CHAPTER 31
Cleanup
So what do you want done first?” Jed asks, looking around. “Your yard is a total disaster!”
“Well, let’s start with the lawn. The summer is half over and if those real estate agents from the Nelson family ever come over, I want them to see that I’m taking good care of the place. Any suggestions?”
Jed looks up at the cottage roof. “It would help if the gutters were cleaned. This is a good time to do it. See there, how the water has been collecting along the foundation. That’s because the gutters are full of leaves and the rain isn’t going down the drain spout.
“The place could use a paint job too, but that’s not your concern. I’d probably straighten that shutter and repair the one weak step at the top of the porch.” This is more than I was thinking of doing, but it’s not like I don’t have the money.
“How much will that be?”
“Say a hundred dollars?”
“What if I helped you? There’s a ladder in the shed. I could clean the gutters.”
“You don’t mind heights?”
“Well it’s only one story.”
“Then it’s seventy-five.”
“And will you teach me how to repair a step?” (Back in West Virginia, my husband took care of the household repairs, but there’s no Richard here, so I’d better start learning.)
“Sure, it’ll be fun.”
ALL DAY WE toil in the July heat. Jed takes off his shirt when he’s cutting the weeds and I put on a pair of my baggy new shorts and a T-shirt. For lunch I make us peanut butter and banana sandwiches with cold milk and apples. We sit in the gazebo companionably, looking down at the lake.
“A bald eagle,” Jed says, pointing out the huge dark bird with a white head and tail. “Look, it’s got a fish in its claws.” Suddenly, another eagle shows up. Initially I think they’re friendly, but no, the second eagle is harassing the first.
It moves in and tries to grab the fish, but the owner won’t let go. The attacker sweeps the other with his wings, circles and comes back. This time the fish drops from the owner’s claws and we watch as the thief dives and catches it in midair, just above the water.
“Amazing,” I say. “Have you ever seen that before?”
“Sure, lots of times. I grew up here, remember. I’ve seen eagles attack the osprey on the north end too. Funny that the bald eagle, your country’s national symbol, is a scavenger.” He cracks a smile.
“Yeah, funny,” I return with sarcasm. “So you grew up here, went away and came back. Does your family know you’re gay? Do other people on the island know?”
“My family knows for sure.”
“So does everyone else know? I mean people like Molly Lou and Helen at the store?”
“Pretty much. Most of them are related to me in some way. I came out in 2010 when I returned to the island. I had a lover then, Tony, a guy I went to university with in Windsor, but he was a flake. I’m kind of interested in John now. You know him, the vet from the States, but don’t say anything, okay?”
I think back to the drum circle at New Day. Jed and John were on the other side of the drum circle, half-obscured by the light of the fire. I see again, their two bodies, close together. Jed is playing his guitar and John the harmonica.
It takes me longer than I expected to clean the gutters and by three in the afternoon, I’m sweating like a pig.
“Why don’t you take your shirt off?” Jed asks.
“And work in my bra?”
“Or go without the bra.”
“I don’t think so!” I say, but I do pull off my T-shirt and pretend my bra is a halter top.
We fix the step on the porch together and straighten the shutter, then Jed gathers up his tools to go home. “Hey, wait. I’ll get you your money!”
“Forget about it. What are friends for?”
“Come on! That’s the deal.”
“Save it,” he says. “You’re my girl!” And he gives me a long sweaty hug.
Summer Ice
On Tuesday, I lock the house, take Tiger and hike up to the village to visit Jed and see if he needs any help at the clinic. It’s a slow day and he’s filing medical charts.
“Want a hand?” I ask.
“Nah, it won’t take long. I tell you what you could do though. In a couple of weeks, I have to set up a medical tent at the Blue Water Folk Concert here on the island. Want to help me man it Friday night? John will help Saturday.”
“Sure,” I say. “You mean woman it?” Then we have coffee, he reads me a new short story he’s written and I walk home, watching Lake Erie sparkle in the sunlight.
