by Spikes J. D.
I followed the downward arc of the tool, heart galloping in my chest.
Thwack!
Thwack!
The first blow sent a few rock chips flying, the second made a noticeable indent where the head of the hammer hit about halfway down the almost three-foot wall. Zach pulled his arms back and continued to let the hammer fly.
Thwack!
Thwack!
Several stones burst through the other side of the wall. Zach let the sledgehammer drop behind his back then hauled it overhead and brought it down on the mortar that sealed the top row of stones together. The slab gave way and a small section of the wall collapsed. He angled off again and swung away. In a rhythm now, he ground his teeth together as the sledgehammer delivered his fury.
The intensity of his emotion seemed to tether the ethereal family in place. It certainly held me spellbound, hypnotized as I watched muscles bulge and shift and the rock wall hemorrhage along the edge of Vincent’s gravesite.
I snapped myself out of it and moved toward him with care.
“Zach. Zach, wait.”
His arms froze on the swing back, then he suddenly dropped them to his sides and the sledgehammer to the ground. The thud reverberated beneath our feet. His chest heaved from his effort and sweat slicked him.
“You are so screwed.”
We both turned toward the voice.
Chantal stood at the cemetery gate, awe dropping her chin as she gazed on the destruction. “Don’t you know this is an historical cemetery?”
“It belongs to my aunt.”
“It’s under the protection of the Historical Society. You can’t do anything to it without permission.”
“We have permission,” Zach countered, his words clipped by his heavy breathing.
Chantal’s eyebrows rose, disbelieving, as she moved farther into the cemetery. “Whose?”
“Hers.”
Chantal angled toward us, following the direction Zach indicated. At first she frowned with lips drawn down in scorn. Her gaze darted back to Dorothea’s stone and her eyes widened with fear. She hurried to us and latched onto my arm with a vise-like grip, crowding me into Zach.
“Wh-what’s that?” she squeaked. “No! Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know,” and she turned her face to my shoulder.
Dorothea flickered and faded away.
I squeezed her arm. “Chantal, you have to help us. We need to rebuild the wall farther back. If there are three of us, it’ll go so much quicker.”
“I can’t.” She peered up at the sky. Thunderheads gathered, rolling in across the sun, darkening the woods. “I can’t stay. I have to go.”
She started to back away. Zach blocked her. “Please, Chantal. At least wait with Daphne until I get back. I need to grab a bucket and some work gloves.”
Chantal shook her head. “No way. I’ll go get that stuff. I have my bike. I can get back faster than you.”
“If Eddie or Jay see her at that shed, there’s going to be trouble,” I said.
She shook her head, looking more like herself when the corner of her mouth lifted in a grin, an accompaniment to her eyebrow. “They aren’t at the lighthouse. I saw them heading toward town in the truck on my way here.”
Zach and I exchanged a look. “Okay, then,” he decided, “you can go, Chantal. Inside the shed, on the wall by the workbench, you’ll see a canvas bag. There are already two pairs of work gloves inside it. Throw in the trowel and the small collapsible shovel and bring it back here with the metal bucket by the door.”
That girl fled the cemetery like ghosts were chasing her.
“You know she isn’t coming back,” I said.
“She’ll be back. Her nosiness will be bigger than her fear.”
An hour later he was willing to concede the win. We had pushed and pulled most of the remainder of the wall section down and there was still no sign of Chantal. We collapsed to the ground in the shade, backs together for support. Sweat-drenched shirts plastered us to each other.
I leaned my head back against his and sighed. An alien sound jarred the peace of the woods.
Bikes.
We peeled our backs apart and sprang to our feet.
Jake. Emma.
Gary.
My spine stiffened. Involuntarily, my gaze jerked to Zach.
Zach gauged the distance to the sledgehammer. He moved forward a half-step and to the right, which placed him in front of me without blocking my view.
Chantal brought up the rear. Mickey and Roselea arrived from the opposite direction.
