by Emma Hooper
Martha didn’t ask anything else. She didn’t ask if there were more.
They walked in silence for thirty-five steps. Then Finn said, You can tell that, from the cancellation stamp? You can tell where a person is?
You can tell where the letter was sent from, yes, yes you can.
Can you tell anything else?
When it was sent, where and when.
Anything else? Like if they’ve sent anything else, or . . .
No, said Martha, nothing else. But this is already so much, Finn. This already tells us so much. Alberta, Finn. Where Aidan is.
Alberta, repeated Finn.
• • •
It was Egyptian Arabic. They worked, books open on the library desks and their laps, for two hours, until they had:
Dear Finn,
My friend Darwiish boy caught fish at home says, to where you are. Is this true, Finn? It was you? Is this real?
Cora
There was no return address in any language.
• • •
Before sleep that night, Finn knelt on Cora’s bed and counted the flags he could see out her window, his flags: fifteen without binoculars and thirty-one with. The horizon rippled with them, distant pink and green and white, out and out and out. Alberta, he whispered. Alberta.
Martha was on the phone most of the time now. Finn slipped in and out in the morning and evening, and sometimes in between for food or extra layers, and if she saw him she’d nod and lift her pencil in acknowledgment and keep talking.
Can you repeat those last three numbers again?
How do you spell the surname?
No, not blond, never blond. Maybe blond now?
• • •
The next thing Finn had to do was sink traps and nets, and he had to do it fast; he had to get everything done and ready before Cora came home, before they got her home. It was illegal, he knew, if he caught and kept anything, but just traps and nets should be OK. As soon as he caught something, started catching things, he would note it down, maybe take pictures for proof if he could find a camera, and then release them again. He didn’t want to be a criminal. And he didn’t want to kill anything. He wanted them to stay and have babies, hundreds of them, thousands of them, that would all stay too and have babies and stay alive, all of them alive. He set a trap or a net by each light, and then set five more in random locations in between because he didn’t know for sure where the cars and trucks and van were and because, of all the things, old traps and nets were the easiest to get a hold of, were the one thing nobody had taken away with them.
He marked the traps and nets with balloons. They had them saved for birthdays and other celebrations in the kitchen’s special occasion drawer, along with birthday candles and regular candles, and they floated pretty well and were different enough at a distance from the flags and the other floats that he could keep things straight. He marked each spot with three balloons, so there would be two back-ups in case of popping or deflating.
• • •
And, John?
. . .
Just keep asking. Just keep asking everyone, OK?
. . .
Yes, I—
. . .
Yes, I do, I do too.
Finn slipped by, up the stairs, unseen, out of the way, up to the other phone.
And, Martha?
Yes?
The melt is happening, finally, here, did you notice? The birds are all coming back.
They weren’t yet, not when I was there.
They are now, Martha. If you get far enough out they’re all you can hear. I’ll take you when you’re back. I’ll show you.
I’d like that.
You will.
I will.
• • •
Now that everything was set and ready, Finn spent his time making the rounds, checking the traps and nets by day, nothing yet, nothing yet, with a spare pack of balloons ready in his raincoat pocket. He checked the lights in the half-dark just before sunrise or just after sunset, the bowl of spare batteries rattling against his legs on the dory floor. He wasn’t supposed to be out on-water after dark, but he’d only stay until it was barely night, just enough to check the lights properly, before rowing home. His mother didn’t say anything about it and so neither did he. Once a week he rowed all the way back out to Mrs. Callaghan’s and she pushed his fingers with her fingers and counted one two one two and they drank Kool-Aid and sang songs that didn’t have any words.
And at night, through dark bigger than anything, Mrs. Callaghan kept talking, she kept talking and talking.
(1974)
And in the evenings, after dinner, Martha and Molly would sit in front of the fire and Molly would write letters to Meredith and Minnie, and Martha would work on her project and Molly would say, What are you working on?
And Martha would say, Net, just net.
• • •
One morning, after one of those evenings, Molly took the boat out. She knew that Aidan was on-water for the next few days and that Martha would stay home to finish commissions and split wood. It was Molly’s first time rowing out to Little Running by herself; she was surprised at how easy, how quick it was.
Mrs. Connor answered the door after just one knock. You must be a Murphy, she said.
How can you tell?
Just look at you.
Molly looked down, looked at herself, but didn’t see what Mrs. Connor saw. Mrs. Connor, she said, I’m Molly Murphy, the youngest sister of Martha Murphy, and I’ve come to talk to you for a minute, if you’ve got it.
Well, seems I was right, then, said Mrs. Connor. She stood aside, held the door. Come in, come in of course. I’ve got coffee and biscuits enough to feed an army of Murphys.
They drank coffee and ate biscuits with dark berry jam from last year’s crop. They talked about the rain, about the fish. And then Mrs. Connor said, Now. I suppose we should get to it. You want to talk to me about Connors, about Aidan, I suppose.
Well, I, said Molly. She swallowed a biscuit piece without chewing, dry and hard.
It’s OK, said Mrs. Connor. You’re not the first. There was Sophie last year. There was me thirty years before.