Five minutes after I get in the door, the island’s squad car pulls up my drive. What now? I think.
Peter Dolman opens his trunk, pulls out my bike and rolls it up to the porch.
“Peter! It was you who took the Raleigh? And look at it! It’s like a new bicycle! I was going to call and report it stolen, but it was such a piece of junk, I didn’t think it would be worth your time to look for it. Why did you do this?”
He shrugs. “It’s a surprise. I’m still paying you back for the visit to the commune. Also the bike’s been lying around all summer and I didn’t know when or how you’d get around to fixing it.”
I laugh. “Well, thanks!”
We sit on the porch steps, admiring the bicycle and listening to the wind in the dry cottonwood leaves. The bike has new tires, new handgrips, even a new kickstand. “Want a glass of apricot wine?” I ask, trying to be hospitable and thank him somehow for the wonderful gift. “I bought some in case I ever had company.”
“Nah, I’m on duty. I guess I should go.” He stands and looks out toward the road where we can both see a cloud of dust boiling along behind a vehicle. It’s the familiar white convertible I’ve seen around the island, and I’m surprised when it turns into my drive as if it knows where it’s going. Two men and a woman get out and walk toward the house. Peter stands, pulls down the visor of his hat and adjusts his silver sunglasses.
“Hello. It’s Sara, isn’t it?” asks the woman, petite with dark hair, wearing a gray linen jacket and white linen pants. “I’m Charlene Nelson and these are my brothers, Jake and William.” She dismisses the cop with a nod of her head and shifts her eyes back to me.
Standing next to her is a short blond fellow, balding in front, dressed in khaki shorts and a blue polo shirt that says SEAGULL ISLAND SAILING CLUB. The other man has longer dark hair and wears jeans and a black T-shirt. All three have a family resemblance, the same strong jaw and brown eyes, the same lean build and straight teeth; people of privilege. I recognize the type right away because most of the girls at the Little Sisters of the Cross Academy came from that social class.
“Nice to see you, Charlene. William, Jake,” the cop says, stepping forward to greet them, but the evening has gone chill.
William, the older of the two men, snubs Dolman when he sticks out his hand, then he turns to me. “Sara, is it?” (I recognize that voice, sandpaper on a carrot grater. It’s the man who was so rude when I called Wanda that time.) “We just came by to tell you that our father, Lloyd, died four weeks ago, passed in his sleep, and we buried him back home.”
My heart goes cold, a lump of ice in my chest. I knew Lloyd’s death was inevitable and coming soon, but it feels strange to learn that he’s been gone all this time.
“You alright, Sara? I’m sorry if we shocked you,” Charlene apologizes.
Officer Dolman interrupts us. “I was just leaving, but I express my sympathy.”
“Thanks,” says Charlene, not even looking at him, and the three take seats on the porch steps as if the place belongs to them, which, in a way, it does . . .
“You and the cop an item?” Jake, the dark-haired brother in jeans, asks, staring at Peter’s back as he walks away. This seems an odd question, but I answer truthfully.
“No, not at all. He just had my bike repaired. Actually, it’s the old bike I found in the shed. I hope you don
’t mind.”
“It’s fine . . . You’re taking good care of the place and we appreciate it,” Charlene says, looking around at the flowers I planted that bloom along the picket fence and the neatly mowed lawn.
“Have you given any thought to where you might move when your lease runs out?” asks William, staring up at the roof and jingling change in his pockets. Jake stands and walks around to the back of the house and up the stairs to the upper deck as if looking at the view.
“Will you stay on the island?” Charlene goes on. “Mother said you’re a writer.”
This pushes me up against a wall. “To be honest, I haven’t really thought about it. I’m paid up until November. I was hoping to stay through the winter, but I suppose I’ll try to look for another place if you need the cottage.” (All this time, I’m thinking about Lloyd’s handwritten will. The one they may not know about.)