“Hey, guys. I brought reinforcements,” Chantal called over the ching of bikes being dropped and placed against the wall.
She handed the canvas bag to Jake and turned her back to us while she spoke to Gary. Her head bobbed as she spoke, one hand slicing the air with vigor, the other remaining firmly over his.
Gary nodded to her when she finished and she turned back to us. “Zach, can we talk to you for a minute? Over here.”
Zach shook his head. Mickey started towards us, but Zach stopped him with a glare.
“Can we come to you, then? It’s really important.” Chantal did not try to con or coerce, unusual for her. I placed my hand at the small of Zach’s back.
He leaned forward to retrieve the sledgehammer, handed it to me, then nodded Chantal and Gary forward. When they reached the old wall, the gouge in the earth and few remaining stones as marker, he stopped them with a raised palm.
“What.”
Silence. Chantal, just in front of Gary, elbowed him. Gary cleared his throat and looked to the ground, but was man enough to raise his gaze back to Zach before he spoke.
“I’m really sorry. About the library. No joke.” He shuffled his feet then turned his gaze to me. “I wouldn’t hurt you, Daphne. I just wanted to scare you; that’s all.” He dipped his eyes, blinking, then returned them to me. “Stupid. I know that now. I wasn’t thinking.”
With that he put his hands on Chantal’s shoulders and addressed Zach. “Thanks, man, for not killing me. I understand now. I’d be bullshit if that happened to her.”
Chantal blinked and her head cocked to the side, so she could see Gary over her shoulder. He ignored her and offered his hand to Zach.
It grew so quiet, I believe even the animals and birds held their breath, the remainder of the ‘reinforcements’ statue-like in the deepening gloom of a charcoal sky.
I looked over the scattered assembly of kids. What a great support we could be for each other—they could be for Zach when I’m gone—if they would only work out their differences.
But this was Zach’s call.
He looked to me. “You okay with that apology, Daphne?”
I studied Gary. His demeanor appeared sincere, and the tender look he stole towards Chantal seemed to confirm he’d learned his lesson. I nodded.
Zach’s eyes narrowed on both Chantal and Gary. “If Daph is willing to forgive, so am I. But I don’t forget. If anything even close to that happens again, you will pay. Understood?”
Gary and Chantal both nodded.
He clasped Gary’s hand. Tensions eased. The remainder of the group gathered around.
“What do we do first?”
“Here are the tools.”
“My dad uses this stuff all the time for repairs. It’s construction adhesive. It should work on stone.”
They had come prepared, thank God. We hadn’t a moment to lose.
Gary unfolded the shovel and broke ground at the new wall line. He struck something in the dirt. “Hey, guys, look at this.”
We all gathered around. A small metal chest protruded from the soil. The lock all but fell off in his hand. Gary lifted the lid. The black bag nestled inside looked like old-fashioned heavy raincoat material.
“Wait,” Zach said, and indicated me. “Let Daphne open it.”
Gary passed it across to me, but the damned thing was sealed so tightly, I couldn’t get it opened. Gary produced his pocket knife. Both Zach and I flinched, tho
ugh mine was noticed by all.
“Jeez, Daphne,” Gary shook his head, “Did I scare you that bad?”
“Of course you did, fool.” Chantal shoved his shoulder. “Now open the damn thing.”
He made a neat slit down the side of the bag and handed it to me. My chest squeezed my lungs and I tried for a deep breath as my fingers closed on something hard yet soft to the touch. I slid it from its hiding place and out into the light of day.
A green velvet journal.
Tears filled my eyes.
Chapter 27
Though only ten years of age, she speaks with such passion and conviction. So like her mother that it warms me even as it breaks my heart.
She is not happy here. How can she be? A grandmother of such cold disposition. A yearning to know the ‘people of the woods’ as she calls them, but forbidden to go there. The child does not even know she has kin among them. Does not know I am not her true mother.
And now the dreams. I wonder if she truly believes them to be so, or merely conceals her knowledge of the truth.
