Stone Cove Island

by Suzanne Myers

  “Or at least they’ll have some coffee.” I’d been drinking coffee, black, since I was twelve and hanging around my dad’s construction sites. My mom didn’t know about it until much later. Of course she disapproved. My feet were wet. My nerves felt raw. I realized right then I was actually dying for some coffee.

  “That sounds good,” he agreed.

  We turned and headed back up the street to the Picnic Basket. Slowly people were starting to come out to take in the damage. On the steps of the Congregational Church, Mrs. Walker, the minister’s wife, was sweeping uselessly at huge fallen roof tiles and wood fragments from the steeple. Lexy Morgan and her father were bailing water out of his candy and souvenir shop. Charlie and I paused at the surreal lake of floating jawbreakers and Atomic Fireballs and offered to help. Mr. Morgan shook his head, too upset and too focused to talk. Mrs. Hilliard, my history teacher, stood in the middle of the street, staring at her car. It had been flattened under a giant maple tree, and now was an accordion of red metal and spiderwebbed glass. She looked confused, as if she’d just awakened from a dream, as if she weren’t sure what she was looking at was real. I knew the feeling. I couldn’t shake it.

  Nobody even noticed when we entered the Picnic Basket. The stove was unlit, but Greg was toasting bagels in a toaster oven and there was a huge pot of coffee brewing, both plugged into the portable generator. Nancy was at her computer, finding out everything she could about the storm. She called out headlines to the dozen or so people huddled around her.

  “No prediction of how long to restore ferry! Freak softball-sized hail across the border in New Hampshire! Coast guard expects delays of supplies and building materials to island residents in region! Lady Gaga plans Martha’s Vineyard storm victim fund-raiser with Diane Sawyer and Carly Simon.”

  She snickered at that last one. A few others grumbled. Stone Cove Island’s rivalry with Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket goes back a long way. Locals insist our island has a more low-key, discreet reputation, but a lot of people feel jealous of the glitzier image of the other two. When the president vacations in Nantucket, islanders here make a big point of saying how thankful they are for the peace and quiet of Stone Cove.

  “Nancy, what about the power?” called Jim McNeil, the mechanic in town.

  “Thursday at the earliest, they’re saying.”

  That was three days from now. I could see everyone mentally calculating their supplies: water, canned food, batteries, extra blankets. So far the weather had been warm for October, but at this time of year, it could be below freezing tomorrow. I’d heard my mother worrying about that just last night, and wondering if we had enough firewood on hand. Greg looked up from his bagel station and nodded at us.

  “Charlie, Eliza, you okay? Everybody good at home?”

  “We’re fine, Greg. Thanks,” I said.

  “Your dad’s about to be busy, I guess. Lots of work to be done.”

  “Yeah, I guess it looks that way,” I answered.

  Charlie handed me a cup of coffee and gestured to the door. I followed him outside.

  “That’s about the worst way I can think of to find out what’s really going on. Local news sites and gossip magazines. Let’s go over to the Gazette and see if Jay will let us look at their wire service. Even just their Twitter feed would be better info than this.”

  Jay Norsworthy was the editor of our local paper, the Stone Cove Island Gazette—an island fixture. Charlie had interned for Jay at least one summer, and I could tell how happy Jay was to see him the second we walked in the door.

  It was chaos in the tiny office. Jay was racing between his computer and the AP wire printout. His only companion was his black Lab, Sparkler. The Gazette had its own generator, and Jay had gotten their Internet connection half working, but there were no landlines up anywhere on the island. For a dizzying, manic moment, I felt a wave of relief. It was amazing that Jay was still managing to get the paper out on schedule, by himself, despite everything that was going on that morning. Maybe things weren’t as bad as they seemed.

  “Charlie, I could really use your help with the Wi-Fi. It’s been on and off, creeping like a snail when it does work. Maybe you can work your magic.”

  “I can try.” Charlie pulled the latest printout from the wire and handed it to Jay, then passed me his coffee and stooped down to take a look.

