by Kristy Tate
“Does it matter?” Ryan asked, coming up to stand beside her. The sun caught and threw their shadows into the room. Ryan stood only slightly taller, but his shadow was much longer. Dina seemed less imposing beside Ryan.
I watched James to see how he’d respond to Ryan’s heartlessness. He stood by the French doors, his back turned to the room, his eyes on Otter’s Play Yard. Artie stood beside him. She slipped a hand into his and he gave it a brief squeeze.
“Some clients are put off houses where there’s been a death,” Ryan continued. “The death might not bother you, but it may be a consideration for resale.”
“I won’t be reselling.” Dina turned to face him. “I’m buying the property to expand the farm and for the use of the bay.”
“But you are keeping the house?” James asked.
“Not as is,” Dina said. “This will all be shipyard. With this bay I should be able to expand export by seventy percent.”
I sent Dean an urgent look, but he was picking up the shards of broken glass. I tried to read his face. “Really,” he said to James, straightening, broken pieces of glass in his open palm. “I would have thought you’d have cleaned this up.”
“Why?” James asked, stepping away from the French doors. “You’re going to buy it with or without broken glass.”
Dean let go of a long sigh.
“That’s true,” Dina said, “and my price is generous.”
“But,” I interjected, “what about the otters?”
“Others?” Dina turned her gaze on me and I shot Dean another look for backup, but he continued to pick up glass from the carpet. “What others? Potential buyers?”
“Otters,” Dean corrected his sister. The glass shards in the cup of his hand glittered. “She’s worried about the otters.” He smiled at me as if I were a child.
“We at Dina’s Dairy are very environmentally friendly,” Dina said quickly and loudly, her eyes on Ryan. “We hire the best environmental managers. We’re all about resource efficiency and waste minimization.”
It was obvious by the way Dina’s eyes kept flicking to Ryan she didn’t know what environmentalist camp he fell into, and she desperately wanted to know. Although clearly, as she spouted her company’s environmental standards, it became obvious Dina saw herself as a higher life form than the otters, and maybe even the other islanders.
I thought of the people who were dependent on the island’s land and waterways to house, feed and clothe their families and how losing their island would be devastating. The eco-babble discouraged me. Wyeth, who had been left outside, as if sensing my feelings began to howl.
After a look at their faces, Dina’s cool and appraising, Dean’s fussy and scowling, James’ shielded and Artie’s devoted, I excused myself, muttered something about my dog and left the house.
I found Wyeth on the other side of the large oak door. He’d been shut out and forgotten. I gave him an apologetic pat and we left. I followed a trail that ran along the back gate of the property. The Scotch broom crowded around the trail leading up a hill. We climbed until we reached the place where I had left my paints then I sat down on a large rock, breathless. Wyeth collapsed next to my feet with a woof. He looked at me as if to ask, what was that all about? Why chug up this hill?
My paints and easel had been undisturbed. The paint in the palate was still wet, which surprised me. It seemed like I’d left them hours ago and had stopped being an artist a very long time ago. I tucked my things into the case and folded the easel.
I couldn’t put my finger on the reasons for my frustration and finally pointed at all of them: Dean running his finger along the dusty dining room table, Dina yammering eco-responsibility, Artie, standing as close to James as possible, and James selling a house he obviously wanted to keep. But I knew I was also frustrated with myself. Why was I considering buying an old house on an island? Wait, I couldn’t buy this house, could I? I had come to paint, why wasn’t that happening?
From the hilltop I saw small islands floating in the blue-gray sea. A myth claims there are 172 islands, but the maps disagree. One naturalist meticulously counted and found about eighty, ‘give or take a few rocks.’ Most of the islands were at one time heavily treed, but few were populated.
Friday Harbor, the largest island community, had been settled by a homesick Australian who had brought with him a pair of rabbits. Because the island lacked any natural predator, the island had been completely overrun with bunnies. This is what happened when something as harmless as a bunny, or as appealing as an organic dairy farm with a buttercup logo, was allowed free reign over an island. Soon it was a bunny bonanza or a Dina Dairy kingdom.
