Ferry to Cooperation Island

by Carol Newman Cronin

  Mavis

  “WHAT’S THAT NOISE?” Lila McKay asked, half-rising from her lawn chair. “Sounds like a—”

  “Tractor.” Mavis pointed toward Parker’s barn, a sharp metallic outline against darkening eastern sky. The engine’s roar carried easily across the field, right up to the edge of the woods, where she and the schoolteacher sat side by side.

  Parker had asked once if Ms. McKay—Lila—was part-Indian, the whites’ easy explanation for the woman’s quick-tanning skin and half-gray braid. At first Mavis assumed that’s why she’d been paired up with this stranger for the sit-in, but Lila had a different answer. “Six to ten p.m. was the only shift that worked,” she’d explained, the first evening they settled in to guard the trees. “I write in the mornings. Historical society from one to five. After midnight, I’m worthless. Anyway, I didn’t much like the idea of standing a day watch all by myself at one end of the forest. This is so much chummier—we get to watch sunset together!”

  From here you couldn’t see the sun actually drop over the edge of the world like you could from West Harbor; thick trees blocked the view. But Lila still oohed and aahed at each color change in both ocean and sky, freeing Mavis to admire the quirky outline of the Inn as it darkened to silhouette.

  Had Joe opened his eyes long enough tonight to watch their harbor turn from orange to red to purple? He didn’t have many sunsets left.

  The tractor’s engine revved unevenly. Gumbo let out a low growl, ears twisting forward, but he didn’t move from his spot between their two chairs. Mavis reached down to grab his collar, just in case he took off down the dividing path—or right through the forest pressing in on either side of their tiny campsite. In front of them was a log that made a fine footrest, but it wouldn’t slow down a big machine.

  “Think they’d bring that thing out at night?” Lila asked. “If so, we should call James right now.”

  James was exhausted. He shouldn’t be bothered unless absolutely necessary.

  The motor noise steadied, but Gumbo growled again. Lila’s hand crept out to rest on top of Mavis’s, so they held onto the dog’s collar together.

  Then: quiet.

  “Thank goodness!” Lila blew out a huge breath that carried a faint whiff of peppermint. “I was feeling quite small, all of a sudden.” She glanced over at Mavis. “You’re so brave. And Gumbo—what a good guard dog!” She rubbed the sheepdog’s head, and he turned to give her hand a lick before dropping his head back down to his paws.

  “I know you mostly keep quiet, Mavis, and that’s fine by me,” Lila said, at a much lower volume. “I probably talk way too much, especially when I’m nervous like now. But I would like to learn more about you. I’ve always admired your brother Joe. . .

  “So, um—maybe I could ask questions? If I get too personal, just don’t answer. That be all right?”

  After the menacing tractor, Lila’s curiosity was a comfort—and maybe her husky voice would keep Mavis from nodding off like she had last night.

  “Okay, then. Um—let’s see. You moved ashore right before I came to Brenton. Twelve years ago, now. . . hard to believe. College?”

  Mavis shook her head.

  “You must’ve studied somewhere, to become such a good midwife.”

  “Narragansetts.”

  “Of course—you learned from your people. Much more logical, with something as timeless as midwifery.” She pronounced it the same way Mavis’s aunt did: “midwiffery.”

  “So after a few years ashore, learning a trade, you came back home again. Didn’t you—”

  “Ten.”

  “Ten years ashore? Oh! You must’ve liked living with your tribe, then. I understand there’s a strong church, and—”

  “Married. Mistake.” Her left hand lifted to her jaw, which still ached right before a good rainstorm.

  Lila sighed. “Men can be such brutes.”

  A puff of evening breeze rattled the nearby leaves and wafted across Mavis’s face, blowing away the worst memories. She dropped her hand.

  “Good thing you came home then,” Lila said. “Such a hard worker! Parker told me you clean more rooms in an hour than most girls get done in a day. The Irreverend always has clean shirts; that’s you too. And now you’re taking care of Joe, which must be a full-time job all on its own. Where do you find time for everything?”

  “No life.”

