Ferry to Cooperation Island

by Carol Newman Cronin

  That afternoon, Doc Emerald came out to the west end of the sit-in to keep James company. As soon as the guy sat down, he groused about the rain (even though it had faded off to a cooling mist). Then he proceeded to explain why, statistically at least, Joe should’ve passed last November—as if that even mattered. When the doctor finally left, the rain ended too. James gladly sat in silence, staring at Narragansett headstones, for the last hour of his shift.

  Promptly at six p.m., he folded up the camp chair and biked up to the dividing path. Lila McKay was there, but the chair next to her was still empty.

  “Mavis thinks it’s Joe’s last night,” the schoolteacher explained. “I already called for backup—Nathaniel’s on his way. I’ll be all right solo until then.”

  James lowered himself into the second chair. There was no one waiting for him at home, and it was so peaceful here. The air had dried out, and damp leaves beneath him smelled of fall.

  In front of him, the Inn’s shadows lengthened until they reached across the lawn to that new tractor barn. The nerve of Parker! Fire truck was supposed to be the only gas-powered vehicle on the island.

  “And where is that written down?” Sheila would ask. She’d posed the same question several times while filing that injunction.

  Too often, the answer was “nowhere.” Until Parker started making all of his improvements, nobody had questioned or challenged the way things had always been done. Only Joe had seen the changes creeping—

  “I hear you’re leaving us,” Lila said.

  “Got a good job. Sailing.”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  “I need. . .” What did he need—a view of the horizon? There was one right in front of him. An escape from everyone knowing when he sneezed, almost before he did? All the places he’d ever been happy— on sailboats, standing in the Homer’s wheelhouse—were even smaller than this island.

  “I understand how you’d want to get away, once all your friends are gone,” Lila said. “But I don’t know who’s going to keep the islanders working together, if you do go.”

  She didn’t seem to expect an answer, so he sat beside her, watching a triangle of sky above the Inn change from blue to pink, wondering who she lumped into “all his friends” besides Joe, until Nathaniel arrived.

  “Oh, hi, Uncle James! I brought a deck of cards,” the kid told Lila. “Ever played hearts?”

  Biking home, Mavis’s prediction resurfaced: Joe’s last night. So, after showering off sweat and grime and downing a cold bowl of leftover mac and cheese, James biked back to West Harbor again. There was just enough light left in the sky to picture his childhood buddy coasting down the bluff ahead of him, but Joe’s phantom refused to play tonight.

  He scraped open the front door of the cottage to find the oil lamps already lit, and Mavis wheeling open the window just beyond Joe’s bed. Freeing his spirit from the body it no longer needed.

  Ah Joe, my brother. You’re already gone from us.

  Mavis turned, her face shiny. James pushed past the bed, pulling her into an awkward hug, feeling her tears soak through his T-shirt. Mémé, slumped in the chair, was still holding Joe’s left hand. Rivulets of water traced the deep wrinkles down either side of her mouth.

  Joe’s eyelids were closed, but his cheeks still held a hint of color— he hadn’t been gone long.

  “He looks peaceful,” James said.

  “Always did.” Mémé nodded. “Right from the time he came out of me, forty years ago. Did so much good in the world.”

  “Too soon,” Mavis mumbled.

  “Much too soon,” James agreed.

  Keeping one arm around Mavis, he reached out to grasp Mémé’s free hand across Joe’s body. And together, the three of them absorbed the last strength from their friend and brother and son.

  Mavis

  THE WHITE PREACHER was kneeling in the shady corner of the chapel’s garden, weeds in a pile beside him, when Mavis pushed open the metal gate. He didn’t hear its tiny squeak, so she touched him on the shoulder.

  “What—oh! Mavis. I’m so sorry about Joe.” He creaked up off his knees. “Come, sit with me.” He led her to a slatted bench with a plaque on the back that read, “In memory of educator Elizabeth Davidson Malloy (1948-2008).” Not something James would’ve thought to do; Lila McKay had probably organized that quiet tribute. Without Mrs. Malloy’s efforts to set up the schoolteacher fund, Lila probably wouldn’t have ever made it out here.

