FROM AWAY ~ BOOK TWO

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

  Eyebrows carefully plucked. Arms - at the very least - waxed clean. Hair sculpted to perfection. No man who spends this much time on himself can possibly look outward enough to be an effective public servant.

  But none of this is the full cause of Ren’s immediate and intense distaste. It doesn’t help, but the real culprit is the man’s demeanor: Because Deputy Schilling is already smiling on arrival. Only becoming toothier as he takes in the chaos of what should be a construction site hard at work.

  The protesters have settled in for the long haul. Chanting now: “From Away? Go Away. From Away? Go Away.” The crowd: No longer just workers in hard hats. Locals of all kinds are gathered at the base of the bridge for this can’t-miss spectacle. Schilling apparently finds this all extremely pleasing. Not a disturbance to order. An entertainment concocted for his personal enjoyment.

  Ren hates himself for deciding so quickly. Knows he should give the benefit of the doubt. At least hear the guy speak before making a definitive judgement.

  Schilling spots him. Snaps his fingers. Points. Follows the pointer across the site. “There he is! Renny, am I right?”

  Just like that, Ren no longer feels guilty for his assumptions. “It’s Ren.”

  “REN! Good to know you, buddy. Doug!” He grabs Ren’s hand. Shakes it mightily. “So what do we have here, huh? A demonstration, I bet.”

  “Looks that way. Uh...” Ren holds his own on the handshake, if barely. A lesser man would’ve needed a cast. “I thought Sheriff Hubert was coming out.”

  “You disappointed?” Deputy Schilling’s laugh is a doberman’s bark. “No... Netty’s taking a personal day. You know, on account of scha-BOOM!” His hands mime an explosion.

  “Right...” Ren should’ve realized. Of course, she’d be focused on her injured son. Max. Or attending the funeral. “Okay, well, I guess I’m going to need you to remove these jokers.”

  “You want me to arrest them?”

  “If that’s what’s necessary to get them off my site.”

  “Yeah...” The deputy sucks air between his perfect smiling teeth. “That’s gonna be tough without a court order.”

  “But... They’re trespassing.”

  “Yes and no. Technically, this is all public property. They’re citizens, holding a peaceful demonstration. Maybe that’s illegal where you come from, but around here it’s copacetic. Unless they start causing trouble, my hands are tied.”

  “They are absolutely causing trouble.”

  “Oh, I can see that, brother.” Schilling barks with mirth. “But I’m talking about trouble. Like... Violent trouble.”

  “Guess I need a court order, then. How do I get one?”

  Schilling snickers. “You don’t!”

  Ren’s getting pretty sick of this guy. “If that’s what it takes to get this place back to work, then you better believe I’m getting one.”

  Deputy Schilling finds this funniest of all. He chortles merrily. Claps Ren on the shoulder. “All I can say is: Good luck finding a judge the Old Men don’t have in their pocket.”

  Looking past Ren, he smiles even more broadly. His teeth numbering far beyond those of ordinary men. Tongue practically hanging out of his mouth. A panting dog whose master has just arrived home. “And speak of the devils...”

  A long black sedan approaches. Slides to a soft stop.

  “‘Scuse me, Ren. Duty calls.” The deputy shoulders past. Trots over to the car. Opens the back door. Steps aside. Holds it in place.

  Mrs. Rutherford emerges. Fondly pats Deputy Schilling on the forearm.

  As she surveys the site, she is already smiling.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Oh, I fought her on it at first. But when yer grandmother caught onto an idea in that head of hers? She’d dig right in with it like a goddamn wood tick and there was no budging the woman.”

  Dawn’s eyes do not want to stay on the road. Continuously stray to her passenger. To her grandfather’s deeply lined face as he talks.

  “Took us down to our last thin dime, it did - and raising two anklebiters at the same time, mind ya - back afore yer Aunt Wanda paid us her surprise visit - but when it was done, you could see she was right all along. Always was, yer Grams. Ya’d think I’da known better and just listened to her from the first... But fightin’s the Lesguettes’ nature, make no mistake.”

  “It’s in my dad, that’s for sure.”

  “Dawnie-girl, I’ve known ya under an hour, and already I see it there in yer ownself. Blue-sky clear. Leguettes are the surliest, orneriest, most ill-tempered creatures in existence and don’t ya mark yerself no exception to it.”

