We drive on past small and large beach houses of all kinds: yellow, white, blue, green, mostly wood, but some made of stone.
“There are so many cottages on this side of the island!” I say, to make conversation.
“There are cottages all around the island, except where you live.”
“How come? It’s pretty where I live.”
“Well, Gull Point and all the woods down there are too wet, except the little rise where your cottage sits and on the other side where Nita Adams lives.”
“Yeah, I discovered the swamp a few weeks ago.”
“This whole island was a bog when the indigenous people hunted here. The settlers drained most of it for farms, little by little. That’s what all the ditches are about.”
“I noticed the ditches. They didn’t look natural, too straight and deep.”
“There’s some more wetland up by the lighthouse in the north end. Say, did you get that bike repaired?”
“You mean the deluxe Raleigh on the porch? Not yet, but I’m going to fix it up someday.”
As we cruise along the curving shoreline, I’m startled to see a large flock of sheep standing in the middle of the road. There must be one hundred or more with twenty little lambs. “Oh, look,” I whisper. “Aren’t they cute?”
“Yeah . . .” says Dolman, not sounding as excited as I am. He pulls to a stop, turns off the motor and rolls down his window. “It’s going to be a while . . . Look there . . .”
An orange-and-black bird is sitting in a honeysuckle bush growing at the edge of the roadside ditch. “An oriole. He’s after a mate.” We watch as the beautiful bird hops through the leaves in pursuit of a yellow female, all the while singing a courting song.
The sheep are still milling around in the road, as if unsure where to go, when a man with white hair and a red face closes a gate. Two other fellows with darker skin follow him. “Eay. Eay,” the shepherd says to the animals. “Eay. Eay.” Then he whistles and out of nowhere a white and gold border collie comes running across the field and leaps over the fence. The dog seems to fly.
“Oh my God. Did you see that?” I ask. The man whistles once more and the dog jumps back over the fence and circles around behind the remaining confused sheep.
“That’s Austin Aubrey and his dog, Amber. The other men are his hired hands, Mexican workers, Roberto and his nephew Santiago, who’s taking courses in mechanical engineering online. Austin built an apartment for them in the loft of his barn. The same two guys come to help him every spring and summer.”
“Eay. Eay,” the shepherd calls, and finally all but one lamb have crossed the road and passed through a second gate. He picks up the last little lamb by the scruff of its neck, the way you’d pick up a kitten, tucks it under his arm and approaches the cruiser. “Sorry for the delay,” he says.
“Hi, Austin.” Dolman greets him through his open window, lifting his sunglasses, but he’s turned away so I can’t see his eyes. “This is Sara Livingston from down on Gull Point. I’m showing her the sights.” The shepherd gives me a nod and I smile.
“How you be, Pete?” Austin asks.
“Fair to middlin’,” the cop answers with a shrug. (Fair to middlin’ is an expression that in West Virginia means Not swell.)
Dolman must really be dreading his errand.
ORIOLE
Small robin-sized songbird
Bright orange males with black wings and head
Female is yellow with brown wings
Voice: Beautiful whistling song
Habitat: Open woods
Diet: Insects, berries and fruit
Range: Southern Canada to Mississippi Valley and Virginia
Winters in Mexico, Florida and Jamaica
CHAPTER 26
Copper on the Commune
We stop about a hundred yards before the mailbox that says NEW DAY and I try to give Dolman the picture.
“As we drive in you may be surprised. There are three or four buildings, a big barn, a little schoolhouse and a large log house, also a bunch of greenhouses in which they grow organic vegetables and, most amazing of all, behind the big barn are four huge solar panels. Really impressive. They sell the produce and have chickens and cows just like a regular farm.
“Some of the hippies are teachers on the mainland and only come home on weekends. I’m sure that’s why their car is at the airport, and they probably won’t mind buying a permit and paying the fine if you explain things.”