  “I spotted James sitting here late last night,” the preacher told her, patting the slats beside him. “When he sent a text this morning saying that Joe had breathed his last, I realized visiting his own family memorials was the only way he could make sense of it all. His father’s bench is right over there.” He pointed to the opposite side of the garden.

  Mavis perched on the wooden seat, weeds tickling the soles of her feet.

  He turned to face her. “How are you holding up?”

  “Lots to do.”

  “Yes of course. Death brings with it so many unexpected duties for those left behind—even when it’s someone like Joe, who surely had it all planned out. A blessing and a curse, the busy-ness—something concrete to focus on, but a distraction from mourning.” He was wearing his third-best shirt, the one with the permanent blue ink stain on the right cuff. “How can I help?”

  “Joe said no service.” She wrapped one fist around the other. “But we need one.”

  “Closure for you and Mémé. Of course—”

  “Not for us! For the island.”

  “Ah.” He rubbed palms against the thighs of his black pants. “And you’d like to hold it here, is that it? I’d be—”

  “Too small.” Mavis watched her right thumb massage her left. “Schoolroom.”

  “Of course! The perfect place. Joe probably had a lot of friends ashore, didn’t he? Plus tribe members from Narragansett, and of course all the islanders. . .” He frowned. “Have you talked to Sylvia? I know sometimes they rent it out for weddings and—”

  “All set.”

  Parker had been so sweet, promising to set up the room and even ordering extra flowers from ashore—though that was hardly his responsibility.

  “Sounds like you’ve got everything sorted.” The deep voice brought her back to the garden.

  “We need a speech,” Mavis told him.

  “A sermon, you mean?”

  She shook her head.

  “Joe wouldn’t want anything religious, would he. So, some sort of talk about Joe and his life, without mentioning God. Have you asked James?”

  “Not his strong suit.”

  “Agreed.” He paused. “Only thing is. . . I hate to admit this. . . but I’m not sure I’d know what to say. Ever since I heard Joe was gone, I’ve been wondering: how could a man who claimed to recognize no god somehow carry such a deep personal well of goodness around inside him? Of course, the Lord reaches us all in different ways, but it’s still hard for me to comprehend.”

  Me too.

  The cicadas buzzed. Up at the Inn, an engine roared—Owen and that huge tractor, mowing again. The preacher frowned, looked back over his shoulder, shook his head.

  If Owen had threatened anyone else, Mavis would’ve reported him to Parker. But since she’d stood up to him that night, her jaw had stopped aching and her nightmares had ended. So it felt like she’d come out ahead.

  And now, at last, her brother’s pain had ended too.

  “I’d be honored to speak at Joe’s service,” the preacher said, raising his voice to carry over the tractor’s roar. “Anything in particular you want me to say?”

  “Best memories,” Mavis said. “We’ll have photos—don’t tell Mémé.”

  “Ah good, a reminder of Joe in his prime. Big as a house—I’ll never forget the first time James introduced us!” He laughed. “I don’t look up at too many people, but your brother used to tower over me.”

  Mavis stretched her arms up. “Ears.”

  He cocked his head to th
e side, not getting it.

  So she stood, facing him, and raised both arms as far as she could reach, fingers curled a head-width apart—as if gripping the very large ears of Joe.

  He let out a bellow of laughter. “A big, big brother!”

  They were eye to eye, so she didn’t sit down again. “Thank you,” she said, turning to go.

  “Mavis, wait—when’s the service?”

  “Saturday. Right after the ferry.”

  “Ah, perfect.” He pressed himself to standing. “Should I stop by and see your mother?”

  She shook her head no, crossed to the gate.

  “Of course not—Mémé worships the native gods. And Joe. . .” he looked down at his hands. “I stopped by to see him, soon after he moved back here. Invited him to Sunday services. He told me he couldn’t worship any higher being that would strike down his father with a bolt of lightning. Circular logic, of course. But hard to argue with.”

  He kept his head bowed, so Mavis waited, her hand on the gate. The tractor noise faded. When the chapel bells began their noon chimes, the preacher looked up again. “You all right, Mavis?”

