Dangling by a Thread

by Lea Wait

  Jesse needed to know Simon was going to arrive, all set to convince him to leave King’s Island and his great cormorants. Or have him declared crazy. I needed to tell Dave. He’d know how to get in touch with Jesse.

  “Excuse me? I’d like to use your bathroom,” I said.

  “Off the kitchen, to your right,” Patrick said. “And why don’t you bring the bottle of wine back with you? It’s in the cooler on the counter.”

  The bathroom was as fresh and spotless as the rest of the house. I texted Dave. Gerry Bentley flying Jesse’s cousin in tomorrow to convince him to sell. May try to declare Jesse incompetent. Warn Jesse? How? Talk when I get home later tonight. I flushed and ran the faucet.

  Bathrooms were convenient places for privacy.

  I didn’t learn anything else about Gerry Bentley or King’s Island. Patrick and I finished the bottle of wine. Our main course turned out to be a fabulous linguini with a cream sauce of wild mushrooms and sherry. My supermarket tart looked plebian after that, but Patrick said it was good.

  I made a mental note: Buy an Italian cookbook.

  I could boil a lobster and pull together a pretty darn good haddock chowder. I’d even made Gram’s anadama bread recipe, and I was on target with blueberry muffins. But Patrick was used to more gourmet menus.

  If Dave could cook, I could cook.

  I pled exhaustion and headed for home, driving carefully after the wine.

  As soon as I could I called Dave. He answered immediately.

  “Got your text. Where did you learn that?”

  “At the Wests’ house. I had dinner there.” I didn’t mention Skye wasn’t with us. It probably wouldn’t make a difference to Dave, but still . . . “Simon’s going to stay at Aurora. Bentley thinks Simon will agree to sell, and then ‘take care of’ his crazy relative who lives on King’s Island.”

  Dave was silent. “You’re right. We need to warn Jesse. Want to go with me in the morning? I can borrow a boat from one of my neighbors. I’ll call him now.”

  “What time?”

  “I have a school conference call at eight o’clock. How about nine thirty? Meet you down at the wharf.”

  “See you then.”

  Chapter 15

  “Crochet work, a species of knitting originally practiced by the peasants in Scotland with a small hooked needle called a shepherd’s hook, has, aided by taste and fashion, obtained a popularity second to no other kind of fancy work. It derives its present name from the French. The needle with which it is worked being, by them, from its crooked shape, termed ‘crochet’ . . . it is applied to almost every article that can be produced in knitting or embroidery.”

  —From Ladies’ Guide to Needle Work, Embroidery, Etc., Being a Complete Guide to All Kinds of Ladies’ Fancy Work by S. Annie Frost, New York: Adams & Bishop, Publishers, 1877.

  Maybe it was the wine. I slept later than usual the next morning.

  Anna Winslow’s call roused me at seven thirty.

  “Angie? I got your text yesterday, but before I talked with you I wanted to check with the Maine Audubon headquarters. They’re concerned that King’s Island might be sold and the nesting area disturbed. Have you heard anything more?”

  Quickly I filled her in on what I’d learned last night. “Dave and I are going out to the island this morning to warn Jesse that Simon’s on his way here,” I explained.

  “The Audubon folks don’t have the money to compete with Bentley for the island,” Anna explained. “But if Jesse’s being forced to sell, they’re ready to mount a publicity campaign. Lots of people in Maine love cormorants.”

  “That’s a great idea, Anna,” I agreed. “How can I help?”

  “When you get back from seeing Jesse, call me. In the meantime let me think about what we can do.”

  “Ruth’s the one who suggested I contact you. And, of course, Dave’s upset about the birds, and about his friend.”

  “Hmm. Most of the Mainely Needlepointers. As I remember you have a friend at Channel Seven in Portland, right?”

  “I went to high school with Clem Walker.”

  “Would she be willing to help, too?” Anna asked.

  “I don’t think Jesse will want a lot of publicity,” I cautioned. “He’s a very quiet man. That’s why he lives on King’s Island.”