There was?
There was.
And . . . what did you tell her? What did they tell you?
The same thing I’ll tell you. That all Connors are cheats.
All?
All. But, Molly, if you’re trying to save your sister, you needn’t bother. All Connors are cheats, yes, because all people are cheats. All people, Molly, she said. All of us. She stopped to pour some more coffee, refill cups.
Always?
No, said Mrs. Connor. That’s just it. That’s just the problem. Not always.
They both took a drink of coffee and Molly felt the biscuit piece wash away, down.
That’s the problem, said Mrs. Connor.
• • •
Before Molly left, Mrs. Connor wrapped up a dozen biscuits in wax paper and handed her this with a new jar of jam. For you, she said, and your sisters.
Sister, said Molly. There are just the two of us now. Just me and Martha.
Oh, said Mrs. Connor. Of the four?
Yes, just two, said Molly.
Oh. Well, all the more for you, then, said Mrs. Connor. All the more. She stepped out the door, toward Molly and her boat. Hey, Molly Murphy?
Yes?
I hear you can play the fiddle. I hear you can play it well.
Well enough to dance to.
That’s well enough for me. Molly Murphy, I would like it if you would come again sometime and teach me to play. I’ve got preserves and cakes enough to pay.
You have a violin?
I have my husband’s. He’s not coming back for it anytime soon.
You didn’t—
I didn’t burn everything, Molly Murphy. I burned a lot, but not everything.
OK, then. I’ll come back.
Goo
d. Next week?
Yes. Next week.
And sometimes, after they’d said and done everything their bodies and minds needed to, Aidan and Martha would row out, not far, just far enough, and lie across the hard wooden planks and hold hands across the boat and Aidan would close his eyes and Martha would look up to the pink-blue morning and they’d listen and they’d hear the mermaids, they’d hear them for real.
(1993)
Finn was on his way out to check things after dinner as usual. His mom wasn’t on the phone as he passed, she was sitting next to it, just sitting there. Coffee cup on the table.
Mom? said Finn.
Yes, Finn?
How many months now, until the relocation?
Two and a bit.
Two months, eight days?
Yes, two months, eight days.
• • •
The mist was low on the water, curling around Finn’s oars as he pushed through. His lights shone up green and steadfast. All were in working order except one flashlight and one Jesus. He pulled them up, opened their bags, gave them new batteries and sank them down again. He was finished and on his way home, still only some stars, still before full-dark, when he saw the berg.
Icebergs were normal this time of year, were always passing across the horizon like the big boats used to. That, Cora had explained to him when he was eight and she was twelve, is fresh water riding across salt water. I bet you didn’t know that.
I did, said Finn. I did know. Even though he didn’t. Even though he hadn’t ever thought that ice could be salt or not salt.
Liar, said Cora.
The bergs were usually far out, distant moving mountains, though very occasionally they pushed closer in, depending on the tide and the wind and their shape. This one was one of those, was closer. It wasn’t close enough to be dangerous, but it was close enough for Finn to see clear through the early night and make out its full shape, to see its packed snow and ice in stripes, and to see that there, on top of it, was something. Was a hulk of snow moving back and forth, pacing, white and solid and sleek as the berg itself. Bear, whispered Finn. Bear! He rowed back home as fast as he could.
• • •
Bear! said Martha. There hasn’t been a floating bear here in years. Wow, wow! She was putting on her coat and boots. She was opening drawer after drawer, trying to find a flashlight. Oh well, she said, we’ll have to trust our instincts down to the water. We know this place, right?
Right, said Finn.
Martha rowed because it was now dark. They took her boat, which had a light built into the front. She followed Finn’s instructions, dodging balloons and flags, out toward the iceberg.
Geez, it’s like a party out here.
Yes, those are mine.
Yours? said Martha.
Yes, said Finn. Martha didn’t ask any more about it.
They got much closer than Finn had been. Got as close as they could, as close as was safe, and turned so that their headlight was facing the iceberg straight on, lighting it up like a movie screen. Up there, way above them on a stage of snow and ice, the polar bear paced back and forth, back and forth. We need to go home and call the animal rescue team, said Martha.
OK, said Finn.
But they didn’t, not right away. They stayed there, just watching. Watching the bear. Huge and beautiful and alone, back and forth, back and forth.
The days went by and Finn made his rounds. Changed batteries, righted floats. Checked and rechecked traps and nets, nothing, nothing, nothing. Held his accordion across his chest and felt the bellows pull and shake. The nights went by and he leaned into Cora’s quilt, listened to the rhythms in Mrs. Callaghan’s voice, held the phone tight and close.
(1974)
And Aidan rowed through the heavy wakes of trawlers and pulled up half-full nets of red-gray fish and thought, for the first time in his life, that he might want to have a child someday.
And Martha worked and worked. Net and net.
And, one day, while practicing bow holds and flexible wrists, Mrs. Connor said, Molly Murphy, I’d like to introduce you to my neighbor, last house up the track. She’s lived here forever; she plays beautifully, beautifully.
Fiddle? said Molly.
No, said Mrs. Connor. Accordion.