I tucked the easel under my arm and followed the path into the woods. It felt good to walk. We wandered through a grove of Quaking Aspens and man-size ferns. I came across a rare blue and white lily growing near the base of a fir tree, poking its slender, fragile stem through a bed of needles. My father had once told me the lily grew only every seven years, like asparagus. The faith of an asparagus farmer amazed me. Who could ever know, or be assured they’d be there to harvest a plant in seven years? Maybe they planted in faith in either their own steadfastness, or in the belief that if they didn’t harvest, someone else would.
Wyeth pushed past me, his nose to the dirt, chasing a scent. His tail wagged like a whip, and with one sure blow the fragile stem of the lily doubled over, seven years of growth felled by a poodle mix tail. I sighed and pushed further down the trail.
I found myself standing in a small circle of sunlight and I forgot about the lily demise. A tiny house, complete with a four-foot-high door and gingerbread trim sat in a meadow of buttercups. The pink paint had faded, the white picket fence had weathered gray, and a fine green mold covered the cement front step. The door swung crooked on its hinges and squealed when I pushed it open.
“It’s a day for trespassing,” I told Wyeth. But this house was much smaller than my last break-in. The ten-by-ten room had a pitched ceiling and I could only stand up right in the middle of the room. A table and two chairs sat in one corner and a double sized bed occupied the other. A fireplace with a brick chimney ran up the back wall.
Rather elaborate for a child’s playhouse, which it undoubtedly was. It had to belong to the Dunsmuirs, even though it was a hike from the house. They didn’t have any close neighbors.
A window sat above the door. It let in a stream of light but was so high I couldn’t see out of it. Curious, I set down my paints and easel on the table and pulled a chair over and stood on it to see out the window. I found a spyglass, an ancient looking flashlight, and a thick layer of dusty cob webs on the sill.
The brass, collapsible spyglass had a cracked leather grip. When I picked it up, I disturbed the web and a fat, black spider. The spider waddled away and I wiped the glass clean with my painting rag. The glass was solid and heavy in my hand. I lifted it to my eye to see a perfect view of the Dunsmuir house, the bay, and the yacht. There was Dina, Dean, Ryan, Artie on the lawn, but no James.
I returned the spyglass and jumped off the chair. A loose board squeaked when I landed on the floor. I stamped hard and heard an echo.
When I was a kid, I became obsessed with finding my mother. I decided my grandmother had for some reason kept her identity hidden from me. At every opportunity, I’d scour the house looking for clues. I’d gone so far as to hoard my father’s photos and hide them under a loose floor board in my bedroom. I learned then my questions almost invariably lead to more questions.
I rolled up the rug and the floorboards lifted easily enough, but instead of a trapped space filled with someone’s private papers, I found a hole. I climbed back on the chair to the retrieve the flash light, but it didn’t work. I went to the fireplace mantle in search of matches. A basket of newspapers and kindling sat on the hearth. A yellowed George Bush senior smiled at me from a crumbly, aged 1977 Seattle Times. I picked up the paper and scanned an article about the CIA. It must have been years since anyone had built a fire in t
he fireplace or had stayed in the house. A small silver tin hid behind a set of fireplace tools. A small teepee of matches stood inside the tin. I raised my find in triumph. Wyeth, maybe thinking I was going to throw the tin, set down his ball. The ball rolled across the floor and Wyeth scrambled after it.
“Wyeth, no!” I yelled. He dove into the hole and darkness completely swallowed him. Fudge. The hole was a good deal more than dog deep. “Wyeth!” I called.
He yelped in reply. He didn’t sound so far away. I went outside, retrieved a small rock and dropped it down. It landed with a small, distant thud. Wyeth whined. Stupid, stupid dog.
The hole angled sharply to the left then seemed to drop off. I couldn’t go down until I knew for certain I could climb back up. Wyeth began a series of sharp barks. If he couldn’t climb out, I probably wouldn’t be able to either.