  “But he cares about those birds, and he wants to stay on the island, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then he may have to cope with a little attention. But don’t promise him too much,” she advised. “I’m not sure exactly what we can do. But birders and environmentalists can be a strong lobby. I don’t know how Gerry Bentley feels about the environment, but I wouldn’t think he’d want a lot of negative publicity.”

  I had no idea Captain Ob’s wife was so media savvy. “You’re right. But the first thing to do is let Jesse know his cousin is coming to town and see if he has any ideas.” I suspected Jesse’s idea would be to reject any help that would disturb his current way of life. But Anna was right. I didn’t know. Jesse cared a lot about those birds. “I’ll call you when Dave and I get back from the island,” I promised. “Probably early this afternoon.”

  I dressed in heavier clothing than usual. A few miles off the coast winds could be strong and temperatures colder. I pulled a sweatshirt over my T-shirt and picked up a windbreaker to wear on the boat.

  We couldn’t waste time.

  Jed Fitch might be drafting papers for the sale of King’s Island right now, thinking of his share of the purchase price. I suspected Gerry Bentley was used to getting his own way.

  Not everyone in town would be thinking of the fate of the cormorants.

  Reverend Tom—Tom, I corrected myself—had said it would be good for the town if the Bentleys had a home here. He’d also said Ed Campbell from the Chamber of Commerce felt the same way. Between the two of them, they could rally as many people as the environmentalists could. Plus, Ted Lawrence seemed to be a friend of Gerry Bentley, and, of course, Patrick and Skye would be on his side. They all had money.

  Saving King’s Island for Jesse and his great cormorants wasn’t going to be easy.

  I got a couple of life jackets from our barn and headed to the town wharf.

  Chapter 16

  “Were innocence our garb alone,

  And natures blooms our only pride.

  The needle still had been unknown

  And worth the want of art supplied.

  Virtue wit with science join’d

  Refine the manners, form the mind.

  And when with industry they meet,

  The female character is complete.”

  —Stitched in 1813 by Esther G. Cobb, eleven years old, in Springfield, Vermont. Her sampler also included three alphabets, a border of strawberry vines, an urn, flowers, two trees, a woman, two dogs, and two cats, probably family pets.

  When I got to the dock Dave was standing in a bright red eighteen-foot boat, pouring gasoline into the outboard engine.

  “The Sweet Life?” I asked, reading the boat’s name.

  “Owner’s retired. If I’m in the mood for a turn around the Three Sisters or the harbor, he trusts me to borrow his.”

  “You were in the navy, and you don’t have a boat?”

  “I was on a submarine,” he pointed out. “I don’t have anything against boats, but I figure I’ve done my time on the water. You don’t have a boat, either.”

  “True enough. But I wasn’t in the navy. And I’ve only been back in Maine since May. Owning one’s on my bucket list.” After he put down the red gasoline tank I handed him the life jackets. “Figured we should have these on board.”

  “Good catch. Coast guard wouldn’t approve our going out without them.”

  “We can just have them in the boat, right?” A life jacket would be hard to fasten over my sweatshirts.

  “Legally, yup. Besides—you can swim, right?”

  “In a pool or near a beach or in a lake, sure. But several miles out on a rough sea?”

>   “Agreed.” Dave reached out a hand to help me into the Sweet Life. “Me too.”

  Neither of us put on the life jackets.

  “Anna Winslow called this morning,” I shared. “She talked to the Maine Audubon folks. They’re on Jesse’s side. Or, really, they’re on the side of the great cormorants. She suggested a publicity program to embarrass Bentley so he wouldn’t want to buy King’s Island.”

  “I like that idea. Let’s see what Jesse has to say about it when we tell him his cousin Simon’s heading this way.”

  I nodded and cast off as Dave pulled the choke.

  I hadn’t been in a small outboard for years. I pulled on my windbreaker as we expertly threaded among the moored boats in the harbor and headed between two of the Sister Islands, out to sea.

  The ocean wasn’t rough, but the tide was coming in. We headed into the waves. Between the noise of the motor and the thumping of the hull hitting the waves we couldn’t hear each other, so we didn’t talk.

