Cape Grace

by Nathan Lowell

  The woman blinked owlishly a couple of times, her eyes squinting and then opening as trying to focus on his face. “Likely story,” she said.

  “Jenny! Jenny O’Toole!” A young woman wearing jeans, a flowered blouse under a -windbreaker, and a wide-brimmed hat came around the front of the flitter.

  “What?” The woman’s voice cracked like a whip, echoing back from the surrounding buildings.

  “Ease up, Jenny. You’re makin’ a fool of yourself and us as well.”

  “Me?” she asked. “This idiot parked on my lawn. Look at what he’s doin’ to the grass.” She pointed to where the starboard skid had sunk into the soft soil.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t know,” Jimmy said, looking back and forth between the two. “I’d be glad to move it if you’d tell me where it should go.”

  “I told ya to stick it—”

  “Jenny.” The younger woman cut her off. “Guests. Be nice.” She elbowed her way between Jenny and Jimmy, turning to face him. “Sorry, Mr. Pirano, is it?” She held up a hand for him to shake, having to angle her arm awkwardly in the confined space.

  Jimmy became uncomfortably aware of just how close she stood when she turned her face to look up at him, her sea-green eyes flashing in the morning light. “Uh. Yeah. Jimmy Pirano. Call me Jimmy.”

  “If you could have your pilot move to the pier?” she nodded at the single finger of stone thrust into the tiny harbor.

  Jimmy leaned into the vehicle. “Can you land on that, Eddie?”

  Eddie nodded. “Long as nobody needs to use it while we’re here.”

  “Boats won’t be comin’ back before midafternoon,” the young woman said. “It’ll be fine.”

  “I need you all to step back,” Eddie said, starting to flip switches.

  “Of course,” she said. “Come along, Jenny. Let’s get out of the nice pilot’s way so he can get his flitter off your lawn.” She took the older woman by the arm and started walking her back the way she’d come.

  “You gonna be all right, boss?” Eddie had an uncertain grin on his face, looking back and forth between the women and Jimmy.

  “Should be. You sure you can land on that pier?”

  “It’s concrete and stone. Should be solid enough. Won’t be much room to maneuver around me once it’s down.”

  “I’ll try to keep it short,” Jimmy said.

  Eddie cast a knowing look at the women. “Take your time.”

  Jimmy slammed the door and followed the women off the lawn as the flitter’s lifters spun up. Eventually, it rose, trailing bits of grass and dirt from the skids as it climbed.

  “You see that?” Jenny asked. “That’s damages. Who’s gonna fix that? Huh?” She turned on Jimmy, punching a stiff finger into his chest. “You? Office man? You gonna fix my lawn?”

  The young woman stepped between them again, facing Jenny this time and collecting the old woman’s hands in her own, holding them like fragile birds instead of vicious claws. “Jenny. Look at me.” She moved her body so she stood between Jenny and the lawn. “Look at me, Jenny. Come on. Look at me.”

  Jenny looked into the woman’s face. “What?” She sounded like a petulant child.

  “This man didn’t know. A little dirt and a little time, you won’t know it happened. Grass knows how to grow. You don’t need to fret.”

  “But he had no right.” Jenny’s voice seemed small and frail. “That’s my lawn and he just landed on it.”

  “I know, Jenny, but it’ll be fine.”

  Jenny glared at Jimmy over the woman’s shoulder.

  “Jenny,” she said. “Look at me.”

  Jenny sighed and nodded, the tension in her body seeming to fall away like some heavy coat. “If you say so.”

  “Have I ever lied to you?” she asked.

  Jenny shook her head. “Not that I ever caught you at.”

  “Have you looked in on Florence this morning? You know she was feeling poorly last night.”

  Jenny blinked and straightened up. “No. No, I haven’t. I should do that.”

  The young woman released Jenny’s hands and patted her on the shoulder. “Yes. Maybe take her some of those date cookies. She likes those.”