Just as we turn into their road, another vehicle pulls in behind us. It’s the communal truck, but Rainbow isn’t driving. It’s John, the guy with one hand, and four other men, two in the front and two in the truck bed. Suddenly, I’m aware that we’re sitting in a squad car, complete with a CB radio, a computer screen, and probably a handgun in the dash compartment. I hadn’t given much thought to the effect the cruiser would have on the communards, especially if they happen to be growing pot or dealing drugs.
Before we can get out, hippies surround us and these don’t seem like the peace-loving type.
“Hey, what’s happening? Somebody busted?” says a big fellow wearing a cowboy hat and a leather vest. He thinks this is funny and everyone laughs.
Dian comes out of the kitchen, but I don’t see Rainbow or Wade.
“Maybe we should come back another time,” I whisper.
“Like that’s going to happen!” Peter grunts and opens the driver’s door. I follow, thinking maybe I can defuse the situation.
“I’m Officer Dolman of the Seagull Island OPP.” He looks around the group. “Can you tell me who’s in charge?” The hippies all laugh.
“Can you tell us who’s in charge?” The cowboy with the long blond hair laughs again. (I’m sure I smell pot and Dolman probably does too.) Finally, Dian comes down from the porch, holding baby Annie. She pushes up her round wire-rimmed glasses.
“I’m in charge today,” she says with authority. For a little woman, she stands very tall and the testosterone in the driveway drops two notches.
“Won’t you come in, Officer?” She looks at me. “Nice to see you again, Sara. We can sit at the table. Can I get you chamomile tea? We grow and dry it ourselves.”
“Yes, please,” I say before the cop can say no.
Dian hands me the baby and goes to the kitchen where I can hear her putting on the kettle and getting cups out. Peter stares at the infant. Being a midwife, I’m used to people plunking their babies down in my lap, but he probably doesn’t understand that everyone takes care of the children on the commune.
“Sunglasses,” I say, indicating that the cop should remove his shades. (I’m surprised at my boldness, telling the cop what to do, but I know the silver bug eyes can only make the hippie woman feel uncomfortable.) The cop swiftly removes his shades and gives me a sheepish smile.
“So is this visit a social call or professional?” Dian asks when she returns with three steaming mugs and some cookies on a tray. I like her style, right down to business, and reluctantly give back her baby.
Dolman clears his throat. “Professional, I’m afraid. Is someone here the owner of a white Ford usually parked at the airport?”
“That’s our other vehicle. It’s registered to the corporation, New Day Farm.”
“I don’t know if you’re aware, but anyone who leaves a vehicle in the lot at the township airport or the ferry dock has to buy a pass every year.”
There’s a long pause. “I guess we were remiss. How much do these permits cost and where do we get one?”
I’m trying to figure out if this is the first Dian has heard of the passes or if she’s just pretending to be unaware. (Richard had an irritating habit of acting like he didn’t know the rules and then pleading for forgiveness if he got caught.)
“Well, here’s the problem. Your vehicle has been tagged three times with a warning that you’d get a fine if you didn’t buy a permit. I put each notice under the windshield wiper myself. It’s been over a month. I’m here to notify you that you have
to pay or your vehicle will be towed.”
Dian looks at him through those round spectacles and I imagine she’s thinking this is ridiculous and I agree.
“Okay, Officer Dolman.” The woman stands to get her purse. “Can you cut to the chase? How much is the fine?”
Officer Dolman looks as uncomfortable as a prostitute in a Seventh-Day Adventist Church. “Five hundred dollars.”
I gasp and almost choke on my cookie. “Five hundred dollars!” Dian and I both say in unison. I’m stunned and the hippie woman’s impressive composure is gone.
“That’s ridiculous, Officer Dolman,” I say. “A fine that large for ignoring your warnings? Did the printout you put on the windshield say how much the fine would be?”
“I don’t believe it did.” The cop shifts his gaze to the window and for the first time I see that his eyes are gray with little yellow flecks around the iris.