  I sat in the bow, taking deep breaths of sea air and making mental notes. I should move my dream purchase of a small wooden boat up on my bucket list. A used one wouldn’t be too expensive after the season was over. I could caulk and paint this winter.

  We passed two lobstermen working their traps. Farther offshore a small boat with orange sails was taking advantage of the morning’s stiff breeze.

  Sunlight sparkled on the waves and salt spray dampened my hands and face.

  No wonder Jesse had decided to live out beyond the harbor, beyond having to cope with other people. Whatever made him decide to live, as the townspeople called him, solitary, at this moment I could understand it. He didn’t have to think about what people thought of him. He never had to worry about what he wore. Or whether he cooked as well as others, or was as attractive.

  There was enviable freedom in that.

  For now, I focused on the ocean. The dark waters of the North Atlantic had ruled these seas since before fishermen and mariners challenged them. And despite all of today’s technology, it was still exciting to tempt the elements. Men (and some women) had been doing it since before anyone remembered.

  Monuments to those claimed by the waters stood in many Maine harbor towns, including Haven Harbor. Most old families in town, including mine, counted names on those monuments as their own. Every spring people gathered for a blessing of the fleet and the reading of names of those lost at sea since 1676, when Haven Harbor was founded. Townspeople stood silently as the names were read out and bells rang in their memory.

  I’d missed the ceremony this year. Would I still be in Haven Harbor next April?

  My life here was full. I was getting used to living alone in my big house. What would it be like to live alone on an island, with only birds to keep you company? I shivered. Jesse’s lifestyle sounded good at first, but it wasn’t for me.

  What if he had an accident on the island? Or ran out of food in a storm?

  To my left a cormorant stood on a buoy, his drying wings outstretched as though welcoming the winds and tides.

  His ancestors had been here generations before mine.

  But if his nesting grounds were destroyed, his species could end, a victim of people who valued themselves above other creatures of nature.

  We passed a few small islands and headed south-east, toward a dark narrow ridge barely visible on the horizon. Jesse’s home. The nesting ground of the great cormorants. King’s Island.

  I didn’t want our journey to end.

  But it did.

  King’s Island was starkly beautiful, like the black-and-white engravings of nineteenth-century Maine hanging in the Haven Harbor Library. Tall skeletal pines bent by repeated winter winds and ice stood above forbidding granite cliffs on the sparsely wooded island. Above us, in the tops of those trees, were the large bulky cormorant nests Jesse was protecting. As we approached we could see the twigs and driftwood, grass and seaweed they were built with, and the white bird droppings covering the tree trunks and branches.

  Where could we moor and land on this island of granite?

  I looked over at Dave, who anticipated my question and pointed at one end of the island.

  Would I have to wade ashore? I glanced at my sneakers. But Dave hadn’t taken his off yet, and he seemed to know where he was going.

  I focused back on the trees, where several cormorants, their dark wings and thin bodies almost hidden in the branches, perched. Gulls were also on and above the island, and as we neared shore three curious harbor seals looked up at us from a ledge half covered by the tide. We were close enough to see their large, dark eyes. One slipped off the ledge and followed us for a few yards before disappearing beneath the water.

  Around the end of the island the cliffs dropped off dramatically and became sharp ledges leading from the island into the sea. Anyone looking to land here would need to know exactly how to thread their way through the ledges to the shore. Dave was doing just that, heading around a barren point.

  King’s Island was beautiful. No wonder Jesse loved it.

  But what made Gerry Bentley think of it as a place for a family house? A home for wildlife, yes. But these ledges and cliffs were forbidding. I hadn’t seen a welcoming harbor yet, as we rounded the point and approached the seaward side.

  That’s where we passed a two-by-three-foot sign rising out of the water, picturing the silhouette of a large bird in flight. We were close enough so I could read the words: FRIENDS OF MAINE’S SEABIRD ISLANDS. AREA CLOSED TO PUBLIC USE TO PROTECT SENSITIVE NESTING BIRDS.