  Jenny nodded several times, slowly at first but picking up steam. “Oh, good idea.” With a final glare at Jimmy, she turned and strode off between the buildings.

  The young woman blew out a breath and turned back to Jimmy. “Sorry about that. She’s a dear but that grass? It’s a fixation.”

  “I didn’t know,” Jimmy said.

  “No way you could,” she said. “Let’s start again.” She held out a hand. “Good morning, Mr. Pirano. I’m Maisie McIlheny.”

  Jimmy took the woman’s hand and lost himself in her eyes for a moment. “Oh,” he said. “Hello. I’m here to see you.”

  She smiled. “I thought perhaps. It’s about the grievance, isn’t it?”

  Jimmy released her hand, suddenly aware that he still held it. “Yes. It is.”

  “Let’s go get some tea,” she said. “Does your pilot need anything?”

  “He could probably use a chance to stretch his legs.”

  “Of course. Tea and pee.” She grinned at him. “Come on, then. Let’s get him settled, and then we can talk.”

  * * *

  Maisie settled on the front porch with a pot of tea, a plate of cookies, and a view of the harbor beyond the simple rail. She waved Jimmy into the chair across from her. “Please. Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Pirano.”

  “It’s Jimmy,” he said, taking a seat and feeling large and awkward.

  “Jimmy,” she repeated, offering him a cup and saucer. “Do you take anything in your tea?”

  “No,” he said.

  “You’re more a coffee man, I think,” Maisie said.

  He shrugged. “It’s fine. I drink both.”

  “So why did you fly all the way to the bustling metropolis of Potter’s Landing?” she asked.

  He tried to focus but found her distracting. He took a sip of tea to buy some time. “I wanted to know why,” he said.

  “Why? Why what?”

  “Why the grievance.”

  She laughed. “Because only squeaky wheels get greased.”

  “But why? You’re the harbormaster here. You have a job. A position. You’re not going to be deported.”

  “Because it’s wrong,” she said. She picked a cookie off the plate and nibbled the edge of it.

  Jimmy watched her teeth bite and her tongue catch the crumbs. “Wrong?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Surely you see it.”

  He took a breath and stared out to sea. “The rule.”

  “Yes,” she said. “What else? The rule is wrong.”

  “Are you a shaman, Ms. McIlheny?” he asked, glancing at her from the corners of his eyes.

  “Me?” Her laugh chimed in the morning air. “Yes. Possibly. Are you? I think you must be.”

  He almost choked on his tea and stared at her. “What?”

  She shrugged. “What’s a shaman? Do we even know? Does the company have a definition beyond that stupid tag line?”

  He shook his head.

  “Of course not. Shamans have a calling. They serve the people.” She looked out at the ocean. “The planet. They call it the gift. Did you know that?” She didn’t look at him.

  He couldn’t look away from her. “Yes,” he said.

  “They carve whelkies. They listen to the world.”

  “Yes,” he said again.

  She turned her gaze to him, eyes gleaming—almost laughing. “So tell me. Do you listen to the world, Jimmy?”

  He felt the hairs on his neck rise. “No,” he said.

  She grinned. “I think you do. You must.”

  Jimmy swallowed and took refuge in his tea, inexplicably flustered by the conversation.

  “You were a fisherman once.”

  He nodded. “Started out as a deckhand like everybody else.”

  She sipped her tea. �
��Your idea?”

  “The Ole Man’s,” he said. “If you’re gonna ask people to do the work, you better understand the work you’re asking them to do.”

  “You took that to heart,” she said.

  He freed himself from her gaze by staring out to sea, remembering the days of twine and fuel, of fish and food. “I did. There’s a sense to it.”

  “That didn’t prepare you to run a planet-wide fishing operation though, did it?” she asked.

  “I worked up. Got my skipper’s ticket. Took a crew out for a few seasons. Moved back ashore and ran the processing plant at Aram’s Inlet for a while.”

  “When did you take over the company?”

  “When the Ole Man went to home office.” He didn’t want to say how long ago that was, suddenly aware of the difference in their ages. His mouth went dry at the realization. The tea didn’t help.