  “Jay, is your house okay?” I asked. Jay lived in a cottage near the west bluffs; there was worry about erosion out there even in an ordinary storm.

  “Slept here,” he answered, his eyes still on the computer screen. “I knew I’d have to get the paper out early today once I saw what we were in store for last night. I hope it’s still standing. It might be halfway to Rockport by now though.” He laughed, but I didn’t hear any humor in his voice. Here he was trying to jury-rig his Internet connection to get the town paper out and he didn’t know if he still had a place to live.

  Unconsciously my gaze went to Charlie. We exchanged a look. No one, I realized, really knew how bad things were yet. We would only find out by degree. My relief faded, leaving a dark hole in its place. What if people had died?

  “Was anyone …” I hesitated, then choked out my question. “How soon will we know if anyone is missing?” I wasn’t sure how to put this.

  Jay’s expression was grim. “No one has been reported missing yet, as far as I’ve heard. But everyone’s still taking stock. We should know more this afternoon. The churches are setting up check-in stations with hot food and drinks—the ones with propane stoves that can make hot food, anyway—and there’s an evacuation center at the high school. They said only about fifteen people stayed there last night, but I’ve heard lots more are moving over this morning, the ones that can’t stay in their homes.”

  “Do we know how many?” asked Charlie. He was squinting at the tiny copper pins in the USB ports, his fingers working to reattach the haphazard wiring in the block of drives and modems.

  “Not yet. That’s my next stop.”

  “This thing is flaky,” Charlie complained. “Even on a good day.”

  “Don’t I know it,” muttered Jay.

  Suddenly I felt the full weight of how powerless I was. Sparkler padded up to me, eyeing me as if I might have brought kibble as well as coffee. It seemed crazy that we were inside, reading reports off the wire service about what was happening to us, right now, right outside. I wanted to get back out and do something, anything, so I wouldn’t feel so useless.

  I peered over Charlie’s shoulder at some more papers piled on top of the modem. The text confirmed what Nancy had told us: no power for up to a week, no ferry service for the foreseeable future, possibly until the spring depending on how fast federal emergency money would come in to repair the harbor. Someone would have to work with the coast guard to figure out how we would get food shipped in, garbage shipped out, and how people would get on and off the island. There were many more questions than answers, and all of them needed to be solved before winter set in. I was scared, thinking about how bad things could get once the temperatures really dropped. You couldn’t survive on Stone Cove without heat, gasoline or a way to get food.

  “If there’s no ferry until spring, my dad is going to completely lose his mind,” said Charlie with a grim smile.

  Or starve, I thought.

  He gave up trying to fix the connection and stood, taking his coffee cup back. It was no longer steaming. “Sorry, Jay.”

  “No worries. Your parents have been down here, you know that? It sounds like the inn did okay. They have power, at least.”

  Charlie sighed. “The boiler room was flooded. They are dealing with some unhappy folks.”

  Jay nodded. I could see his newsman’s antenna sussing out a story in this last comment, a piece about those stranded, late-season guests who refused to leave despite dire warnings—island dilettantes now stuck here with the rest of us.

  “I’ll bet. I’ll swing by later and see if I can find some way to help with that. Coast guard is
holding a press conference at eleven to talk about initial transportation plans. That should be on the agenda too.” He looked up at us and I noticed for the first time the dark circles ringing his eyes. “You two go and be with your families. I’ll manage here.”

  TWO

  Charlie walked me home. I couldn’t help thinking that under any other circumstances, that event would have made prime Stone Cove gossip. What is Charlie Pender doing with Eliza Elliot? But today there was no such thing as “bizarre.” Today everything was bizarre. Besides, there was no one around to whisper about or watch us; we were all alone. I kept looking for people. What was everyone doing right now, our friends and neighbors? The ruined streets were eerie and deserted, no signs of life behind the dark windows. I reminded myself there was no power. That my own mom was too afraid to go out. They must be inside, trying to stay warm, figuring out how to face the devastation.