  A peal of laughter. “That’s hardly true! You just center your life on helping other—”

  “What writing?”

  “Ah, time to talk about me then. Well, most people would probably laugh. . .” Lila’s volume dropped to a murmur. “I’m writing a book about these two great trees we’re guarding. Crazy right? Don’t worry, I’m not expecting a bestseller—it’s more for myself, to learn about their significance and how they came to be planted. I’m just so hungry to learn more about this island’s unique history.”

  Mavis dropped her head back as far as it would go, admiring sunset’s glow on the Douglas Fir’s dancing needles. The bottom limbs, barely within reach even now that she was full-grown, had stretched out across the path toward the oak—two such different trees, standing tall together, like brothers.

  “When I first took over as schoolteacher,” Lila explained, “I had no idea that your tribal population was bigger than the whites until recently, or that the school itself was originally created to bring everyone together. So I didn’t understand why all the white kids sat on one side of the classroom, and all the Narragansetts sat on the other. About six months after I arrived, the Sawyers and the Thomases and your cousin Christina’s family all moved ashore. White kids didn’t change seats—like the other side of that line on the floor had cooties or something!”

  Mavis giggled. Cooties! Brought her right back to that chalk-dusty classroom.

  “I tried giving them assigned seats. But chairs mysteriously moved, or broke, or disappeared altogether. Desks on that side of the room suddenly didn’t open. I almost left,” Lila admitted. “It was just too overwhelming—this stupid division, right down the middle of such a small island.

  “Finally, Mayor Frank suggested I talk to Captain James’s mother. Once she filled me in, it all made sense—”

  “No sense,” Mavis said.

  “You’re right—kids shouldn’t be carrying the bad blood of past generations into a classroom. But they do. And James’s mother also told me about these two spectacular trees, each planted on the “wrong” side of this path dividing the two cultures, by your father and her husband—Captain James’s father. How their sons became best friends.” She smiled. “I started coming out here at lunchtime, which is how I met Willie, so in a way these trees introduced us.”

  She turned to face Mavis. “When your brother Joe made his first donation to the school fund, I asked him to tell me what he remembered.” Lila shook her head. “Wasn’t much—history in the making doesn’t register, unless parents make a super big deal about it. That’s why I decided to write it all down.” She pressed the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger. “Seemed like such a simple thing to do. I’ve done a lot of research, trying to get the details right. . .”

  “Publish?”

  “Maybe. . . someday. Rate I’m going, it won’t be finished until after I retire.”

  “Great story.”

  “Yes it is. Oh, I’m so glad we’re doing this sit-in together!”

  The air was cooling off, so Mavis pulled a fleece jacket around her shoulders and looked up into the trees again. A small but distinct flash caught her eye—the very top of the oak tree had caught the last of the sun’s rays, as if her brother was winking at her. You’re all right, Mavis.

  “Talked to Joe?” Mavis asked.

  “I’d love to talk to him!” Lila turned to face her. “Oh—you mean, did I ever talk to him about the book? No. I wanted to interview him, maybe even do an oral history, but I was too scared. Some random white woman from ashore, writing about his sacred tree. . .”

  “He’
s not like that.”

  “I realize that now. But James told me last week that Joe’s no longer up to visitors—too bad. All that knowledge, lost. . .”

  “Papers.”

  “Joe has papers?” Lila leaned forward, knuckles pressing white into the weathered wood arms. “He kept records, then?”

  “Of everything.” Mavis chuckled. “How much for chewing gum.”

  “Really? That’s so funny! I used to write that down too. . .”

  “Once he’s gone, you get his tree notes,” Mavis promised. Pierce would be mad, which made it even better.

  “Wow, Mavis! That would be incredible. Thank—”

  Just behind them, a twig snapped.

  “What was that?” Lila whispered.

  Gumbo, no! Mavis reached for his collar, but he’d already sprinted away down the path, toward the Inn. She pressed her hands into the chair’s wobbly arms to go after him, but a calloused hand clamped over her mouth—pushing her back down and firing up the pain in her jaw. Lila’s scream was cut off quite suddenly, so the man must’ve covered her mouth as well, with his left hand. Mavis could feel the heat of another body through the canvas chair—he must be crouched right between them.