I went outside again and found a stick. Then I went to the bed, pulled back the quilt and stripped off the sheet. A bundle of letters tied in a ribbon fell on the floor. I turned over the mottled yellowed envelopes. They must have been tucked between the mattress and box springs for a very long time. The ribbon separated into strings when I pulled on it. Unknotted, I saw the ribbon had once been pink, and still was where it had been tied.
I shook a letter out of the first brittle envelope addressed to Nelly Burr. I ran my finger over the archaic French stamp. The letter, dated April 12, 1943, read:
Darling Nelly,
I can’t tell you where I am, or where I’ve been, but it’s been hell without you. Any place would be. The damp soaks through my clothes, boots, bed clothes and when I can’t ever imagine being warm again, I think of you and how you looked that first night on the dance floor, your skirt spinning, your face flushed pink, your smiling lips. Thinking of your lips, imagining them pressed against mine and I’m warm again. Alive again. You give me a reason to sink lower into the muddy fox hole, keep my head down, and the trigger firing. Yours, Henry
Wyeth barked. I shushed him, disappointed he’d broken the spell of the bygone era and love letter. I selected another envelope.
Dear Nelly,
In the balmy nights the fellows and I swim. The water here is warmer than the Sound, but the waves are just as gentle and I float in the moonlight and remember the night we took the raft to Althea’s Rock. Remember the cave? It’s all I can think about. I replay that night over and over.
Wyeth began to bark wildly. “Wyeth! Stop!” He didn’t stop. I took a final look at Henry’s letters, before returning them to their envelopes and retying the fraying ribbon. It felt wrong to read the letters, like I’d invaded something private and rare, and yet, even more wrong to return them to hiding. I wanted to keep them. I wanted to read more from Henry and I wanted to read Nelly’s replies. I hoped she loved him as much as he loved her. Henry was probably Henry Dunsmuir, but who was Nelly? Henry had married Helen. They were married for sixty years before Henry’s fatal heart attack. Who had hidden the letters? Henry? If they’d been sent to Nelly, how had they come back to him?
I tried to reconcile my previous conception of the Henry who collected gruesome art to the Henry who wrote love letters. Why had he married Helen if he loved Nelly? Maybe Nelly married before he returned from the war, or maybe she’d died.
Wyeth lost his patience. I tucked the letters under the mattress. Using my teeth, I tore a corner of the bed sheet into small strips. Winding the strips around the end of the stick I fashioned a crude torch. I doused it with my linseed oil then lit it with a match, pleased my art supplies had finally served a purpose. I lowered myself to my belly and leaned down into the hole with my torch. A strong draft smelling of the Sound blew out my light.
The hole wasn’t a hole, but a tunnel. Supposedly, many of the islands were riddled with tunnels, caves, and bolt holes for piracy. In the early days of the Pacific Northwest people often escaped the law by ‘catching the night boat to Victoria.’ The tunnel had probably been used for smuggling people or cargo. I tucked the tin of matches into my pocket and slid down the hole, figuring that if Wyeth could fit, then so could I.
Chapter Eight
I found it difficult to keep my footing in the slippery, dark tunnel and eventually slid past Wyeth. He watched me skate by, barked, then followed.
Eventually, my eyes adjusted to the gloom. The tunnel appeared to be about six feet high and endless. Tree roots and rocks jutted out of the walls and ground. I tried grabbing at a few dangling roots to slow my speed but I only succeeded in snagging my shirt, ripping off a few buttons and pulling my hair. A sandal broke free and dirt jammed between my toes.
The smell of the Sound grew stronger. The dark turned a mossy green and I stumbled toward a curtain of bright foliage. The smugglers that used this tunnel must have been small, acrobatic, and sure footed. The ground beneath my feet disappeared and I landed with a thud on my hands and knees in a small pool of water on the beach.
Moments later, Wyeth jumped out, barely clearing my head. Standing a few feet from me he shook violently, spraying me with mud. Looking around, I didn’t recognize where I was mostly because I couldn’t see.
I’d lost my glasses.