  Not far from the sign the rocks divided to reveal a small beach. Not a sandy beach, like the ones at Reid State Park or Popham or even Pemaquid. It was more like Haven Harbor’s Pocket Cove Beach: a clearing between the cliffs where a boat could pull into a small open area covered with sea stones.

  Dave headed us in.

  Jesse’s gray skiff, at first almost invisible, was pulled into the sea grasses above the small beach. I looked for a buoy that would hold a pulley line and, sure enough, a black buoy, almost hidden in the waves, bobbed in front of us.

  Dave steered around it, heading, instead, directly for the beach.

  I looked up at the cliffs surrounding us, hoping to see more great cormorants. Instead, I saw a shadow in the woods above.

  As I squinted to see what it was, sunlight caught a streak heading directly toward us.

  Dave saw it, too, and dodged. The arrow hit the water next to the boat. “Jesse! It’s me!” he yelled at the cliff, but as the second arrow hit his calf his hand slipped from the tiller and he fell backward onto the deck, slamming his head on the side of the Sweet Life.

  Chapter 17

  “Beneath our feet and o’er our head,

  Is equal warning given;

  Beneath us lie the countless dead,

  Above us is the heaven.

  Their names are graven on the stone,

  Their bones are in the clay,

  And ere another day is done

  Ourselves may be as they.”

  —First lines of an Anglican funeral hymn stitched in silk on linen by twelve-year-old Alletha Frances Findley below five alphabets and a row of numbers. Dated May 20, 1839, in Washington City (Washington, DC).

  “Dave!”

  He lay, stunned and bleeding heavily, on the floorboards.

  His hand had hit the tiller when he fell. Instead of heading for shore we were now rolling with the waves, heading toward the ledge on the sea side of the beach. We were going to capsize or hit rocks if we didn’t change direction. Fast.

  I scrambled to the prow, crawling over Dave to get to the tiller, and turned us again toward shore.

  I focused on the ledges beneath us as we headed for shallow waters near the shore. I didn’t have time to look for the figure I’d seen in the woods, but no other arrows headed our way.

  As soon as I’d straightened us out I pushed one of the life jackets under Dave’s head.

  The arrowhead had pierced his jeans, pushing denim with
it into the wound. Blood seeped through his pants and dripped onto the deck, mixing with salt water that had washed over the side of the boat.

  I’d always heard salt water was an antiseptic.

  At least Dave’s head was out of the water.

  If the person who shot at us was Jesse, maybe he was crazy. Dave was his friend.

  His only friend, as far as I could tell. Why would he shoot Dave?

  And if it hadn’t been Jesse, who else was on King’s Island? Jesse’s skiff was the only other boat I’d seen.

  I slowed the engine. I didn’t want the boat’s hull to scrape the stony beach, but I didn’t see another way to tie the boat. Dave couldn’t help.

  When we were within feet of the shore I turned off the motor and pulled it up so the propeller wouldn’t hit the rocks.

  Jesse, disheveled and wearing only torn cutoffs, ran out of the woods toward us.

  “Jesse! How do I tie the boat?”

  He ran into the frigid water and gestured that I should throw him our line.

  He pulled the boat closer to the dry stones on the upper beach and tied the end of the line to a tree, leaving a little slack. The tide had better be coming in. If it was going out, we’d be stranded here—me, a wounded man, and a crazy.

  “Get out of the boat,” he said. I slipped off my sneakers and stepped into the few inches of frigid water at the prow.

  “Dave’s hurt,” I said unnecessarily.

  Dave tried to get up, holding his hand around the arrow, pressing to stanch the blood.

  “Sorry, friend,” said Jesse. Jesse was a lot stronger than I’d given him credit for. He reached down, picked Dave up, and carried him onto the beach. Jesse was trying to be gentle, but Dave was clearly in pain. “You always come alone. I saw two people in the boat.”

  “So you shot me,” said Dave, wincing. “Had a few close experiences in life, and in the navy, but never thought I’d be shot by an arrow. Why, Jesse? Why?”