  “Want to see that dog again, neither of you move.” His breath reeked of rum.

  Terror locked her limbs, sending her heart rate thumping into overdrive. Just like Ronnie’s attacks, this one had come from behind.

  “Not gonna run on me, are you?”

  Gripping the two arms of the low chair, Mavis shook her head. Don’t try to match his force, she reminded herself; appease him, flatter him. She was good at that—at least, she used to be.

  His calloused palm eased away from her lips and he came around to face them. Sat down on the big stump. He wore a black ski mask— she almost laughed at the cliché of it all, a city convenience-store holdup here on the island. Then she spotted the rope he carried, which was knotted at one end. Imagined the weight of it, swinging into the side of her face. . .

  It wasn’t Ronnie; this man’s hands were too dense and too rough, had handled too many tools. She swallowed, trying to summon some saliva.

  “I know you,” he told Mavis, before his dark eyes jumped to Lila. “What’s your name?”

  “Why d’you care?” Lila responded. “This obviously isn’t a social call.”

  He laughed. “You’re a cool one, missy.”

  “What’s your name?” Lila asked him back.

  “None of your damn business!” the man replied, grouchy again. “Like you say, this ain’t no social call.”

  Lila was trying to distract him, Mavis realized. But what was the point? Even if Gumbo came back, he was all bark and no bite. This masked man must weigh almost as much as Lila and Mavis together. And he was sliding that rope back and forth through his hands.

  Not my fault, not my fault, she repeated to herself; the old mantra. But her whole body remained frozen, just like it used to do with her husband.

  “How many of you are there?” he asked.

  “How many what?” Lila replied, voice steady—even though the hand that crept over to find Mavis’s was shaking. Mavis wrapped her own pudgy fingers around Lila’s narrow palm, trying to send her internal strength out into the world where it could do some good. “You can see there’s two of us here—”

  “How many total, though? Doing this crazy sit-in thing. Yesterday I walked all the way down to them old graves, and that Malloy guy was just sitting there reading—like he was on a cruise or something. Someone’s in the chair next to the croquet court, all day every day. Takes some planning.”

  That reedy voice; she’d heard it somewhere before. He was younger than she’d first thought. Stronger than Ronnie, but not as mean—just bold with rum.

  “We’re very well organized,” Lila was saying.

  “You’re starting to bother the boss,” the guy continued, “which means, he’s starting to bother me. So I figured I’d pay you two a nice visit. Find out how many others I have to bother, before y’all let this thing go.”

  “Most of the year rounders are helping,” Lila said brightly, “along with some summer people. I don’t know. . . thirty people?” Mavis almost snorted out loud—only half that number had even signed up. And now, a week into the sit-in, not everyone was actually showing up for their shifts.

  “Really? Surprised Malloy has that many friends.” Then he squinted at Mavis. “You don’t say much, do you? Quiet little squaw.”

  “She makes her words count, unlike you,” Lila told him, pressing Mavis’s palm down against the armrest—a reminder not to acknowledge the slur. “I suggest you leave us alone. Captain James will be by to check on us any minute—”

  “Bullshit.” He scratched at a sweaty cheek, dislodging the ski mask enough to reveal a patch of red beard. “Just the three of us up here tonight, and we’re gonna have a little knot-tying lesson before—”

  “Owen.”

  Mavis didn’t realize she’d spoken his name out loud until he swiveled his head to her and stood up, running the rope back and forth between his hands, faster now.

  “Owen the landscaper, from the Inn?” Lila asked, her fingers suddenly still. “That right, Mavis? Oh Mavis, don’t!”

  Shaking off Lila’s hand, Mavis stood up too. He said his boss had sent him, but Parker would never—ever—threaten anyone like this.

  “I’m so glad to make your acquaintance, Owen!” Lila tried to pull his attention back to her still-seated self. “Let’s just see—”

  “I told you, no names!” Fists clamped around the rope until the knuckles turned white.

