The fact that most of the nuns were widows gave the convent a unique atmosphere, though I didn’t realize it at the time. The sisters, who had once been wives and mothers, were only “born-again virgins” and they often flirted with the priests who came to say mass, as well as the tradesmen, who did major repairs and landscaping.
There were usually three or four grieving widows staying at the retreat at any given time and I was impressed with the tenderness the nuns showed their visitors. The sisters weren’t always so kind to the students. If your plaid skirt was too short, Sister Collette would whack you on the behind with a ruler. If you didn’t know your lessons, she’d make you kneel for an hour in front of the class. This was back in the early eighties when you could get away with such nonsense. Myself, I didn’t get tortured because I always had my homework done, but my friend Mary Kay wasn’t so lucky. She was a cut-up and got whacked at least once a day.
At the academy, only Mary Kay and I were on scholarship. Old Sister Bernadine made our plaid uniforms, so they were always of regulation length. There were ninety or so girls at the school, fifty who boarded and forty locals who went home at night. All scholars had to be wealthy because the tuition was so high.
I believe Mother Angelica assigned Sister Jean as my special guardian because Sister Jean, a widow of ten years, had once lost a baby girl at birth and her husband had been killed in Vietnam. Sister Jean had had a hard life, but that only made her a more wonderful nun. Life is like that, I’ve noticed. Tragedy and misfortune can break a person or make her more compassionate and courageous.
It’s now that I’m alone that I realize how much I learned from the sisters. Though I lived as Richard’s wife for almost twenty years, I always knew that it was possible to be happy without a man. I didn’t ever do anything remotely mechanical, but I still had a vision of Sister Clare under the convent’s old school bus. I never balanced our checkbook, but I knew Mother Angelica kept the academy open through her creative financing.
Our school had the same curriculum as any Catholic high school, rigorous academics mixed with such courses as the Revelation of Jesus Christ in Scripture. These religious classes didn’t make me more of a Christian, in fact maybe less, because by the time I got to college I found the Unitarian Universalists a breath of fresh air.
Mighty Jungle
After an hour’s hard ride, I throw my bike against Nita’s porch and run up the steps. I’m like a little girl coming home from school and the old woman’s my granny.
“Knock, knock,” I yell, not waiting for an answer, and when I take the turn into the living room, I’m surprised to see Nita dancing. She has a wheeled walker and a cool popular song from the early 1960s is playing on the stereo.
“A-wimoweh, a-wimoweh, a-wimoweh, a-wimoweh, In the jungle, the mighty jungle the lion sleeps tonight, In the jungle, the quiet jungle the lion sleeps tonight,” Nita sings with the recording and I join in. “A-wimoweh, a-wimoweh!”
“What do you think?” she asks, indicating the wheeled walker. “Jed brought it to me. He changed my meds too.” I plunk down in a chair.
My friend is wearing an African print dress with a scarf wrapped around her white curly hair and she seems, except for the walker, almost like her old self.
“You kill me, Nita. You’re in the hospital for a couple of weeks and now you’re home dancing. The next thing I know you’ll be cruising the beach looking for beach glass. I looked the other day, by the way, after the storm, but didn’t see any.”
“You have to have the eye,” she says, spinning around, and then she begins to cough. She coughs so hard she can’t get her breath, and just about the time I think I’m going to have to call for the ambulance, she points to an inhaler on the end table near the couch and I hand it over. Three puffs and she’s better, but I insist she sit down and I get her some tea.
When I come back from the kitchen with cups and a teapot on a tray, she’s resting in a high-back wooden chair staring out the window at her bird feeder. “I love the birds on the island,” she says. “I saw a falcon this morning and a V of geese going south. Look there! It’s a chickadee. See its little black cap. They’re my favorite. Do you mind putting out some more seeds in the feeder while you’re here?”
“Sure, Nita, but I need to talk to you. Something’s happened and I’m scared.”
The old lady sets her cup down and folds her hands in her lap, waiting, giving me all her attention, her big brown eyes on alert. “So . . .”