(1993)
And Cora made her rounds. Shout-sang as loud as she could. Fed her dogs, fed herself. Watched for bears, hoped for bears, nothing, nothing, nothing. Moved forward square by square.
And Aidan made his rounds. Handed out tools, gloves, directions. Spoke to Martha, watched the sky, slept alone on a narrow single cot. Showed Cora’s picture to each new hire, nothing, nothing, nothing. Stood on the deck of the ferry, wind over everything.
And Martha made her rounds. Phoning, answering the phone. Another relative, another officer, a friend, a husband, a lover. Waiting, listening, waiting for news.
Nothing,
nothing,
nothing.
• • •
Drove to the ferry lot and waited.
There, said Martha. There it is.
They watched the ferry draw up, like slow motion once it got close.
When they pulled out the metal ramp, Finn undid his seat belt and leaned up from the back seat to kiss his mother on the cheek. He wasn’t allowed in the front seat until he was twelve, a rule Martha and Aidan sometimes remembered. I’ll see you soon, OK? said Martha.
OK, said Finn.
And I love you, OK?
OK. Finn stayed in the car. Redid his seat belt and watched his mother roll her tall, flat suitcase out toward the boat while his father rolled his, a matching one, toward her. Watched them say things he couldn’t hear, watched the wind blow his mother’s hair in front of her face, his father push it back, away.
Finn went out in his boat while his father stayed in to clean the kitchen. Look at this, Aidan had said. Look at the state of this.
There were no fish in the traps, but some of them had old urchin shells rolled in between their slats. They were like decorated Easter eggs, patterned and fragile and clean. Finn collected them and kept them in rows along Cora’s bedroom sill.
He ate dinner with his father in a kitchen that smelled of vinegar. Don’t stay out very long tonight, said Aidan. The wind is up.
• • •
The flags pulled and whipped on their floats. Finn replaced the batteries in one bike light, one flashlight and two Jesuses. The supply bowl was getting low; maybe enough for another three weeks, maybe less. Come on, whispered Finn, into the wind. Come on, come on, come on.
Sophie McKinley came over that night and was there when Finn got in. She lifted his arms, checking for muscles like she always did. Good, good, she said. And then, God, seems like I haven’t seen you for ages. You’re looking good, Finn boy, looking strong. Still running?
Sometimes. Mostly rowing.
Both are good. It’s all good. Arms and legs and head, right?
And heart, said Aidan, coming in from the kitchen with two cans of beer.
And heart, said Sophie. Of course.
They stayed up talking and laughing past when Finn went to bed. We’ll see you tomorrow, said Aidan. Sleep well.
Yes, see you tomorrow, said Sophie. Sleep strong.
• • •
After the beer, Aidan and Sophie moved on to the whiskey she had brought. They poured it into milk cups and drank side by side on the sofa. Do you remember, said Sophie, that party, that beach party?
At the Berrys’?
Yes, at the Berrys’. God, that feels like a long time ago.
It was a long time ago.
But then again, so does a month.
Feels like a long time ago?
Yes, a month also feels like a very long time, sometimes. She turned to face him and her face was warm with firelight and his body was warm with whiskey.
Yes, it can, he said. It does. And she smelled like home, like something from a long time ago, and
he leaned into her and she leaned into him and their bodies and their faces were warm with whiskey and with fire and with each other. They pulled off clothing piece by piece, careful, reaching out to help each other like parents. They drank from each other like liquor, took from each other like it was everything and the only thing that they needed.
• • •
The next morning Sophie was up and dressed before sunrise, out before Finn or Aidan or the terns or the gulls or the guillemots. She closed the door as quietly as she could, then took off running, out and on down the track, past her house, past all the other houses, onto the main road, out and on and on and on, the only moving thing for miles.
Aidan woke up, still on the couch, alone now, and went to the bathroom and closed the door and knelt down and retched.
• • •
Finn woke up and went to use the bathroom and found the door closed. From inside he could hear his father, hear that he was sick. He hesitated. He should do something or say something, like his father and mother did for him when he wasn’t well. But he couldn’t lift his father into bed and they didn’t have soup mix or ginger ale. He went back to his room and put on some pants, a shirt and Cora’s sweater. It was warm enough that he only needed one and his own was too tight in the arms now. He went back and stood in front of the bathroom door. His father was still in there.
OK, Dad? he asked.
OK, Finn. I’m OK, said Aidan. But he didn’t come out. Didn’t sound OK.
Finn went to the kitchen and got out the coffee and the SQUIDJIGGINGGROUND! mug and a plate. He put one of the cookies Sophie had brought the night before on it. He arranged it all on the table so it looked ready, easy. Then he put on boots and went to the Beggs’, where there was another bathroom he could use, with his accordion. He could practice there until his lesson later.
• • •
Once he could hear that Finn had gone out, Aidan wiped his mouth and stood up. He left the bathroom and went to the kitchen and called Martha, even though he knew she would be on-shift. It rang and rang and rang and then cut off. He sat down at the place Finn had set him. He picked up the cookie and then put it back down. He stood up and tried Martha’s number again.