  Mavis made her own fists, and locked her gaze on the pair of holes in his ski mask. “Go home,” she ordered.

  He snorted. “Whatcha gonna do, squaw? Scratch my eyes out with your—”

  “I’ll tell Mr. Dane.”

  “You wouldn’t dare! Shana calls you the dirty Indian, you know. Tattling to the boss’ll only make things worse for you up there.”

  Her jaw was aching, but she couldn’t touch it or the shaking inside would be too much for her legs and she’d collapse. Instead she wrapped her arms around her body to hold herself together.

  “Mavis is right, Owen.” Lila said, pushing out of her chair to lock an arm around Mavis’s shoulders. “This is a small island; don’t do something you’ll—”

  The underbrush rustled, and a low growl behind Owen announced Gumbo’s return.

  “What was that?” His voice climbed an octave.

  “Probably the ghost,” Lila said, airily. “Making his evening appearance.”

  “Ghost?”

  “Saw him just last night, didn’t we Mavis? In that very tree, behind you.” She pointed up into the darkness above Owen’s head. “He’s called. . . Sachem Pete. And people say his curses—”

  Owen stumbled off up the path, crashing through the underbrush in his rush back to the Inn. The rope dropped behind him.

  “Sachem Pete,” Mavis repeated, feeling a giggle bubble up in her throat. “Curses! Well done.”

  Lila collapsed back into her chair, dropping head into palms. “Oh Mavis! I was so scared!”

  “Me too.”

  “Sure didn’t act it. Go home, Owen! Like you’d say, Bad dog!” She was laughing, or crying, or hiccuping—maybe all three.

  Mavis let her shaky legs give way, collapsing onto the stump where Owen had sat only moments ago. Gumbo ran up and dropped the rope in her lap—it was flimsier than she’d thought, as big a threat as Sachem Pete. She tossed it onto her chair and sunk her face into dog fur.

  “Good boy, Gumbo!” Lila said, patting his head. “It took all three of us to scare him off, but we did it.”

  Parker

  THE STAIRCASE UP to the widow’s walk seemed twice as steep as it had a week ago. Climbing up the last two steps, just before turning to face his guests again, Parker allowed himself a yawn. He hadn’t slept much last night, trying to puzzle out why Mavis’s sheepdog had showed up at the back do
or of the Inn just as he was locking up. The dog had barked only once before turning to run back down the hill on the back side of the Inn, toward the woods. Halfway across the croquet court he’d stopped, turned back to face Parker, and pawed at the perfect grass. “Hey, get away from there!” Parker had yelled, slapping the doorway trim. The dog had cocked his head at Parker, as if inviting him to follow, and then disappeared into the untamed undergrowth.

  He’d never seen that dog without Mavis. Was something wrong? But he couldn’t think about her now—his four guests were waiting for him to finish the Inn history lesson.

  Parker rushed through the last bit about the makeover, managed to pry open the moisture-swollen door, and waved the two couples through without mentioning its status as original equipment—who really cared?

  Promising free drinks for any successful Skye sighting had instantly increased their occurrence—so much so that the novelty completely disappeared. Nobody bothered to toast the latest sighting at the bar anymore, and Sylvia hadn’t updated the Facebook page in almost two weeks. Partly because every supposed sighting since Jane Goodley had been completely unconvincing.

  And then there was the sit-in. For the past ten days, six a.m. to six p.m., one local or another had occupied a rickety lawn chair just beyond the edge of the Inn’s lawn. The lively afternoon croquet games had stopped immediately; none of his guests wanted their shots critiqued by what the wife in room eight had taken to calling “Brenton’s great unwashed.”

  Lloyd had been calling twice a day, shrieking at Parker to shut it down—until Parker finally lost patience and yelled back that the sit-in was Lloyd’s own fault, which made Lloyd hang up on him. Slow but steady, beautifying as they went; that was the best way to take over property. Creep, don’t bulldoze. But that hadn’t been fast enough for Lloyd, so he’d hired that golf course designer who’d put ribbons around all those trees. Now the locals had rallied together to protect their island.