  Our house sat part of the way up the hill, still within the village. From there it was another ten-to-fifteen-minute walk up to the inn. Most guests took advantage of the inn’s loaner bicycles to get back and forth to town, or a couple of golf carts the inn made available.

  “It’s always weird to be back,” said Charlie out of nowhere.

  I almost jumped. “Yeah,” I said.

  “This place is always so its own world. But today …”

  “Today it’s like being on another planet,” I finished. “What’s Jay going to do if his house is gone?”

  Charlie shook his head. I pictured Jay and Sparkler moving into the Gazette offices permanently, making coffee on the hot plate and eating ramen noodles every night.

  “Can we swing by Meredith’s? Do you mind? I just want to make sure she’s okay.”

  I’d said “we” without thinking. But it did feel like we were in this together, tossed into the same hole that we’d now have to crawl our way out of. I suppose you picture getting through a disaster with your closest friends and family, but instead you’re thrown into random situations with people you would never expect. There was no question of making plans.

  “Sure,” said Charlie. He didn’t seem to be in a rush. The problems were too big; you couldn’t go straight at them. Addressing them would mean chipping away over a very long time. It made me itchy though. I wanted to jump in, start, figure out some way to put things back, fix it now.

  I hurried ahead. Meredith would get it. Meredith, my best friend since we were toddlers, lived nearby in one of the Rose Cottages: a tourist-friendly neighborhood of really old, tiny houses—all adorned with roses trellised up the sides and over the roofs. Stone Cove Island is famous for these. People buy mugs and T-shirts decorated with pictures of Meredith’s house. That was usually something we laughed about, but today I didn’t feel like laughing.

  Trees were scattered over her street like Pick-up Sticks. But Meredith’s house had been spared, mostly. The beautiful roses, which normally cascaded over the roof, had been torn away and were sticking up wildly, in a thorny Mohawk. The last blooms, which had lingered in the warm fall weather, were gone and so were all the leaves. The trellis was broken and dangling. It looked like a punk rock skeleton, not a tourist attraction.

  “Phew. I guess they’re okay.” The house was standing, roof and windows intact.

  Charlie trudged up behind me and nodded, his eyes far away.

  When I ran to the door and knocked, nobody answered, but I could see through the taped-up windows that the inside looked relatively undisturbed as well.

  “Maybe they’re out getting provisions?” Charlie suggested.

  “Or helping out at school.” Meredith’s parents taught music and art. Her mom was my favorite teacher. If they were running a storm shelter there, the whole family was likely pitching in. That antsy feeling came back. If I didn’t join them, do something, I’d lose my mind.

  TEN MINUTES LATER, WE stood side by side at the end of my pebble drive. Our house, cottage-sized by anyone’s estimation, looked like a dollhouse under the massive oak.

  “That is a seriously big tree,” said Charlie. “You guys are lucky it only landed on the porch.”

  “I know. I don’t think Salty is ever coming back out of my parents’ closet.” Salty was our ten-year-old schnauzer. He had taken cover at the first cracks of thunder last night and, last I’d checked, was still huddled in the dark with my mom’s shoes.

  My dad appeared from behind the trunk, sweaty under his bundled clothing and holding a chain saw. He waved hello but didn’t come over. I didn’t invite Charlie in.

  “You okay?” Charlie asked quietly. He was looking at me now. It seemed like he could see me sinking into myself. I suppose I stared back. For the first time, I really registered the gold-flecked warmth of his brown eyes. Meredith had always harped on how Charlie had such great eyes.

  “Yeah. I’m fine,” I said, trying to rally. I thought of the time a few years earlier when Salty got lost on the golf course. Charlie had been nice then too, waiting with me on the steps of the inn while my dad walked up and down the links with a flashlight, calling Salty’s name and shaking a bag of treats. Of course Salty eventually trotted out of the brush, covered in burrs and something stinky, acting like nothing had happened.

  “I’ll see you around, okay?” he said. “Stay safe.”

  “You too,” I said. After one more glance at our house, he hurried away. I wasn’t anxious to head inside. Just the thought made me a little claustrophobic. I wondered if my dad would let me try the chain saw. Honestly, it looked kind of fun. I stepped toward him.