“Well, you have some time. It’s only August now. That gives you four months. The three of us are in real estate. We’re planning to tear down the old cottage and put in a hotel and casino. It will be great, bring in lots of tourists and high rollers from Detroit, Toledo, Cleveland and Toronto. Provide lots of jobs for the people on the island.”
Tear down Seagull Haven! The more they talk, the sadder I feel. “Do the people here want this?” I ask. “I thought they liked the peace and quiet.”
“Well, you can’t have it both ways.” Jake has come out of the house, letting the screen door slam behind him. The jerk must have been walking around inside!
“The Seagull Island Township Board is always discussing the tax base,” Charlene breaks in. “They go on and on at the meetings about how they hardly have enough money to grade the roads and run the school and that they need to diversify the economy, but they never want to try anything new. Luckily, there’s enough people with common sense that they’ll outvote them.”
At this point I don’t know what to say. Who are the islanders and cottagers eager for hotels and casinos? I don’t even know them!
“The house looks nice.” Jake stares at me. “Dad loved the old place. We had a lot of good times here too, right, Will?” He gives his brother a wink. “Learned to drive on the island. Had our first liquor here. Our first sex—”
His sister cuts him off. “Well, if you need a little time to make the transition, Sara, let me know. We won’t start demolition until late November, but we’ll be on the island often, meeting with builders and architects.”
When I say goodbye, I’m surprised that Jake takes my hand. “Nice to meet you, Sara, and I look forward to seeing you again.” He wears a bright gold wedding ring, so he’s clearly married, but I have a feeling that neither the ring nor his vows would slow him down. It didn’t slow Richard.
Tootsie Roll
What to do now? I thought I had time, but Lloyd is already dead and I need someone’s advice on how to handle the will, but who would know something about probate law? I pull a chair into the bedroom from the kitchen and reach on my tiptoes into the back of the closet where I had replaced Lloyd’s packet. While I’m up there I peek at my stash, which is still rolled into a quilt, and decide to get down a couple of hundred-dollar bills, just in case I need money.
“Hello again. Want some help?” It’s Jake Nelson standing in my bedroom. I’m so startled I lose my balance and start to fall, but his hands catch me around the waist just before I crash-land in a cascade of money.
Recovering, I push the quilt out of sight, cover my briefcase and throw the documents back on top. Did he see?
“Sorry if I startled you. I knocked before I walked in. Thought maybe you were down on the beach. I just came back for a couple of the seagull carvings my mother asked me to bring home.”
This really bugs me. I certainly don’t want the man strolling into my cottage anytime he wants and I also feel there’s something overly sensual about his touch. “Next time knock louder” is all I can say. Jake helps me jump off the chair, missing the edge to my voice.
“If you aren’t busy tonight, I’d like to take you to dinner. Charlene and Will have other plans, but we could go to the Roadhouse near the sailing club. Just a little thanks for taking such good care of Seagull Haven for us.”
“Actually, I have an appointment this evening,” I lie. “And you really don’t owe me anything. It just happened I needed a place to rent and Wanda appreciated someone watching over the property. It’s a contractual arrangement.”
Jake’s cell rings and he fumbles in his jeans pocket to grab it. The ringtone is a hip-hop song Jessie used to listen to, “Tootsie Roll.” The tune goes on and on while he tries to get the phone out of his tight jeans. Yeah, tootsie roll—Let me see that tootsie roll. Yeah, tootsie roll—Let me . . . He shrugs, embarrassed, and answers.
“What’s up . . . ? Charlene . . . ?” His face goes white. “Stop blubbering! What do mean Mom’s dead? She can’t be dead. We just saw her three days ago . . .” He looks at me wildly, forgets the seagull carvings and runs out the door.
CHAPTER 32
Orphan
All night, I keep thinking about the Nelsons. What could have happened to Wanda? I try to imagine a car wreck, a stroke or a heart attack, or even suicide. It often happens that when one older spouse dies the other passes a year or so later, but not usually in a few weeks.