  She blushes bright pink. It doesn’t quite sound like a compliment, but she takes it as one.

  “Anywho, on account of yer Grams’ bright thinkin’, we built ourselves a restaurant and a gift shop and our own home on top, right there on the back of the lighthouse proper. And t’wasn’t long afore Lesguettes Lighthouse became a genuine tourist attraction. And thus could we afford to stay on as keepers without the worry of starvin’ our own offspring to death in the deal.”

  Ahead: The lighthouse in question. Looming ever-larger on its rocky peninsula for most of the drive from the cemetery. Enormous, with a full house-sized addition on the rear.

  Finally, they arrive.

  Pass the sign. Faded. In need of a fresh coat of paint:

  LESGUETTES’ LIGHTHOUSE

  & MARITIME MUSEUM

  Mossley Island’s

  Oldest Continuously-Operating Lighthouse.

  Replaceable letters on a white plexiglass sign announce the restaurant is currently: CLOS3D 4 PRIVA7E FUNCT10N.

  The gravel parking lot is nearly full.

  Dawn pulls right in.

  ~

  Unlikely to appear in any Michelin Guide, the Lesguettes Lighthouse restaurant is a cafeteria-style buffet. An airy hall. Overlooking the ocean. Decorated with netting. Lobster traps. Sailing paraphernalia. Lined with rows of blue picnic tables.

  Hungry post-funeral mourners fill the benches. Reaffirming their commitment to life by stuffing their faces. Closure achieved. Enough thought expended on the end. Here, life continues on. There is laughter again. Easy conversation on banal topics. Seniors hold court. Children race around the perimeter of the room.

  On entry, Dawn’s grandfather deserts her. Business to attend to. Tells her to eat something as he goes. She nods. Already knowing she won’t. This is hard enough without her cheeks filled with mashed potatoes. Alone, she moves slowly between the tables. An outsider, inside. Noticed, subtly. Here, everyone knows everyone. Everyone else. But word has spread since their arrival. And who else could she be?

  She weaves towards the head table. Her aunt and uncle. Aaron’s bereaved parents.

  People approach in clumps. A few at a time, in a constant unorganized stream. They offer personal condolences. Clasp hands with the grieving father, who - in spite of everything - manages to greet each guest warmly. Thankful for their presence. Accepting their sympathy in the spirit it’s delivered.

  Next to her husband, Dawn’s Aunt Sylvie pays no attention. Somewhere else entirely. Acknowledging no one at all. Most visitors appear relieved. Preferring to avoid direct contact with Sylvie if possible, while delivering their sincerest support for the fractured family.

  Which is fine with Dawn. It leaves the path clear for her own approach.

  If she can just get up the nerve.

  ~

  He’s so good at it. It makes her want to strangle him.

  The people approach. People Sylvie barely recognizes. But Trevor knows them all. Remembers every name. Every relationship. He’s happy they’re here. Truly happy they’ve made it. And they can feel it: His genuine pleasure to be seeing them. His honest gratitude for their kind thoughts. His appreciation of their well-wishes and continued prayers.

  As far as Sylvie is concerned, they can all go straight to hell.

  She knows: Just as easily as they sense Trevor’s acceptance, they can fe
el her bilious resentment. Her poison thoughts. Her scarcely-contained rage. They know better than to make eye contact. Speaking to her only indirectly. Through him. Even so, it’s all she can do to sit there without screaming. She puts in her time for his sake. For Aaron's’ memory. For the community. And soon - thankfully - all of it will be over.

  “Um, hi.”

  Behind her: A blonde teenager. Around Aaron’s age. Nervous. Something familiar about her. Has Sylvie seen her before today? Trevor would know. Digging through her memory, Sylvie can only dredge up an uncertain and foggy guess: “You were at the cemetery.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You knew Aaron?”

  “Not well. I actually just met him the day he... The day it happened.”

  “The day he died.”

  “Yes.” The girl purses her lips. “I wanted to say how sorry I am for you.”

  Sylvie almost rolls her eyes. She knows the script. Next, she’s expected to thank the girl. Easy as that: The required exchange will be complete. Unless someone interrupts.