  She closed her eyes, wishing that when she opened them she’d see Joe again; standing proud in this chapel garden, speaking those words as statement instead of question: “You’re all right, Mavis.”

  “I’m all right,” she managed to croak out, around the tears clogging her throat. “See you Saturday.”

  The gate squeaked shut behind her. Halfway up the hill, something made her turn around to look back; the shaggy-haired man was still standing in exactly the same spot, hands clasped and head bowed.

  James

  STEPPING THROUGH THE schoolroom doorway, James almost choked on the unexpected funereal odor of lilies. Huge yellow-and-orange bouquets brightened all six windowsills. Who’d funded all that?

  Desks had been pushed against the back wall, replaced by tight rows of mismatched chairs—many already occupied. Joe’s service would be standing-room only.

  Mack passed by on his way outside. “Extra chairs in the shed.”

  “I’ll help—”

  “No, you stay—I’ve got it.”

  Whoever’d set up the seating had left an aisle down the middle wide enough for a small table. Tech-wizard Nathaniel sat behind it, plugging cables into a computer. His chair straddled Pierce’s black dividing line, which was scuffed and faded but still visible. Locals and visitors were sitting down on either side of it today, a random mix of skin tones and dress codes. Joe had made a lot of friends in his short life.

  Mavis stood at the northwest window, fingers touching its bouquet. A silver barrette that Joe had given her as a wedding present winked back at James.

  Mémé sat alone in the front row. James crossed the room to rest a hand on her hunched shoulder. “Need anything?”

  She opened her eyes, managed a smile. “Mothers shouldn’t have to bury their sons, James.”

  He perched next to her, reaching for the knob-knuckled hand. His dress shoes pinched, but the suit pants fit fine, even sitting down; at Mack’s wedding, they’d barely buttoned. More sailing and biking, less bakery food and standing in a wheelhouse.

  Damn, he missed standing in that wheelhouse.

  Underneath his suit jacket was a Brenton Ferry Company shirt, minus the epaulettes. When he’d pulled his only dress shirt out of the back of his closet this morning, the collar was yellowed. Why was it the only part of a dress shirt that showed under a suit jacket was the first part to—

  “James?” Mavis pointed around the room to each window, and he nodded. She wanted them all opened, so Joe’s spirit could come and go as it pleased.

  The first one slid up surprisingly easily; they’d been replaced since his day. Before moving to open the rest, James admired the towering oak tree. Only a thousand yards away, but it would be unguarded for the next few hours. Everyone working the sit-in was collecting in this room to honor Joe.

  Ah, Joe. If you were still here, we wouldn’t’ve needed a damned sit-in.

  James worked his way around the outside of the room. By the time he’d opened all six windows, Mack had set up chairs in the center aisle and the back row was a sea of pin stripes and watch chains. Plus one very bright dress and shocking stripe of hair—Sheila. She waved, a purple flower among dark suits.

  Nathaniel turned on his projector, which threw blue light on the wall between the front windows. James was passing by the doorway, on his way back to Mémé, when a paunchy version of Joe blocked out the sun.

  “Hello James,” Pierce Borba said, reaching out a meaty hand.

  James pulled away from the soggy grip as soon as he could, mumbling, “Sorry for your loss,” though Joe’s brother looked triumphant rather than sad.

  “God has his reasons,” Pierce replied, smoothing gray-streaked hair back toward his braid. “We’re having a special ceremony for Joe at my church next week, part of the annual tribal celebration. You’re invited, of course.”

  “It would be an honor. I could bring Mavis—”

  “Don’t bother.” Pierce waved away the offer. “She’s not speaking to me.”

  Because you’re trying to boot her out of her home. James turned toward the front of the room.

  When he felt Pierce’s bulk following, James pivoted on slippery dress shoes to hold up a palm. “Better stay away,” he warned. “Not the time for family battles.”

  So Pierce, still smiling, melted back into the space just beyond the doorway.