“Well, a couple of weeks ago, I found a handwritten will by Lloyd Nelson giving the cottage and his five acres on Seagull Point to the Nature Conservancy. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I just put it back in the closet. Yesterday, the Nelson brothers and sister visited and told me their father died a month ago. They want me out of the cottage and they intend to tear down Seagull Haven to build a casino and hotel.
“What’s almost worse is that while they were at the cottage, they got a call from Ohio and it seems their mother just passed away too. Now, I don’t know what to do with the will. Do you know anything about probate law?”
“First take a few deep breaths,” the old lady says, reaching for my hand. “And you have to start locking your cottage. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. It takes a good two or three months to get evicted . . . Then you better take the will to Officer Dolman.”
“You really think I need to get him involved? I’m not sure it’s my place.”
“Don’t think about it. Just do it,” she says.
CHICKADEE
A small gray bird with a black cap and a black bib
measuring 12 to 15 centimeters
Habitat: Lives in tree-covered areas
in southern Canada and northern US
and down into the Appalachian Mountains
Diet: insect eggs, larvae and pupae
Voice: chic-a-dee chic-a-dee
There Will Be Trouble
The next day, I lock the cottage, bundle up and get ready for a ride to the village, planning to show Peter Dolman the handwritten document and ask him what to do. I take a soft bath towel, make a bed in the bike’s wicker basket for Tiger and tie him in with the leash so he can’t jump out.
As I pass Molly Lou’s, I drop my feet and straddle the Raleigh. Molly’s out in front watering flowers. “Nice,” she yells, indicating the passenger in my bike basket. “Like Toto in The Wizard of Oz!”
Riding on, I look out at Lake Erie. A light rain last night has cleared the air and visibility is good. Two sailboats bob up and down in the waves and all along the breakwall goldenrod nod in the breeze.
Despite Nita Adams’s advice, the decision to give Lloyd’s handwritten will to the cop was a hard one. I debated it from several points of view. Being wanted by the law and arriving on Seagull Island without a passport are my real problems. What if the handwritten will is contested and I have to go to the mainland to be a witness in court? What if it comes out that I’m here illegally? Would I be arrested? Would I be deported and sent back to West Virginia to face the mess I left behind? I have no way to find out, but becoming involved in a legal squabble can do me no good.
On the other hand, I can’t just leave Lloyd’s envelope sitting in the closet . . . so presenting it to the only official I know seems the best thing to do. I just hope I’m not shooting myself in the foot.
Gathering Tiger under my arm, I tap twice on the green wooden door of the Seagull Island OPP and wait for an answer. Since the squad car is here, I assume Dolman is too, though he could be down at the Black Sheep Pub or hanging out with Jed at the clinic.
“Enter. Welcome. Hi, Tiger. Hi, Sara.”
The cop is sitting at a large gray metal desk wearing his usual khaki pants and a navy blue T-shirt, but not the shades and cap. I let my cat down to explore the small room.
“To what do I owe this visit?” Dolman asks, smiling. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“Sure.” While he washes a mug in a corner sink, I inspect the small room. Arranged on a counter is
some kind of CB radio, a printer and some equipment that may have to do with the weather. On either side of the front window are two gray metal file cabinets that match the desk, and behind the door is a tall bookshelf full of books, mostly Ontario Provincial Police manuals with a few bestselling novels on top.
There are also two substantial oak chairs (the kind you might see in a courthouse), and I sit down in one, picturing someone handcuffed to the armrest . . . maybe me.
“So what’s up?” Dolman holds out the mug and throws a packet of sugar and a packet of creamer across the desk.
“Well, I have a problem . . .” I begin. He leans forward on his arms listening, his gray eyes never leaving my face.
I explain how I found the will on the top shelf of the closet a few weeks ago but didn’t know what to do with it and how afterward when I learned that Lloyd was dead, and now Wanda too, I knew I had to give it to someone.
“There’s a feeling I get from the Nelson brothers and sister. I don’t trust them,” I go on. “Maybe it’s just the type. Also, did you know this? They’re preparing to tear down Seagull Haven to build a hotel and casino.” As I talk, I fumble in my woven Mexican shoulder bag for Lloyd’s will.