  “Who’s this, Sylvie? A friend of Aaron’s?” And he smiles. Trevor actually smiles. Amazingly, his crinkling eyes also communicate the sorrow of the day: Apologies if I’m not at my best, but I’m trying.

  “A recent acquaintance, I’m told. They met the day he died.”

  “Oh? How’d you bump into one another?” It’s all so simple for him.

  “It was at the lighthouse.” The girl twists her fingers around one another. “I was looking for some information, actually. About my family...” She swallows. Prepares herself. As she does, Sylvie clicks. Realizes. A fraction of a second before the girl says the words: “I’m Dawn. Ren’s daughter. Your--”

  “Ren?” Trevor looks at Sylvie. Suddenly wary. “Ren, your--”

  “He’s on the island. Since last week. For the bridge.”

  Trevor takes this in. Thinks it over. Then he laughs. Covers his mouth. His eyes go wet. Glossy. “Dawn! That makes you fam--”

  His wife grips his knee as he rises. Already opening his arms. Moving to embrace the girl. But Sylvie will not have it. She squeezes hard. Until he drops back onto the bench. “He didn’t come with you, my brother?”

  Dawn shakes her head. “He wanted to. But there was trouble. On the bridge.”

  “Mm.” Sylvie’s eyes flame.

  Trevor is shocked. “Sylvie. This girl isn’t--”

  “I-- I’ll go. It’s okay.” Dawn backs away. Pained to have caused any upset. “I just hoped to tell you: I only met Aaron the once, but... I thought he was awesome. I really wish I could’ve known him better.”

  “Me too, Dawn!” Louder than Sylvie had intended. Attracting eyes, now.

  “Sylvie...”

  “No, I mean it, Trevor. I wish she had.” Sylvie rises. Faces Dawn. “He was awesome. And you should’ve know him better. I wish you could’ve had that chance.”

  Ambient conversation dies. Attention swivels. Sylvie doesn’t care.

  “And if Ren hadn’t left the island? Maybe you would have. You could’ve known us all. Been part of our family. And we could’ve-- What are you, fifteen? Sixteen?”

  Dawn sees no means of escaping this. Tries to stand strong. “Seventeen.”

  “Seventeen...” Sylvie shakes her head. “You and Aaron could’ve grown up together. Like siblings. Side-by-side. But your dad - that raging asshole - he took that from you.”

  “Hey!” Trevor grabs Sylvie’s wrist. Tries to pull her back. She yanks away from him. Rounds the table towards Dawn.

  “Why’d you come here, anyway? What did you expect?” Sylvie can’t stop herself. She wants to. Knows Dawn doesn’t deserve any of this. She just can’t.

  “I didn’t--” Dawn retreats before Sylvie’s advance. “It was just--”

  “You want to get to know us? Join the family? Now?!” Sylvie cackles. “Well, it’s too late! You missed your chance! He’s gone, and you’ll never know him now, Dawn! None of us will!”

  “I’ll go.” Dawn fights back tears. “I’m... I’m sorry for your loss.”

  She turns. Heads slowly through the picnic tables. All eyes upon her.

  “Thanks for coming, Dawn!” Sylvie merrily waves goodbye. “Be sure to say hello to your dad for me.”

  ~

  Dawn reaches the doors. She’s almost escaped. Grampy intercepts her. Grabs her wrist. “Dawn?”

  “My dad was right. I shouldn’t’ve come. It’s made things harder for Aaron’s parents and that’s the last thing I wanted.”

  “And so yer leavin’?”

  “Grampy, they don’t want me here.”

  Martin’s back straightens. He grows three inches. “Ain’t up to Sylvie, love. It’s my place. Yer more’n welcome here. All the days as I draw breath and on beyond my last.”

  He releases her. Pats the wrist he’d gripped so tightly. Turns away. Crosses to his daughter’s table. Limp barely slowing him. Throwing himself forward with his good leg to make up for the bad one’s little half-steps. “Whaddya think yer doin’, Sylvia Jane? Talkin’ to my own and only granddaughter that way?”

  Sylvie starts to rise from her seat. “Isn’t it enough--”

  “SIT yer sad and sorry arse back down!”

  Sylvie sits. Six years old again. Her face a mask of rage and confusion. “She doesn’t belong here.”

