Fox Island

by Stephen Bly

  “Sure, but I don’t want her to think we’re trying to deceive her.”

  “Grandma will either talk your leg off or scream you out of the room. But we won’t be any worse off than we are now, I think.”

  Tony and Price shut down their laptops and headed for the bedroom.

  “Hey, you guys look just fine as you are. You always look great. I hope I can still look that sharp when I’m your age. Want some Cheetos?”

  “No, thanks,” Tony replied. “I’ll get my keys.”

  “How about you, Dr. S.? I’ve got an extra large Icee. I’d be happy to share. You look like you could use a lift.”

  “Thanks, I already had lunch.” A delightful repast of four Midol tablets and eight ounces of low-fat plain yogurt.

  Jessica Davenport Reynolds perched on a plastic-covered stuffed chair, watching a soap opera. Gray-streaked hair seemed freshly styled, or perhaps covered each night to keep its shape. Round pearl earrings, clip style, and pearl choker looked smart with the navy-blue dress with red-and- white pinstripes. Her eyebrows curved down with the bridge of her nose would have given her a stern, even menacing look, if it weren’t for the grace of the very decided smile. She pushed the mute button on the remote control.

  “Grandma Jessie, you had your hair done,” Melody crooned as she leaned down to kiss the powdered cheek.

  “Melody, honey, are you married yet?”

  Turning to Price and Tony, she whispered, “She always asks me that. No, Grandma, not yet.”

  She shook a thin, white finger. “Don’t wait too long. It’s a big mistake to wait too long. I ought to know.”

  “Grandma Jessie, you married Grandpa when you were

  twenty.”

  “I waited too long. Who are they?”

  “These are the people who want to talk to you about the old days on Fox Island.”

  Melody, Price and Tony held their breaths, hearing nothing but the ticking of the large wall clock. Jessica glared at them both, then her features softened ever so slightly. “I’ve seen it all.”

  Melody started breathing again. Price moved closer and held out her hand. “Mrs. Reynolds, I’m Price Shadowbrook, and this is my husband, Tony. We’re so delighted to get to talk to you.”

  “What kind of name is Price?”

  “It’s a nickname for Priscilla,” Melody said.

  “Sounds like the blue light special at K-Mart.”

  “Grandma!”

  “Let’s go for a walk. This program stinks. Heather walked out on Alex, who has spent the last six weeks sending suggestive notes to Stephanie, who thought they were coming from Peter, who secretly lusts after Heather ever since she got out of jail. I can’t stand television. But it gives me something to do while I wait for the next meal. Not that the meals are worth waiting for, mind you.” She pointed the remote at the screen and flipped it off. “It’s the same stupid mishmash every day.”

  Price steadied Jessica’s arm as she struggled to her feet. She clutched back with a firm grip, her skin smoother than Price expected.

  Melody shoved open the sliding glass door that led out of the small three-room apartment. Shade from umbrella trees splattered the patio cement and the carefully manicured box shrub. Triple-tiered treelike shrubs marked the boundary lines of the long line of apartment patios, all empty. TV scenes shone from all the open curtain windows.

  “Maybe that’s why I watch it. God’s given up on me, that’s for sure,” Jessica asserted, stomping her cane for emphasis.

  “Grandma Jessie, don’t start that again. We didn’t come here for you to talk like that,” Melody scolded.

  Price tried to shush Melody.

  “It’s true. I wrecked everything. Everything.”

  “The Lord’s mighty good at forgiving,” Tony said.

  “Grandma, we didn’t come here to talk about that old car wreck. Mr. and Mrs. Shadowbrook want to visit with you about what it was like riding the ferryboats in the old days. Come on, let’s sit in the shade by the azaleas.”

  “Those are rhododendrons. They’re evergreen and odorless as paper bells. I’d prefer azaleas myself, a little pleasant scent to brighten an old woman’s day, but I wasn’t asked.”