I know the truth.
“Every night,” Lydia tells me, “a lady comes to my room. She looks so sad, though the smell of her makes me happy. Like sunshine and the sea. Sometimes it frightens me that she can come into my room, but I keep that to myself because I know she would never hurt me. She stares at me a while, then kisses my forehead. That makes her happy and she glides away.”
“Glides away?” I question, to see if she will put the obvious together, but she only nods.
“Yes, Maman. Then the man comes. One of the people from the woods.” She looks about as though to be sure her grandmother is not near then whispers, “Indian.” Like the forbidden word that it is. “He smiles, but he is sad, too. He runs his hand over my hair then follows the lady out.”
She pauses to think then says, “They are both tired.”
“Perhaps they just need you to tell them to rest,” I offer, but she has moved on, fingering her braids. “His hair is black and straight like mine.”
She will learn in the morning that we are leaving. I cannot bear to tell her the truth of her circumstance, yet fear someone else will see fit to do so. One day I will tell her the truth. Of parents who loved beyond boundaries, of sisters who left us too soon, of the folly of the old who would push love and family away to have their will be absolute.
I will tell her about her mother’s journal and where it can be found. And I will pray that she forgive me my selfish need to love her and protect her and keep her with me as I could not do her mother.
I refolded the paper and tucked it back into the journal. Quiet sobs joined mine and even the guys were unusually subdued. Zach took me into his arms and two by two everyone paired off to comfort each other.
“It’s so unfair,” Emma murmured against Jake’s shoulder.
“Why didn’t we do anything?” Mickey demanded.
“Like what?” Roselea asked from beneath his chin. “Claim a white child?”
“She wasn’t just white,” Zach said.
“But the mother rules,” I pointed out. “Vincent was already dead. Lydia was born into a white household.”
“His brother knew,” Gary offered. “I’d speak up for my brother.” And he stroked Chantal’s hair.
“But the town was already against them,” Jake pointed out.
“Yeah,” Chantal added, “They could have decided to brand Lydia as the brother’s child. A bastard.”
“We’re forgetting one thing,” I declared. “Dorothea was alive and well when Lydia was born. According to the journal, she succumbed to influenza just before Lydia’s fifth birthday. There would have been no question of paternity. But once Dorothea died, the sister was left to do what she saw as best for her niece.”
“Do you think she at least discussed it with the uncle? I mean, you said he’d told Dorothea he’d do whatever she wanted so the baby would know her dad’s people,” Roselea interjected.
“Maybe the Tribe didn’t like it, either,” Mickey said.
Nods all around cemented our consensus this was possible.
I placed the journal into the canvas bag, out of harm’s way, and we returned to our mission of bringing Vincent home.
* * *
A record crowd arrived for the lighthouse tour on opening day. We had scrounged through the attic and around town until we’d found costumes for our additional guides. Mickey and Roselea wore their regalia, or at least the pieces that didn’t include modern additions, while Jake, Emma, Chantal, and Gary transformed themselves into colonials.
Mrs. Rice, at first horrified by the destruction of the cemetery wall, eventually came around when she realized we had basically restored it to its original design. She did make note to bring in experts in stone wall construction, however, to ensure the wall would last at least another two centuries.
I think she also made note not to let Zach and I borrow any more books that contained ‘blueprints’.
Eddie and Jay had given the obligatory Adult Lecture when they came home to the lighthouse that night to discover a backyard full of filthy teens engaged in ‘waterhose football’ and yammering about walls and ghosts and a Velvet Journal.
Funny thing is, we all seemed to listen to it. Like we suddenly realized we stood on the edge and would be that adult some day.
Aunt’s opening speech was reaching its conclusion.
“. . . and the way was not always smooth. But I believe we can make it happen if we stay focused on what works for the good of the town and all its people. We need to realize that when the town thrives, we thrive. Many cultures, one community. We should all be in this together because we all depend on the town and the sea.”