“There’s always rumors of development on Seagull. Most of the schemes never come to anything. What have you got there?”
I open the folder, hand him the document and watch as he reads. Finally, he puts the paperwork down.
“It looks legit . . . The Nature Conservancy will be ecstatic about this, but a lot of other people won’t be. Sorry about your house though. How long is your lease?”
“I’ve paid until the end of November. That gives me four months. I guess I have to start looking for another place.”
The cop stands and I take that to mean he’s busy and ready for me to leave, but he walks over to the printer, lifts up the top and begins to photocopy Lloyd’s last will and testament along with the description of the property. While he waits, he leans down and picks Tiger up and rubs his face through the animal’s fur, a familiar gesture. I do it myself, at least once a day.
“I’ll take the original will for safekeeping to a lawyer I know in Windsor. I’m going over next week. And I’ll make three copies, one for the Nature Conservancy. They’ll want to have their attorney in Toronto take a look at it. One for the Nelsons and one for the township president.
“The Nelsons won’t let go without a fight,” he continues. “I know what you mean. I’ve never liked them much either. The Conservancy will be determined to preserve the land. And the community will be split down the middle. It doesn’t sound like much, just five acres, but I can tell you now . . . there will be trouble.”
CHAPTER 33
Shipwrecks and Squalls
On the way home, I stop at Molly Lou’s because I want her to spread the word that I’m going to need somewhere to live by the end of November. Big Chris is out in the yard fooling with his John Deere tractor and he lifts his head in greeting, greasy hands still in the engine.
He’s a strange man, I think. Not unfriendly, but not friendly either. Maybe Chris doesn’t like me. Maybe he sees through my novelist mask, to the scared midwife I really am.
“Molly!” I yell from the front porch. “You home?”
“Come on in! I’m back in the kitchen. Want a homemade brownie? They just came out of the oven.”
Despite my promise to myself to cut back on calories, I can’t resist. “Sure.”
“Milk too?”
“Might as well. It goes good with chocolate and I need the calcium.” This is said with a smile, because I get plenty of calcium.
While she readies our snack I tell Molly Lou about the Nelsons’ visit, how I have four months to move and that they want to build a casino right on Gull Point. I leave out the part about Lloyd’s handwritten will, not sure I want that made public.
I expect Molly to be upset about the coming development, but she just hands me my brownie and calmly sits down. “Yeah, I heard rumors that something was in the works, but I didn’t want to mention it because it was all kind of vague. Actually, having a casino on the island will increase all our property values. Most of the people I’ve talked to are excited about the idea, but not everyone . . . Excuse me,” she says and stands to do something on the stove.
While Molly works, I glance around the kitchen, which is as neat as a pin. There’s a calendar on the wall from the Leamington Fish Company and a map of the Lake Erie Basin.
Notations show the shoals and the reefs that aren’t safe for boats. All the shipwrecks are marked with a bold dot, starting with a wooden schooner that went down in 1768.
My neighbor notices me reading the map. “The reason Lake Erie has so many shipwrecks,” she tells me, “is because it’s only 210 feet deep versus Lake Superior at 1300. The storms are worse here too, with the wind whipping the shallow waters into ocean-sized waves.”
“I know. I’ve seen the big breakers on Gull Point.”
“My brother Elliot and my pa were fishermen,” Molly tells me as she hands me a good-sized brownie on a plate and pours the cold milk. “We owned the marina but sold it to the sailing club in 1995 after Elliot and Daddy drowned on the lake. A sudden squall came up and they were washed over. Both of them were gone in only seconds. The fish were about played out by then, anyway. We used to be able to make a good living.”
She turns to the framed photo of a white-haired man wearing coveralls and a handsome young guy in shorts looking at a net full of fish on a boat, both with big smiles that remind me of Molly.
“I’m sorry about your brother and father.”
“It was a long time ago. Mom lived with Chris and me until she died a few years ago.”