  “Course she does, ya silly woman. She’s a Lesguettes! It’s nothing less than a miracle she’s been returned to us today.”

  “We just buried my son! And that--”

  “No.” Definitive. “Yer not gettin’ away with usin’ that boy as an excuse fer yer own behavin’ poorly. Not even the once. Not even on this day, Sylvie. Wrong’s wrong. And that ain’t right.”

  She looks to her husband for back-up. Trevor avoids the gaze. Leaves her on her own. “But Daddy--”

  “That little girl is family. Welcome here as long as she deigns to stay. If ya had any sense in yer head, ya’d be thrilled to have her. For even as we’re sufferin’ over our terrible loss, we should know enough to appreciate when comes a gain.”

  She watches her hands. The picnic table. Finally, nods.

  “That’s my girl.” Martin hobbles around the table. Hugs Sylvie. In spite of everything, she closes her eyes. Soaks it in.

  “Now...” Martin addresses the room. “For alla ya who were mindin’ yer own business and missed the gist... In the midst of all our sorrow, Fortune’s seen fit to favor us as well. So turn yer eyes and gock to the front of the house so’s I can introduce to you the newest and bonniest addition to the Lesguettes line. My granddaughter, Dawn.”

  Dawn flushes. Bright red. Shrinks as attention turns to her. She gets halfway to a smile. Mostly mortified.

  “She comes from away, but don’t let me hear none a’ ya hold that agin’ her.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Whatever are we to do with you, Wanda?” Miss Philips cranks Wanda’s good arm behind her back. Keeps her on her knees in the gravel. Powerless. “I thought we had an understanding.”

  Wanda says nothing. Looks at the dry ground. Listens to Marshall, shouting inside her trailer. “I didn’t s-sign up for this! You d-d-don’t have my permi-mi-mission.”

  “You’d be well-advised not to struggle, Mr. Tanner.” Mr. Rothstein’s voice. “You’re only making it worse for--” Marshall’s high-pitched screams cut him off.

  The door swings open. Mr. Bolton runs out. “Plastic wrap?” His hands are covered in blood. Wanda focuses in on it. “Quickly, girl... He’s coming apart.”

  Miss Philips gives Wanda’s arm a little twist.

  “Oh! Uh... Left of the sink. Second drawer down, I think.” He’s off and running. Back into her trailer. Where Marshall continues to wail.

  No one comes to investigate the noise. As always, the trailer park appears deserted. But Wanda can feel eyes on her. Peering out windows on every side. No one will come to the rescue. No one will call the authorities. They only watch. Cataloguing the events to recount to
others later.

  Thus, the big show: The arrival of the black van would’ve torn everyone away from their TV sets. The Old Men leaping out. Grabbing Wanda. Storming the trailer. Wanda held in the dirt. Arm on the edge of snapping. All part of the act. She can’t be seen directly handing Marshall over to the Old Men. Whatever other far-from-secret allegiances she might have with them. She cannot publicly betray one of her own. Must at least appear to be fighting on his behalf.

  She lashes out at Miss Philips with her half-forearm. The elderly woman catches it easily. Bends Wanda forward that much farther. Nose inches from the gravel. She groans. Sure she’ll hear a snapping noise any second.

  Meanwhile, Miss Philips inspects the wrapping around her stump.

  “Just look at that dressing. You’ve been scratching, haven’t you?” She tsk-tsks at her. “Naughty girl. Dr. Ramsey will not be pleased.”

  Dr. Ramsey. He must have something to do with curing her addiction. Through her teeth, Wanda asks, “What did he do to me?”

  “Fixed you up. Just wait and see.” The old woman smiles. Coy.

  “H-How? I didn’t think... I thought cold turkey was the only possible cure.”

  “The only...” Miss Philips is momentarily confused.

  Inside, the wailing stops. The sudden silence is almost worse. Wanda breaks it: “It was him, right? He cured me? Helped me off the goo?”

  A light goes on for Miss Philips. “Ah... You haven’t been experiencing cravings. No withdrawal either?”

  Wanda shakes her head.

  “And you think that means you’re cured?”

  “I haven’t dosed in three days. But I’m fine. What else could that mean?”

  “I’m sorry to tell you this, Wanda, but...” She seems far from apologetic. “Just because you didn’t take any goo yourself...”