“Isn’t the punishment supposed to fit the crime?” I go on. “It’s not like the van did any harm!”
Finally, Dian finds her tongue and speaks. “Thank you for coming, Sergeant Dolman. I never go to the airport, nor have I ever heard about these notices. Is there a chance they blew off in the wind?”
“I don’t think so.” The policeman rises and puts his shades back on. “No one else has gone this long without paying.”
“Well, I’ll tell the rest of the commune about it. I know we don’t have that much money on hand. How long do we have to pay?”
“I imagine the township office will give you a week, but you’ll have to move the car.”
“Can we just buy the parking pass now and pay the fine later?”
“No, I’m sorry. You have to pay the fine before you can get a pass.” Outside we can hear the men coming up on the porch. The loud guy is obnoxious and I can tell Dolman is anxious to leave.
“I’m sorry, Dian,” I apologize. “I just came to show Officer Dolman where you live.” (This is another white lie. Everyone on the island knows where the hippies live.) “I had no idea the amount of the fine.”
Back on the road, the officer is quiet.
“That went well,” I say sarcastically.
“Shit,” he says. “Sometimes I hate this job. You’re right. The fine is way out of line. A speeding ticket is only seventy-five dollars.”
“So what’s going to happen?”
“The township will probably stand firm and have the car towed and impounded.” Now we’re both depressed.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get to look around. Their place is beautiful. I was hoping Rainbow and Wade would be home.”
“It’s okay. I was glad to get out of there.”
“You knew their reaction was going to be bad, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I felt stupid, telling them they’d have to cough up $500.”
“And my being there was going to help?”
“Moral support . . . A rain check on dinner then?” Dolman says, taking the turn onto Grays Road.
“Nah, you don’t owe me anything.”
“I mean it. I’m just not in the mood this evening.” When I get out of the cruiser, he hands me a folder. “You still want to call a couple of the shut-ins?” I stare at his hand holding the file, his long fingers and silver ring. The sunglasses are on again, part of his armor.
“Okay . . . What shall I say when I call them? How shall I introduce myself?”
“Just say you’re a friend of Peter Dolman, the cop.”
A friend of Peter Dolman, the cop, I think as I watch him make the turn onto Grays road.
I don’t think so.
Gray
For two days the rain blows in from the south. “It’s too nasty to go out, Tiger.” I stand at the picture window observing the roiling lake and watch as a long V of waterfowl flies low over the water. These birds seem to be neither geese nor ducks, but I see them every day. Sometimes flock after flock pass over the cove, hundreds of birds in long Vs. In the morning they fly north and in the evening they return to wherever they came from.
Dolman’s folder is lying next to the phone, and for the first time I look inside. The former social worker has given me two names and numbers along with a little history of the people themselves.
The first one is Nita Adams, whom he describes as an eighty-year-old diabetic who broke her hip, had surgery a few months ago and is hobbling around again. Eugene at the country store delivers her groceries, and Jed makes home visits once or twice a month. Lately she has become terrified about falling again. Mentally, he tells me, she’s sharp as a tack.
I take a big breath and dial her number. “Hello, Mrs. Adams?”
“Yes?” This is said with hesitation.
“This is Sara Livingston, RN. I’m a friend of Officer Dolman and I thought I’d call and make your acquaintance.”
“Sara who?”
“Sara Livingston,” I say louder. “I’m new on Seagull Island and I’m trying to make some friends.”
That seems to open the door. “Oh, a newcomer. From the mainland or the States?” Here I hesitate, wishing I could say I’m from Canada, but it doesn’t seem to bother her when I tell her I’m from the States.
“You’re a nurse, eh? Wish you’d been here last year. Did Peter tell you I fell?”
“Yes. How’d it happen?”
“Slipped on the damn kitchen rug. I was working on one of my projects, the same thing I’m doing today. I slipped and fell and heard the bone crack. Never felt so much pain.”