The volume of applause should have clued us that Aunt had a future in public life. She turned to Jay and they shared a smile, and I knew they could help bring both sides together for discussion.
We separated, everyone to their station for the start of the tour.
Aunt spoke of the lighthouse, the endless hours of polish and worry, long sleepless nights of keeping watch over light and fog bell, land and sea. And the satisfaction of seeing seamen safely arrived at port. A satisfaction born in the bones and craving fulfillment.
Mr. Philbrook spoke of the land, of blending beauty with durability, of fitting into the landscape and capturing the essence of what makes our town our town, our piece of the earth special.
We kids broke into a mixed group and spoke of expectations. Those in days past, and our hopes for the future. Appreciation for the knowledge imparted on us about the lighthouse and the sea, and expectation that that knowledge in future encompass the views of all.
Zach and I also started a quiz feud among the elementary school kids about spider lamps versus Argands versus Fresnels.
We wrapped up the presentation by inviting everyone to the cemetery for the blessing.
Many departed but many stayed, determined to be part of it and curious to see a ‘home’ burial ground.
As we approached the cemetery from the lighthouse, we sighted a group of people approaching from the boundaries of The Barrens. Zach’s people, in a mix of traditional and modern dress.
Both parties met at the gate and Reverend Dave moved forward from their midst, cowl in place and black prayer book in hand.
“I believe we were denied permission to bless the first time,” he addressed Eddie and Jay. Reverend Dave then set his sights on Zach and I, and motioned us forward, no room to deny. Kiju Philbrook stepped out from behind his back and smiled encouragement.
We followed them into the cemetery, uncertain. Zach reached for my hand, and this time he didn’t change his mind. I gave his fingers a light squeeze. We could do this.
The prayer complete, the priest sprinkled holy water over the ground, newly encompassed by the cemetery wall. A breeze sprang up and Vincent appeared, followed quickly by Dorothea then Sarah. The ghostly family vibrated in the dusk, a slight shimmer grown brighter as each member emerged.
The crowd didn’t seem to see them, but surely their presence was felt. Feet shuffled uncomfortably and people huddled nearer to each other. The gate bell ting’d lightly and all heads turned.
The gate remained closed, but the bell swayed. I darted a look to Zach and knew he saw her, too.
A young woman stood just inside the cemetery’s boundary. She had Vincent’s features and the jet of his hair but her eyes . . . her eyes were Ro’s.
Lydia. The breeze gusted into a sudden wind as the girl joined her family. Several people backed away from the plot, looking around nervously. A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Suddenly, the gate rattled, a fierce shake as though it would fly right from its hinges. The bell remained silent.
This did not go unnoticed by the crowd. One woman started to cry. Another started to pray.
Almost as one Zach and his dad reached into the pouches at their waists and brought forth a pinch of tobacco. They scattered it over the new area, a prayer on their lips that the Micmac in the crowd soon joined. Several spoke the words in English: The Our Father.
The ghostly family vibrated into completeness and shattered with a brilliant burst.
The cemetery gate squeaked open and the breeze died. Our friends, mixed in among the crowd, began to clap. The gathering as a whole seemed to let out a collective breath and burst into applause.
Eddie called for everyone’s attention. “There will be music and food on the lighthouse lawn. You are all welcome to join us.”
Mickey had arranged for a few cousins to set off fireworks, which quickly turned the crowds’ mindset to celebration. We congratulated him on the way back to the lighthouse party.
Music bounced between modern and historic, English and Indian. Food ranged the same.
A slow song started and Zach approached.
“Want to dance?”
I nodded, but as we joined the others on the dance floor, I said, “My face is up here.”
He pulled me close and, hip to hip, we swayed to the music. He placed his mouth to my ear. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, “I know exactly where all your parts are.”
Which would explain his fascination with my old world cleavage. Cherry red was too bright a color to be ignored. He leaned back, noting it on my face. His eyes dipped down again before he grinned.