  The sun beat down through the hazy blue sky, but the shade helped calm them as they tried to sit comfortably on a cement bench next to the raised redwood planter full of scarlet blooms. Melody got a cushion for her grandmother.

  “Mrs. Reynolds,” Tony began.

  “Call me Jessica. I like everyone to call me Jessica, don’t I?” She patted her cane on Melody’s knee.

  “Ok. Jessica, tell us some of your earliest memories of riding the ferry.”

  She leaned both hands on top her cane, carved in the head of a fox. “There were steam paddle boats in the real old days. Just like those riverboats on the Mississippi. I think one was the Tyconda, a stern wheeler, one with the paddles in the back.”

  “What was it like going to school in Tacoma?” Price asked. “How early did you have to get up to catch the ferry?”

  “We got up at 4:42 every morning.”

  “Why 4:42?”

  “Papa was very organized. That allowed each of us time to help with the chores, clean up, have breakfast, do Bible reading, and make it to the trading post by 6:15. It used to be on 9th and Fox Drive, across from the dock.”

  “How was the ride over? Was it often stormy?”

  “Oh no. Most of the time it was like riding a bus. We got most of our homework done while riding that ferry.”

  “How about once you got to Tacoma? How did you get to your school?”

  “Either by bus or one of the adults ferried his car over and would give us a ride. Did I tell you I had a twin sister?”

  “Yes, we knew that.”

  “Her name was Jill. I’m Jessica, and her name was Jill. Yes, that’s the way it was. Papa named us after two singers he once heard in the Yukon. He went north to the gold rush and came back wealthy.”

  “Were there ever any boat wrecks?” Tony asked. “A storm out on the Narrows? Or an accident docking the boat?”

  “When the water was too rough, they didn’t run the ferry. Sometimes we would miss several days of school. But that didn’t happen very often. After dark, or during a rainy or foggy day, they followed a compass course. If you didn’t know the tides, you could miss your destination by as much as a half mile. When it was really foggy or snowing, they’d bounce echoes to find their way. Some of those captains could bounce echoes off a clam shell.”

  “Grandma Jessie, did Auntie Jill ever get hurt in a ferry accident?”

  The smile dropped as the gray hair seemed to tinge bluer in the filtered light. “Who told you that?”

  “I read it in an old newspaper.”

  “It was nothing.” She rubbed the palms of her hands as if trying to wash something off.

  “But the paper said Auntie Jill broke both her legs.”

  “Oh, that.” She rubbed her own legs. “Some cars shifted when we rammed into the dock during a squall. The bumper from a black ’27 Ford pushed her into the railing. It caught her right leg about here.” She jabbed about four inches below her right knee. “And the left leg above the knee about here. She was wearing her favorite green dress. Well, it was both of our favorites. We always dressed alike, you know. The one got ruined, so we had to toss both of them away. She had to stay at home in splints for six weeks.”

  “That must have been strange for you, going to school without your twin sister,” Price commented.

  “I couldn’t go to school. I had to stay home.”

  “You both stayed home?”

  Mrs. Reynolds gazed off across the patio. “Yes, we both stayed home. We did everything together, you know. Do you have a twin sister?” she asked Price.

  “No, but we have twin daughters. They aren’t identical. In fact, there is nothing similar about them.”

  The old woman perked up. “That’s good. That’s the way it should be. The other way is too confusing.
How would you like to grow up always looking at a mirror image of yourself and being called by the wrong name?” She tucked her left fist under her chin, the elbow balanced on the cane and right hand, her face drawn tight with concentration. “The car wreck was my fault, you know. I was getting sleepy and she told me to stop and rest, but I wanted to go on. I don’t know why.”

  “Grandma,” Melody interrupted. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about the ferryboat accident?”

  “You never asked.”

  Tony studied the woman’s face. “Jessica, I really enjoy your paintings.”

  “Yes,” Price chimed in, “The Two Girl pictures are so delightful. You must tell us what made you think up such a creative idea, especially for that day.”

  “It was tedious to have to sit there for such a long time. We sat there and sat there.”

