know his mind, to stay in touch with him now, before he moved out of reach.
She would talk to him, she decided, and gently probe to see if he would tell her what was going on. She would watch for the right moment. And maybe, she thought, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to bake some cookies tomorrow. She smiled to herself. “Catch a bear with honey,” her mother used to always say.
Fiona sat in her warm kitchen, a hot mug of tea in her hands, listening to the calls of two great horned owls. They must be very near the house, she thought. She would not have expected them to be so active in this weather. The snow was falling heavily now, clinging to the limbs of the trees, and outlining each detail. This was a big storm for November, and there were still leaves clinging here and there to branches, and a few neglected piles of them lingered in corners of the yard.
Fiona loved to walk in the snow, but a walk alone this afternoon was not appealing. It would be too lonely. Pete had been gone for months, tending to an ill-defined petroleum crisis somewhere in the world—his vagueness made Fiona nervous for his safety. And Elisabeth’s big dog, Rocco, was, even at this moment, snugly curled on the rug before Elisabeth’s and Roger’s big stone fireplace, many miles away on the mainland. The ticking of the antique walnut clock that Pete had given her as a goodbye gift made the room feel emptier. Without even the questionable companionship of the demon goat, Robert, Fiona felt utterly alone and unloved. This, she knew, was not true, but it was a feeling of old habit, and one she fell into easily, without resistance.
Perhaps because of the storm, Fiona’s mind drifted to Robert, to the unexplained barn fire in which he had perished. It was still a recent enough event that she felt the grip of anxiety and fear at the memory. And yet, she was not quite sure how to articulate, even to herself, what she felt about it. Not grief, really, because Robert had made her feel throughout the duration of his presence as if she were merely an unappreciated goat servant. Regret, surely, for the terrible way he had died, that was true.
But there was something else: The feeling that, in his odd, saturnine fashion, Robert had understood her. And it was this connection, or rather, its absence, that affected her more than she could allow herself to admit.
Suddenly, tea seemed inadequate for the cold, and she bestirred herself to find some scotch on the living room sideboard. Also, she thought, some music. Schubert or Haydn, or something, in contrast to the weather, exceptionally civilized. Maybe, she mused, flipping through her collection, some chamber music. At last she settled on a Robert Schumann piano quartet. It went well with loneliness, nostalgia, and scotch. And not just any nostalgia, she reminded herself: goat nostalgia.
She sighed. Even Martin Luther would not be sufficient companionship this evening.
Pali had a sincere and deeply held faith that occasionally sidestepped the specifics of his church’s teachings. His conversations with God were personal, and he felt buoyed by his belief. But there were occasions when, in the privacy of his own mind, he weighed the teachings of the church, and set them aside. He was a man who trusted his own judgment, and there were some elements of orthodox theology that did not meet his standards. The institution of the church, he was acutely aware, was a creation of man, and subject to man’s fallibility. This, he had no doubt, bore no reflection on God.
His objections were closely held. For the most part, he did not discuss them, even with Nika. He had no intention of worrying her, or of disturbing her natural and deeply held faith. His ideas were his own, and although he believed they were true, he was not interested in prolonged theological arguments. If he were, he knew of a few people on the Island who would have credibly engaged with him, but he saw no point in offending or outraging anyone else.
His unorthodox theology notwithstanding, however, Pali did accept an idea that, though a fundamental tenet of Christianity, was mostly ignored or dismissed in contemporary society, even by Christians. He believed that there was evil in the world, and that its power challenged the faith of men.
After the first meeting in the woods, Ben’s relationship with his new friend was firmly established. To Ben’s relief, his peculiar walk was unrelated to injury, but he was skinny and very hungry. Every day after school Ben hurried to the creek to find the animal. If nothing was there, Ben would wait for a while and leave food. But on most days he was there, and Ben began to realize that his friend was waiting for him. Sometimes he came alone, but gradually he began to come with the small herd of deer that Ben had seen that first night, and although the other animals were less bold, they, too, began to treat Ben, if not with enthusiasm, then, at least, with indifference.
This was the realization of Ben’s dreams. He reveled in the trust of an animal, and was thrilled as its confidence in him grew. But along with the trust, Ben also felt the weight of obligation, and he worried about the cold, the increasing snow cover, and coyotes. Most of all, Ben worried what would happen if, in a world of hunters and rule-following grownups, someone else came across a little creature who trusted human beings.
Meanwhile, Christmas was coming, and he had not yet completed the birdfeeder that he planned to give his mother. It was mostly finished, but there remained a few final touches.
It had not occurred to Ben that his project would incite so much friendly interest.
“So how’s the birdfeeder coming?” asked Tom one afternoon when Ben came into the store after school to buy a candy bar.
“It’s okay,” said Ben with a shrug. “Kind of ugly, though.” The white plastic PVC piping, while sturdy, offended Ben’s sense of a birdfeeder’s proper appearance.
Tom nodded thoughtfully. “You could paint it. Since it’s mostly white anyway, maybe you could make it look like a piece of birch wood.”
Ben’s face brightened. “That’s a good idea.” Since he was now committed to making his project a gift, he wanted it to look right.
“I’ll show you the right kind of paint to use,” said Tom, coming out from behind the counter and leading the way to the paint aisle. “It will be easy.”
Roger, now properly trained, had learned that he should kiss his wife when he came in the doo
r. Elisabeth had been home for an hour or more and was standing over the stove cooking some kind of sauce. The kitchen was filled with the rich smell of red wine, shallots, and butter. As he kissed her, she gave him a peculiar look. “You smell like lavender.”
Roger shrugged, and picked up the ball Rocco had dropped at his feet.
“I’ll take him out for a run.”
“Dinner’s in half an hour,” said Elisabeth casually. But she watched him as he left the house, with the big shepherd gamboling around his feet.
Chapter Fifteen
Roger had been having mechanical trouble. He owned an ancient vehicle that had been nursed through many failures of mechanics and will, but he knew that its useful life was coming to an end. Determined to push on for as long as possible, he ignored the warning signs of a cracked head gasket, slipping clutch, and eccentric electrical system.
One snowy December morning, however, the old beast gave up the ghost, and before he could admit the truth and borrow Elisabeth’s little Japanese station wagon, he had spent half an hour tinkering with various possible fixes, alternately praying and cursing, hoping for a vehicular miracle. It was not to be.
Roger pulled up to Ground Zero nearly forty-five minutes late. Terry and The Angel Joshua were sitting together, waiting. When they saw Roger they met him at the door to the shop.
“It’s pretty late. Do you want to skip this morning?” asked Terry.
“No,” said Roger. “People can wait.”
Terry looked at the ground and took a deep breath. He wasn’t crazy about being seen in public wearing his yoga clothes and doing awkward yoga things. But it was winter, and there were no crowds. Besides, he was no coward.
“Okay,” he said.
They all went inside and began their daily routine. In his haste, Roger forgot to lock the door behind them.
The Audacity of Goats Page 16