  “What was the biggest challenge? Giving up the sea?”

  He shook his head. “I never gave up the sea. I just didn’t fish it.”

  “What then?” she asked.

  He sighed and thought back. “Probably the divorce.”

  “You were married?”

  “At one time, yeah. Didn’t work out.” He took a sip and shrugged. “We’re still friends. Just couldn’t be married.”

  “Did you love her?”

  He looked at her. “In a way I suppose.” He shook his head. “What about you? Ever married?”

  “I would have thought you’d have looked up my record before flying out here.”

  “I did,” he said.

  “What did it say?”

  “Born here. Raised here. High academic marks. Worked the deck on your father’s boat. Worked the chandlery winters. When your father came ashore, you came with him. Took over the harbormaster from him when he retired.”

  “Seemed the place I could do the most good,” she said.

  “You like the job?”

  She shrugged and looked out to sea. “It’s necessary. We’re too small to rate a local rep. The district guy checks in every week to find out how things are going. I keep the landings numbers and we reconcile them with what gets processed at Mulligan’s Cove.”

  “Eight boats here?” he asked.

  “Just put in a requisition for two more,” she said. “We’ve got the crews already. Jamie’s ready for a boat of his own. Cynthia, too.” She looked at him with a grin. “Locals.”

  “Got the capacity to cover two more?”

  She pursed her lips and looked back to sea. “Grounds are solid all season. There’s almost no drop-off as the season progresses. We could probably handle four or five more boats without degrading the fishery.”

  Jimmy nodded. “So you’re basically doing the rep’s job without the title.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “So why the grievance?”

  She looked back at him. “I told you. It’s unfair. The rule needs to change. I didn’t ask to be a girl. It’s unconscionable that I can’t be a shaman.”

  “You’re going to lose.”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  “But you’re going through with it.”

  She grinned. “Of course.”

  “What if they remove the exemption?” he asked.

  The smile faded. “Well, at least it will be fair.”

  “So if everybody can’t be, it’s fair if nobody is?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Of course,” she said again. “It’ll cost the company more to remove the exemption than to expand it, but that’s not my concern.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Her grin came back. “You know the answer to that one already.”

  “I have an idea,” he said. “I’m interested in what you think.”

  “Social workers. The company doesn’t have any. CPJCT regs say you need them.”

  “You know that?” he asked.

  “It’s obvious,” she said. “I may be the harbormaster in an eight-boat town halfway to no place special, but I can read. The net comes here just like it does at the Inlet.”

  “You know how many shamans there are?” he asked.

  “No. We don’t have one here. I know a lot of places don’t but there are a lot of places that do.”

  “You know Monty Montgomery over at Troy Harbor?”

  Her brow furrowed and she wrinkled her nose before shaking her head. “Not that I recall. Why? He a shaman?”

  “Yeah. He’s a shaman.”

  Her eyes widened. “You think he put me up to this?”

  Jimmy shook his head. “No. Just wondered how big a net you fished.”

  “I fish in my own harbor, Mr. Pirano, but the planet is my world, too.”

  He examined her face and wondered what it would be like to wake up to. The thought rattled him so much he put his teacup down on the table before he dropped it. He stood and held out a hand. “Thank you for your time, Ms. McIlheny.”

  “Maisie,” she said, rising to shake his hand. “And any time. Jimmy.”

  He nodded, turned away, and felt the heat rise in the back of his neck. The harbormaster’s porch was only a few steps from the waiting flitter on the pier. It felt like a mile. Sure she was watching him leave, he couldn’t seem to figure out how to walk right. His arms and legs felt like somebody else’s limbs. It took him two tries to get the flitter’s hatch open so he could climb in. “Let’s go, Eddie.”

  Eddie glanced at him and then back at the porch where Maisie McIlheny stood shading her eyes with a hand. “Roger that.” He got the flitter airborne and set the course for the Inlet before asking, “You all right, boss?”