  “Which are you? Are you the girl? Or the reflection?”

  Jessica Reynolds twisted her pearl necklace until a welt developed on her neck. She rubbed one black pump against the other, back and forth, back and forth. Melody sent them a warning signal.

  “I was delighted to discover some of your later works,” Tony injected in the long silence. “We stumbled across the collection downstairs … the mother-daughter scenes. You were trying a different style. What a very talented and versatile lady you are.”

  “Trash! That’s a pile of trash.” The woman’s features turned harsh and bitter, her voice agitated, angry. “Melody, I told you to throw those away. Why didn’t you discard them like I said?”

  “Grandma, Mother gave those to me. I like them and I want to keep them.”

  “They’re a disgrace and you know it. I’m missing my program. Melody, help me to my room.”

  “Grandma, you said you didn’t like it.”

  She struggled to her feet, almost toppling over. “What I said was, I am not going to give any interviews and that’s final. I know what you’re up to. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  Melody jumped to her feet and held her grandmother’s arm. She turned to shrug at Tony and Price as Mrs. Reynolds shuffled into the apartment.

  “Can we help?” Price offered.

  “It’s okay. I’ll be right back.”

  Price and Tony waited in the white Oldsmobile.

  Finally, Melody’s long dark hair bounced into view. She swung her leather bag and herself into the backseat. “Well, I tried,” she grimaced. “Sorry about that scene. You never know what’s going to touch her off. The other day it was Bennington. Today it was my mother’s paintings.”

  Tony and Price gaped at each other. “Your mother’s? You mean, it was your mother who painted those pictures down in the family room, not your grandmother?”

  “Yeah. It was in the ’60s, right before she got married. I think they’re great. But Grandma says, ‘They lack artistic merit and authentic social observation.’ So, Mom won’t let me hang them up.”

  “But they look so professional,” Price said.

  Melody dismissed the subject with a wave of her hands. “Wild, isn’t it? But who can argue with a recognized artist? Certainly not my mother.”

  Chapter 7

  When the Tacoma Narrows Bridge opened up the Kitsap Peninsula to increased motor traffic, the next natural step was building a bridge to Fox Island. The opening of the almost two-thousand foot Fox Island Bridge on August 28, 1954, by governor Arthur Langle, was a turning point in the history of this arboreous community. The initial tolls, however, were about the same rate as the ferry passage, with the added burden to the commuter to pay for a car, gasoline, and parking. Instead of a gateway for growth, the bridge actually reduced the residency from 150 to 115 families. While the bridge is taken for granted by the Island’s residents today, in the short range, its impact was negative rather than positive.

  It’s never easy to judge both immediate and long-range consequences.

  “Hi, Mom, what are you doing here?”

  Barbara Mason charged into the house, clinking with glass beads on her chest and half a dozen copper bracelets on each arm. A face mask of powdered makeup seemed layered in a dimly lit room. “Well, it’s my mother’s house and you’re my daughter. Do I need any other excuse for stopping by?”

  “No, it’s just… well, you never come to… I mean, it’s been a long time since you got this far from home.” Melody hemmed and hawed as her mother marched down the hall toward Price.

  “Nice to see you again, Barbara. Would you like a cup of hot tea?”

  Dark brown eyes like Melody’s shot her a quick, hard glance. “Do I look like the kind of woman who drinks tea?”

  “Coffee, then?”

  “Thanks. Is your husband around?”

  “No, he’s down the street getting a tour of the Navy Acoustics Lab. Could I help you?”

  “Maybe.” Her hands trembled as she cradled the hot drink Price handed her. “Don’t you have something to do somewhere else?” She glared at Melody.

  “Oh, sure. I … eh, I thought you came to see me.”

  “Why would I do that? You’re at my house two or three times a week as it is.”

  The smile vanished as Melody winced. “I’ll go work on my book.” She shuffled out the front door.

  Price led Barbara to the living room. A brief wave of alcohol fumes drifted by. “What can I do for you?”