I remember how it opens the door to ask about people’s ailments. Just to have someone listen to our troubles means a lot, especially if they’re someone new, someone who hasn’t heard before about our aching back, our aching hip or our aching heart.
“Do you still have a lot of pain?”
“Not so bad, except when it rains, but I can’t get around like I used to. I haven’t been on the beach for months. You got a man here?”
This takes me aback and for the first time I wish I could tell her the truth . . . I did have a man, Mrs. Adams, but he cheated on me and I left him . . . I ran away. I stole all his money and took someone’s ID. I left my girl too . . . But I stick with my lie.
“No. He died in the Iraq War.”
“I’m sorry. Well, honey, I got to go. You come by and visit me, if you get lonely. And call me Nita.”
“I will, Nita, and you be careful. No slipping on rugs!”
The old lady chuckles and I hang up happy.
It’s a feeling I used to have every day when I worked as a nurse and a midwife, the joy of helping someone else. A song comes to me and I hum the chorus. “And in the end, only kindness matters . . .”
Is that true?
I think that it is.
DOUBLE CRESTED CORMORANT
Black waterfowl with a long neck
Lives in open water, ponds and rivers
Roosts in trees at the water’s edge
Dives for fish
Often seen standing with wings outstretched to dry the feathers
Range: Southern Florida and Mexico to midlatitude Canada
Size: 33 inches
Wingspan: 52 inches (That’s almost 5 feet!)
Summer
CHAPTER 27
Bird Fest
School in Ontario must finally be out because almost overnight the island changes. There are now frequent cars and bicycles on the roads and the ferry runs three times a day. People are waiting in line at the ice cream stand and I realize that what the old lady on the beach said is true. I’m seeing evidence of so many cultures: African, Haitian, Chinese, Japanese, men with turbans, women in veils, hipsters with multiple piercings, drivers in black SUVs wearing gold chains and even some Mennonites in black hats and suspenders, the women with little white bonnets.
I knew Seagull Island had been preparing for the Bird Festival as if it was a United Nations summit, but now that it’s here I see its importance. Seagull Island, and Pelee Island twenty miles to the west, are the equivalents of health spas
for migrating birds heading north.
Not only are the islanders proud of the habitat that provides a haven for songbirds, raptors and waterfowl, it’s a money-making venture. The population has tripled for the celebration. All the B and Bs are booked. All the cottages are rented. All the restaurants are full.
Before six this morning there were strangers with binoculars out on my beach and later there were two women on bikes in my yard, looking at a redheaded flicker up in the cottonwoods.
“So, you’re from Oklahoma,” Helen says casually. “What part?”
I’ve been asked by the owners of Burke’s Country Store to volunteer at the refreshment booth located at the entrance to Seagull Island Community Park. The proceeds will go to the school library, so it seemed a good cause.
Glad I had a chance to do research on Jed’s computer at the clinic last week, I answer calmly. “I grew up in Ada. It’s a small town in the southern part of the state; nothing much there but the headquarters for the Chickasaw Indian Nation and the state university.”
“A pelican! You’ve got to be kidding. We don’t have pelicans on Seagull Island!” A man with a huge pair of field glasses around his neck appears upset.
“I swear!” a little woman in shorts and a T-shirt argues. “I saw it and I want credit. I’m not backing down!”
It’s here at the entrance to the park that the bird watchers give an account of their sightings and, as I prepare hot dogs and lemonade, I watch the participants arrive on foot or by bicycle to tell Eugene Burke what they’ve seen. He writes the species on a long homemade blackboard.
“I’m putting it down,” says Eugene. “Two years ago the Nature Conservancy biologist spotted a pelican near the lighthouse, so it’s possible.”
During the bird fest, only seniors are allowed to use motorized vehicles, a recent change to the rules, I’ve learned. According to Helen, three years ago two competitive birders had a car crash at the intersection of North Wing and Middle Loop . . . and also a lady from Toronto got run over because a driver had spotted a rare American Pipit and wasn’t watching the road.
The Runaway Midwife Page 14