  Jimmy stared out the window at the coastline streaming past below. “Yeah. Of course. Why?”

  “No reason,” Eddie said. “Just checking.”

  Jimmy looked at him. “Something wrong?”

  Eddie set his jaw and shook his head. “Nope. You just bailed out of that meeting like your pants were on fire and your hair was catching.” He glanced at Jimmy. “She say something?”

  “No,” Jimmy said, turning to look back at the coast. “Nothing like that.”

  “All right, then,” Eddie said.

  Jimmy nodded. “All right, then.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Cape Grace: May 29, 2345

  OTTO KRUGG STOOD BY the door and waited for his gangly colt to prepare to embark. She capered about the cottage, finding hat and coat, losing gloves and bag, and generally doing the same awkward dance she’d done every morning for her entire life.

  “You could be more organized,” Otto said, a smile warming his heart.

  The young woman stopped and stared at him, her eyes wide in shock. “Could I?”

  Otto shook his head. “Maybe not.”

  Finally she presented herself to him—gloves on, coat mostly buttoned, a scarf wrapped around her neck, and a knit cap pulled down over her ears.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Ready, Papa.”

  “You forgot your bag.”

  A look of horror washed over her and she dug under the battered kitchen table, pulling out a shoulder bag and draping it across her slight frame. “Now I’m ready.”

  Otto grinned and held the door for her before following her out into the crisp spring morning. They paused for a moment outside their stony cottage. The town crouched across the bay from them, apparently returning to slumber now that the heavy work boats had left harbor on their morning pilgrimage. Later in the day the local waterfolk would pull their few crab pots and take care of the onshore work. For now, flags of smoke or steam flew from the chimneys and little else moved.

  “Why do we live over here, Papa?” Sarah asked.

  “You ask me that about once a week,” he said, his heart warmed by the look of her even as he worried about the woman she might become.

  “Surely not more than once a month,” she said, grinning up at him.

  “All right. Once a month. The answer’s still the same.” He struck off
down the path, worn almost bare by their regular perambulations. “It’s near the beach.”

  They hiked along in silence, only the creaking of the gulls overhead and the whoosh of the breakers against the stony headland to keep them company.

  “And Mother loved it here,” Sarah said as they crested the promontory and started down the far slope toward Five Mile Beach.

  Otto stopped at the top of the trail and blinked back the emotion. The chilly breeze made his eyes water as he stared out over her head to the long, arc of beach beyond. “Yes,” he said, his voice a gull-like croak. “Yes, she did.”

  Sarah stopped halfway down the trail and turned to look back at him, one hand on her head as if the wind might snatch the cap from it. “Come on, Papa. Tide’s turned against us already.”

  “I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” he said, her innocence teasing a warmth into the chill breeze in his heart.

  She grinned and turned back to scamper down the remaining length of trail. She stamped onto the loose sand at the foot, her head already turning back and forth as she scanned the wrack for likely bits of driftwood or shell.

  They strolled along without talking, moving up the beach in a meandering path. Every so often one or the other would stoop and pick up a bit of wood and hold it up to the sun’s light. Once in a while, they’d slip the piece into the gather bags but more often than not, they’d simply toss the stick aside.

  After about a mile, they paused and rested in the lee of a pair of gray boulders that had fallen from the bluff above. Sarah grinned and poked about behind the stones, exploring the shadowed recesses.

  “What do you think you’d like to do when you grow up, Sarah?”

  “You ask me that about once a week,” she said, grinning over her shoulder. “Answer’s still the same.”

  “What? You still want to be a shaman?”

  She drew in a breath and blew it out as a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, I know, Papa. The son of the shaman is a shaman. That’s the rule and I’m not your son. It’s a stupid rule. Why do boys have all the luck?”

  “It’s not exactly lucky,” Otto said, letting his gaze dance across the waves as they raced toward the beach.

  “You know what I mean.” Exasperation tinged her voice.

  Otto pondered that idea. He knew what she meant. It seemed an arbitrary and overly restrictive rule.