I don’t know why, but I have a vague feeling that I shouldn’t just hand Lloyd’s handwritten will to the Nelsons. It would seem rather cruel to say, right after their mother died . . . “Oh, by the way. Lloyd doesn’t want anyone in the family to have Seagull Haven. He gave it to the Nature Conservancy.” Not only that, if I give them the handwritten document it might end up in the trash.
I remember it like it was yesterday, the day my parents died and my life shattered, like a window blown in by a twister.
“Mrs. Mallory!” The school counselor at Wilson Middle School, just outside of Ann Arbor, Michigan, calls from the door of my eighth-grade math class. “Mrs. Mallory!” The teacher steps out of the room, her face loses all color and she beckons me over.
“Honey, they need you in the office,” she says.
I can’t imagine what for. I’m a good student, haven’t been in any fights and keep my locker clean, but I follow the counselor obediently.
When we enter Principal Monroe’s office, a policeman is there along with a woman I’ve never seen before. “Sit down, Clara,” the lady says. She’s dressed in a dark blue suit, a white blouse and black heels and somehow looks official. Now I’m getting afraid.
Everyone takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, and the lady slides her chair closer and takes my hand. “Honey,” she says. “We have some bad news. Your parents died this morning in a terrible car wreck. We didn’t know who to notify. Do you have any relatives, a grandparent or an aunt? The emergency number on the card in the secretary’s office lists only your mother and father.”
I never heard myself scream, but I was told later that I did. The grown-ups kept asking me over and over who to call and I couldn’t answer. There was nothing else to do. The social worker took me home. She ran a warm bath, but I couldn’t move and she had to take off my clothes.
I LOVED MY parents, both employees at the local Argus camera plant, but I don’t think they loved each other. If they did, they didn’t show it. At night in the dark, as I lay in my bed with a pillow over my head, I could hear cursing, plates shattering against the walls, doors slamming, doors opening again and . . . more cursing. In the morning their faces would be pale and peaceful, like Lake Erie after a storm.
That’s why I didn’t grieve for them the way other kids would. Part of me was just glad the war was over and I wondered if maybe my parents were too . . . Though I never said anything to anyone, I imagined that one of them had caused the accident, had pulled the steering wheel and plowed into the semi-truck on purpose.
THE GROUP HOME in Ann Arbor that I was sent to was short-term and then, because I had no other relatives, the social worker, Mrs. Dennis, fo
und me a place at Little Sisters of the Cross Academy for Young Women in northern Michigan. I’m sure the nuns took pity on me when they learned that I was orphaned because I received a full scholarship for all four years of high school.
It was Sister Jean who mothered me. Compared to the hell I’d experienced before, the convent was heaven . . . and the sisters were angels protecting me with their wings.
Little Sisters of the Cross
In the morning, I decide there’s only one person I can talk to about the will, so I check the tires on my reconditioned bike and head for Nita’s. Since she’s come back from the hospital, I’ve visited her several times and I’ve come to respect her opinion. Not only that, she puts things in perspective. Because of her age, like the nuns, she has the long view.
As I pedal along, I find my mind wandering back to the convent and I remember my first image of the girl’s parochial school and religious retreat for women. As Mrs. Dennis and I drove up the long spruce-lined drive, my mouth dropped open.
In the distance I saw what looked like a stone castle with two square turrets. A long stone wall ran around the grassy grounds and an adjoining stone building a few hundred yards away had a cross on the top. (This I learned later was the dorm that housed fifty girls aged fourteen to eighteen.)
A marble statue of Jesus being crucified on the cross with Mary kneeling below him was positioned in the turnaround in front of the castle, which was, in reality, an abbey for some twenty nuns, mostly widows.
As we approached, I pictured the sisters as small cheerful women with big white hats like The Flying Nun on TV or conversely as small mean women, dressed in black hoods and habits, who labored under heavy wooden crosses strapped to their backs. The reality was neither of my imaginings.
The Runaway Midwife Page 18