  “Forget it,” my dad said, following my eyes and pursing his lips. “Go help your mom dry out stuff inside.”

  I smirked, and to prove I could handle a chain saw, showed off my tree-trunk-climbing technique, landing with a thud near the front door.

  “Nice,” he said. “Next time try going through the back. You’re going to take down the porch completely if the tree doesn’t get it done first.”

  “What? You fixed the door? Maybe I should check your temperature. You’re clearly delirious.”

  “Ha-ha. Hilarious, missy.” He reached for the chain saw cord, then paused. “Wait, tell me about things in town.”

  My smile faded. “It’s bad,” I said. “Ferry’s out for at least a couple of months. Plus, no power and no phone lines, obviously.”

  “Damn. We knew it could happen, but I guess we never believed it.”

  “But we’ll fix it, right?” I knew I sounded like a little girl, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “Of course, kiddo. This island’s seen worse.”

  I wasn’t sure that was true, but it made me feel better to hear him say it.

  Inside, Mom had stripped the wet sheets off my bed and was hanging them to dry in the bathroom. She had rolled up the rugs from the first floor and dragged them to the back door. We had a small generator and a camp stove that ran on Sterno, but the generator was not going to power the clothes dryer. She looked up as I came into the bathroom, her forehead lined with stress, her blonde hair in a mess of a bun. Her lips were pinched in a tight smile that wasn’t fooling anyone, especially me. It was an expression I’d seen often. I tried to picture her at my age. Her hair was pretty and silky, more golden than mine. She was tall and slender, but so much tension and fatigue radiated from her body.

  “Oh, good, Eliza, you can help me. Hold this up while I grab the other side.”

  “Mom, why don’t we hang them outside?”

  “What if it rains? Or if there’s another storm?”

  “There is not going to be another storm like this. Hurricane season is almost over. This stuff’ll never dry in here. It’ll stay damp and the house will stay damp.” I could see the new worry of toxic mold fluttering behind her eyes. She had never been seventeen, I decided. It was impossible to imagine her having one beer too many at a beach party, giggling on a bike ride with friends or daydreaming over a crush, her marriage to my dad notwithstanding. I turned on the sink faucet to wash my hands.

  �
�Don’t touch that!” she yelped. I jumped back and banged my head on the medicine cabinet door, which was open.

  “Why?”

  “It might be contaminated. We don’t know if the water is safe. You’re supposed to boil it—”

  “Mom. I’m just washing my hands. I’m not drinking it. Stop freaking out.” I left the room without helping with the sheets. I felt bad, but I just couldn’t take it. Wasn’t she supposed to be calming me down? I was the kid, not her. She was so exhausting.

  I lay down on my stripped bed. The edge of the mattress felt wet. I stared at the ceiling, the only part of my room that looked unchanged. My rug was gone. My dresser had been dragged to the middle of the floor. The pictures on the wall along the window were ruined. There were brown, rusty stripes running down the walls where the roof had leaked through the ceiling and under the paint. My entire last semester of life drawing had melted into a leaden, gooey, newsprint brick in the corner.

  My mom hadn’t even asked about my trip to town. The whole place could have washed away and she hadn’t given it a second thought. Her self-absorption was insane. I was not going to be like her. I was going to pitch in and do something—in fact, I would organize something. Something big. Our house was fine. We could survive with a little water and having to use the back door. Other people had bigger problems, and I was going to focus on the future of the island, not my mother’s petty neuroses. I got back up and headed out the newly operational back door to climb the hill to the Anchor Inn.

  Before I had time to reach the top of the steps to the inn’s service entrance, Charlie opened the door.

  “Oh, hey,” he said, looking surprised. “What are you doing here?”

  THREE

  Jay at the Gazette came through. On cleanup day, we had twenty-four kids from the high school including me, six from the middle school, a handful of volunteer parents and Officer Bailey, our town sheriff, who offered to organize transportation and garbage removal.