  Jessica Reynolds’ daughter stopped to gaze at the painting titled, “Two Girls on the Train.” A pensive passenger about eighteen stared out the window as a small town passed by. Her exact image looked back from the glass of the window. The only difference was a sense of wonder in the girl’s eyes and a look of fear in the reflection’s.

  “I’ll never know how she did that so well. She’s never bothered to pass on her trade secrets, as far as I know.” She turned to Price. “I hear you and your husband went to interview my mother against her wishes.”

  Price braced herself against the back of the navy chair. “We did go to visit. As soon as she became agitated, we left.”

  “I want it to stop right now. All this digging up of old things. It hasn’t been good for her. At her age, and in her condition, she doesn’t need to be bothered with the past. Her life hasn’t been pleasant, and you two pumping her doesn’t help.”

  Price fixed her gaze without a flinch. “We visited with your mother just like we did dozens of other Fox Island residents. I’m sorry if that stirred old hurts. That wasn’t our intent.”

  “But all this talk about a friend of Auntie Jill’s coming by. She hasn’t been well since she found out about this Bennington fellow.”

  “The man did stop by asking questions, and we, quite naturally, thought the family would like to be informed. That’s why we told Melody and I’m sure that’s why she told her grandmother.”

  Barbara Mason’s hair, parted crooked in the middle, hung as lifeless as her dark circled eyes. “There is no way my mother needs to put up with that kind of thing. She should be left alone. The painful past is gone.”

  “How about you?” Price said. “Are you still living in a world of past hurts?”

  “I can cope.”

  “We saw your beautiful paintings downstairs. I know why your mother stopped painting, but why did you?”

  Barbara tromped to the window and looked out, her back to Price. “There are many disappointments in life.”

  Like never pleasing her mother? Or herself. “It doesn’t bother you to bury your talent in a basement?”

  “I can cope,” Barbara repeated.

  “Do you like how you’re coping?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Do you like the way you’re living?” Price couldn’t believe she said that. Lord, help me.

  Barbara glared at her.

  “Did you ever wonder why an attractive and vivacious young woman like your Melody is not the least bit interested in getting married?”

  “She’s still young.”

  “Yes, she is. And I imagine she’s watched the misery of her
mother and grandmother who seem content to mope about the past and have no use for the present. You’ve both passed your bitterness to your daughter. No wonder Melody is mistrustful of all men.”

  Barbara shoved her cup on the end table, banging it against the seashell lamp, and stomped to the door. “I don’t know why you’re saying these things.”

  I’m not sure either. “Because you seem so unhappy. But you have such a delightful daughter, your own marvelous artistic talent, a splendid family history, and apparent financial independence. It doesn’t add up. I think God has something better for you than what you’ve settled for.”

  Barbara paused her hand on the doorknob. “I’ve been right there at the house all these years. Anytime God wants to deliver something better, I’ll be more than willing to accept.”

  “Perhaps you’ve put a few things in the way.”

  “Like what?”

  “Lack of confidence. Perhaps the drinking.”

  Barbara squinted her eyes and sucked in her cheeks. “You don’t even know me. What right do you have to criticize my life? You’ve never been through what I have. So don’t you look down your prissy, pious professor’s nose at me and tell me not to drink. I want you and your husband to stay away from Mother. Is that clear?” She flung open the door for emphasis.

  Price’s hands and shoulders quaked as she tried to keep her voice calm. “I’ll be praying for you to find joy and peace in him.”

  Barbara slammed the door shut. Price watched in dismay as Mrs. Mason hiked to her car and churned up the driveway. What had she done?

  She shook all over as she tried to understand why she said those things. Tony should have been here. She just made a perfectly unhappy woman more miserable. She messed everything up. Maybe she should stay home and teach summer school next year. She was better with a whole class rather than one on one.

  A half hour later Melody crept back into the house. Clad in white bermuda shorts and a yellow embroidered blouse, Price sat at the kitchen table thumbing through Roget’s Thesaurus and several dictionaries.