  Mavis

  BY THE TIME James fended off Pierce, the white doctor had taken the seat right next to Mémé. Mavis glared at him, so she didn’t notice the preacher’s approach—until he gently took hold of her elbow.

  “It’s time,” Hunter said, steering her to the seat on Mémé’s left.

  Mavis sat down, trying to think about God without blaming Him, but the voice she heard in her head was still Joe’s. “You’re all right, Mavis.”

  The flowers were perfect. Daisies, Queen Anne’s lace, and lilies; spiky wildness mingling with classy civilization. No one else knew it was Parker’s peace offering to Joe; she’d have to remember to thank him on Tuesday, when she went back to work. Maybe she could bring him some sort of gift in return? Though she had nothing to offer that could possibly match such beauty. . .

  James was just closing the door when the other ferry captain ran up the steps, breathing hard; after a quick search for an empty seat, she leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the door, like she and James were bookends. Even the extra seats in the center aisle had filled, surrounding the projector—and covering up that awful dividing line. Once again, Joe had brought them all together: Narragansetts and whites, cousins and Boston lawyers, islanders and visitors.

  The rustle of settling feet and readied tissues quieted, just in time for Dylan, the harbormaster’s three-year-old, to let out a shriek. Mack picked up the child, whispering something, and carried him over to the south window.

  “Can I steer?” the boy replied, too loud. People chuckled, then quieted again.

  The preacher bent down to whisper, “Okay to get started?”

  The front wall was still blue; no photos yet. But Joe wouldn’t want to keep everyone waiting, so Mavis nodded.

  The preacher strode to the front of the room.

  “Thank you all for coming,” he began. “We’ve gathered together— family, friends, colleagues—to celebrate the life of Joe Borba. Even though he told his sister he didn’t want everyone ‘talking behind his back.’”

  A few uncomfortable chuckles erupted. Mavis interlaced her fingers and pressed the heels of her hands together; Just talk—don’t try to be funny, she begged silently. Should they even be having a service? The last time she hadn’t listened to Joe, she’d married a bad man.

  Tears leaked down Mémé’s wrinkled cheeks. Mavis’s own eyes remained dry, but she reached out to take her mother’s hand, bumping a thumb across those knuckles.

  “When I first arrived her
e eight years ago,” the preacher continued, “Joe Borba gave me my island nickname: The Irreverend. Claimed he’d never met a more relaxed minister. Joe was a friend to anyone who called this place home, and he stood up to anyone trying to spoil it. We’ve sorely missed his guidance the past few weeks.”

  Murmurs of agreement.

  “The first time I heard about this place was just after the Narragansetts signed that deal with the state. Most of the quotes were bitter, so one headline in the Providence Journal stood out.” Two fingers made quotes: “‘Cooperation Island: Getting Along to Go Along.’ That nickname is one of the many reasons I washed up out here.

  “Despite our many disagreements—” he waved his right hand out toward the trees “—people ashore continue to think of this place as Cooperation Island, largely because of the man we celebrate today. And his father before him, of course.” He dropped his gaze to Mémé for just a moment.

  “Joe once told me he used his knowledge of the law to help people meet each other halfway. Maybe not as lucrative as fighting, but better for everyone in the long run.”

  “Damn straight!” That was Sheila, Joe’s law partner. There were a few titters, and one outright chuckle from somewhere near the back.

  A large photo of Joe in his first lawyer’s suit suddenly blossomed on the front wall, also illuminating the preacher’s shaggy hair. Too soon, a second photo appeared: Joe and Mavis as kids, fuzzy computer squares of color checkerboarding their matching red shirts.

  Mémé’s eyes were closed, thank God.

  The preacher stepped left to escape the projector’s glare. “As Joe’s life flashes by, we all need to pick up a piece of his legacy.” Next picture: Joe on a snow-covered city bridge, arms wide.

  “If we each try to build a small bridge,” he said, “or even a small piece of a small bridge, maybe we can keep that spirit alive. Even as it flies out these open windows, on the way to its Maker today.”

  Mémé let out a sob. A white preacher, acknowledging her gods. Maybe this was a good idea after all.