Wyeth whined and rubbed himself against my side. I floundered in the water, attempting to feel my way to my glasses. I found something hard and round—Wyeth’s ball. I knelt in the water and picked it up and threw it has hard and as far as I could. It sailed over the headland and Wyeth gave chase.
From somewhere above me I heard someone say, “This is a new look for you.”
Before I clutched my shirt closed I had a brief, foggy look at the white lace of Cleo’s Closet bra and a smear of mud across my chest. I turned toward the voice. High on a bank above me stood a man. I couldn’t see his features, but I recognized his voice.
“Why is it that I always seem to find myself at your feet?” I hoped my voice didn’t shake. Slowly, mindful of my foot, I stood.
Ryan didn’t reply for a moment, but climbed the bank three large strides without once slipping. Within seconds he stood beside me and I could feel more than see his careful observation. “Are you hurt?” he asked. His white shirt was so clean it almost glowed in the sun. He seemed to be everything I was not—shoed, dressed, and neatly combed.
I waded out of the water, my mid-calf pants skimming the top of the pond.
“What happened to you?” Ryan leaned forward to pick a twig out of my hair. I smelled his cologne and wondered about my own smell. Sandy water ran down my dirty legs creating small streaks. I fought the urge to brush off my pants and kept a tight grip on my torn blouse.
“I fell,” I stated the obvious. I cleared my throat and tried to change the subject. “Where are the others?”
“Otters or others?” Although I couldn’t see him clearly, I heard the smile in his voice.
“I don’t think that’s funny,” I said. “If they put a ship yard here the otters will leave.”
“They’ll find another island. There are plenty to choose from.” He picked another twig from my hair.
I moved away, deeper into my small pool of water so that he couldn’t touch me. “But this is their home.” I thought of not only the otters, but the islanders too.
“Does Hailey have an otter opinion?” he asked, reaching out a hand to pull me out of the pool.
“She has an opinion on everything,” I muttered, not taking his hand, but stepping out on my own. I winced when my cut foot landed on a small shell.
“What would she say about being lost on a beach without glasses?” he asked, following me.
I hobbled over to large piece of driftwood and sat down on it. I tried to inspect my cut foot but without my glasses I couldn’t see anything. “Hailey is never lost. She always knows precisely where she is and what to do.”
“Sounds boring.” He stood above me, his shadow blocking out the sun.
“Sometimes,” I said, then I caught myself and added, “I would imagine. You didn’t say where the others are.”
He jerked his hea
d to the right. “They’re back at the house drawing up the contract.”
I held my foot in my hand. It wasn’t bleeding and to my blurry eyes, the cut was indiscernible. “Isn’t that your job?”
“It’s also my job to inspect the property.” He sat down beside me on the driftwood. “And apparently it’s my job to pick you up when you fall.”
“I’m fine,” I said stiffly.
“Really?” he asked. “Then how will you get back? I bet you can’t even see your feet. You could at least let me help you find your glasses.”
I didn’t want to revisit the tunnel. For some inexplicable reason, I didn’t want to share it with him and I especially didn’t want him to find the playhouse or the letters. “I have another pair at the cottage.”
“The where?” He sat too close. The driftwood curved up so that he sat six inches higher, making me feel insignificant beside him.
“I’m staying at the groundskeeper’s cottage,” I said, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to find it without help. I needed him and that bothered me.
Wyeth charged toward us, ball in mouth and tail wagging. He took the bank with minimal sliding, and after only a cursory glance, decided Ryan was ball throwing worthy. He dropped his ball at Ryan’s feet, sat on his haunches and gave Ryan a pleading look.
“What is that?” Ryan asked. Wyeth leaned toward Ryan and put his big nose in Ryan’s pants pocket. Ryan fondled Wyeth’s ears.
“That is Wyeth, and he has brought you his ball. For some reason he likes you.”
Ryan tickled Wyeth’s neck. Wyeth closed his eyes in pleasure, arching his head back, I expected to him howl in ecstasy.
“Is that so remarkable?” Ryan asked.