“Why can’t people make a living fishing now—why do they need casinos? Is Lake Erie that overfished?”
“No, it’s not that. People have been fishing these waters since before European settlers came. It’s the pollution, the nitrogen runoff and the invasive species . . . Then the lake is gradually getting warmer, though this past winter you wouldn’t have known it. It was unusually cold January through April, more like the old days.
“My daddy used to tell me how they’d drive their Ford Model Ts across the ice to Leamington for supplies in the winter. Even went over the ice to Ohio sometimes. Drove the truck right across, it was that thick. No fool would do that nowadays.” (Really, I think. I know at least two fools. Not mentioning names.)
When I leave, Molly reassures me that it probably won’t be hard to find another place to live on Seagull Island. “There’s lots of empty houses in the winter. You’ll find something. I’ll keep an eye open and spread the word.”
Back at my cottage, I open the windows to let in the air and sit on the sofa with my orange cat. Though I know Seagull Haven was never my house, it feels like my home and I can’t imagine living on the island anywhere else. “Oh, what will we do, Tiger?” I ask, but my cat only licks my hand.
Folk Fest
Friday morning, the phone rings just as I get home from my swim. “Hello?” I answer, panting and shaking my short wet hair like a dog.
“Hey, Sara. It’s Jed. I’m calling from Windsor. Had to come over with a patient for tests. Did you remember the folk concert is this weekend?”
“Aaaah, no. I was going to help you, wasn’t I?”
“Well, are you still up for it? We need to set up the emergency medical tent with cots and arrange our supplies this afternoon. Can I pick you up after I get back, so we can go out to the park?”
“It’s tonight? What time does the music start and when does it end? I just got my bike fixed and I could ride out there.”
“Starts at six, lasts until midnight, but you better let me drive. Most of the participants camp at the park, but some will stay at the B and Bs and rent cottages, then they’ll hang out at the taverns until late. You don’t want to be riding your bike after dark.”
When Jed picks me up, his mood is somber. “You worried about the concert?” I ask
him.
“Nah. Why?”
“You look a little under the weather.”
“Too much to drink last night. Met some friends in Windsor.”
BY SIX WE have our tent and supplies set up. Jed has bought a couple of red T-shirts with a big white cross on the front to indicate we’re medics and I pull mine on over my other clothes. Not far away from our area, I catch a glimpse of Rainbow, Dian, Wade and the others from the commune at their booth where they’re selling green smoothies.
Looking at the festival program, I realize how little I know about contemporary folk music, especially Canadian. First on the stage is Poor Angus and the crowd goes crazy when the all-male group opens with a wild Celtic number that includes a bagpipe and drums.
Fortunately the clinic has no patients, so I’m free to stand out front and listen to the music. Poor Angus is followed by Blackwood Honeybees and then a country group called Doghouse Rose. “Where do these people find their names?” I ask Jed, but he’s stretched out on a cot sleeping off his hangover.
About an hour into the music, Peter Dolman approaches the tent, half carrying a very drunk teenage girl with purple hair. I help her lie down just as she vomits all over my sandals and then we get really busy.
Jed wakes up. A woman with facial piercings arrives hyperventilating and we give her albuterol for her asthma. On the next cot, a man wearing only cutoff jeans is disoriented and Jed shines a penlight into his eyes. Then a mother brings in a little boy who’s cut his foot. It goes on like this until midnight.
The last group on stage is Poor Angus again, belting out a crowd favorite, “Never Come Back.” The fans seem to know the lyrics and half the people sing along. A tin flute repeats the tune and then everyone comes in with the chorus, even me.
“And one more time, set it on fire and burn it all down, One more night, let it all go, let it all out.” I look over at the New Day commune and catch Rainbow’s eye.
Torrington, West Virginia, seems very far away.
Let Me In!
The whole time I was at the folk festival, I kept expecting to see Lenny. It seemed the sort of event he would show up for. (I even shaved my legs, just in case.) Once I thought I spied his long gold and silver ponytail during a lull in the music and my heart sped up, but whoever it was moved away in the crowd.
The Runaway Midwife Page 19