Ferry to Cooperation Island

by Carol Newman Cronin

  The next photo must’ve come from James. Him and Joe, both boyishly skinny, arm-in-arm on the steps of this schoolhouse. Tears welled up at last.

  That photo faded into Joe’s law school graduation. Crimson cap and gown, black braid. That was Joe—a graceful mix of two cultures. Behind her, Mavis heard fresh sobs.

  How are we supposed to—

  Outside, an engine grumbled to life. A hundred heads turned left to look out the open windows.

  Lord, not now—Owen just mowed yesterday!

  The engine revs increased. Mémé frowned, eyes still closed. Her grip was so tight, Mavis’s fingertips tingled.

  The preacher tried to reclaim his audience. “I’m, ah, going to ask James to say a few words. . .”

  The doctor pushed out of his seat and strode to the window. “It’s that damned tractor!” He turned. “James, you’ve got to stop it, before he gets to the trees.”

  Cries of anger from the islanders mixed with the confusion of lawyers and cousins.

  “Please, everyone.” The preacher raised his voice. “We can’t let this stain the memory of—”

  “You’re absolutely right!” James cut in, turning to address the crowd. “Joe didn’t want a service. If we’d listened, we’d be out there right now. We need to stop that machine.”

  A roar of agreement. Most of the locals stood up, so Mavis did too.

  James held up both hands. “Not as an angry mob—as a group of Cooperation Islanders working together to protect our land. That’s what he would want. Right?” He was asking the crowd, but looking right at Mavis; she nodded.

  “Right!”

  “Lead on, James!” a woman called.

  “Remember, we’re acting in Joe’s name.”

  James went over to the door, arm already out to push it open.

  And then Pierce stepped in front of him.

  Courtney

  SHE WAS READY to follow James out through the door when that huge Indian blocked his way. The audience muttered, “What’s going on now?” “Who is this guy?” “We need to get out there. . .”

  A crowd pressing from behind, and no escape ahead—trapped. Her heart started to race.

  Mack calmly handed his son off to the Irreverend, who was still standing at the front of the room. The kid started to wail, loud as an emergency siren.

  “We should stay and celebrate Joe’s life here,” the gray-headed Indian was telling James. “I’m his brother, and—”

  “So am I,” James growled, fingers tightening into fists.

  “No one with white skin could ever be a brother of—”

  Mack pushed out the screen of the nearest window and jumped three feet down onto grass. Courtney followed, her legs acting as shock absorbers. Now she could breathe again.

  “Come on!” Mack waved at her to follow. “Don’t worry about James—Pierce is a goddamn pussy.”

  When Courtney reached the back side of the schoolhouse, she saw the tractor just exiting a shiny-roofed barn. Red cab, back tires big as a combine’s. Black smoke putt-putted out of the stack.

  Mack pointed toward the trees. “That’s where it’s heading.” He ran down the grassy hill, not bothering to check if she was following.

  Billy leaped out a window—six feet above the ground—and landed hard, rolling onto the grass. By the time he’d recovered, Mavis had landed square on bare feet. Holding up a black skirt in both hands, she took off toward the trees, running faster than Courtney thought such a squat body could go.

  The tractor increased its revs. Billy went over to the window to help the next person climb out—but whoever it was backed away when they saw the big drop. Should she help get more people out of the schoolroom? No—she was just trying to avoid confronting that huge machine.

  She followed Mack and Mavis down the small hill and picked up the pace, wishing she was wearing running sneakers instead of boat shoes. Together, the three of them should be able to hold off the tractor—as long as they all made it to the big tree in time.

  Mavis was already gaining on Mack. Arms pumping, feet bare, dark hair dropping away from a swirled silver clasp—she was fast! Courtney shouldn’t be so fussed about her own footwear then.

  All three of them easily outpaced the tractor across the lawn, but once they reached the thick undergrowth, they couldn’t run nearly as fast. Courtney raised one hand to protect her eyes, but prickers still grabbed at her khakis. The roar of engine and snap of branches to her right told her those thick tires were just flattening everything, even small trees—the tractor was gaining.

  Did Parker Dane really think he could get away with this?

  Courtney turned to check behind her—and gasped. A line of people stretched all the way back to the schoolhouse, heading for the trees. Some were even running, though Billy was the only one she saw sprinting hard.

  She turned forward again just in time to see Mack double over, chest heaving. She dodged around him, but she and Mavis couldn’t face that red monster all alone! Dead heat now—Mavis was closer to the tree, but the brambles were even thicker ahead—those feet must be some tough.

  Dark pants and a white shirt streaked past on her left—Billy! Who knew he could run even faster than Courtney?

  But he wasn’t as big as Mack. And the tractor was still lumbering on, straight toward the tree.

  Owen

  RICH PEOPLE WERE crazy. Why else would Boss Lloyd crawl up into Hazel’s cab like a hermit crab stealing a shell—“let’s go, come on, hurry up”—and then refuse to climb down and open the barn doors? Owen’d had to unlatch each one separately before they could drive out—which is why the runners to his left gained so much ground at first. Hazel was built for heavy lifting, not top-end speed.

  They were finally going to scar up that tree, and between curses Boss Lloyd had promised a big bonus. Ma had made Owen promise not to use machines to damage property—unless it was the property owner telling him to do so, like tearing down an old house so a new one could be built. Boss Lloyd said he owned that tall oak, so that part would be okay.

  But he didn’t own the Inn’s croquet court, and Hazel’s big tires left some diggers on the way through. Mr. Dane would be furious, after all the money he’d spent on special grass and fertilizer.

  To his left, Owen spotted Mavis running hard away from the Inn. Had she stolen something from a guest’s room? Strange—she usually didn’t work Saturdays. He’d lie to cover for her, if she asked; she hadn’t given up his name to Mr. Dane, so he owed her a favor.

  Behind her, a skinny guy pumped legs and arms like a track star. He must be chasing after—

  “Can’t this thing go any faster?” Boss Lloyd asked. Owen increased the revs as much as he dared, and Hazel rose to the challenge, bush-hogging like a pro. Engine purring—good girl. He couldn’t wait to clear the rest of these brambles and scruffy weeds, make it all beautiful, all the way to those big bluffs.

  Owen took a hand off the wheel to slick back his hair. Ride was like a Cadillac on the hydraulic seat—

  “Ouch! Jesus, that hurt.” Boss Lloyd’s head knocked against the door frame.

  “Sorry sir,” Owen said. Serves you right, crabbing in on our party.

  Out of habit, he glanced at the side mirror—Jayzus! A full parade of folks, streaming around the school and down onto the lawn. Was Mr. Dane hosting a convention?

  “Who are all those people?”

  Boss Lloyd didn’t even look. “Just get us to that tree.”

  Hazel snapped branches like kindling. A maple sapling disappeared under the front left tire. The closer they got to that one oak, though, the wider and taller it seemed.

  “Only have to damage it,” Mr. Wainwright reminded him. “Just run into the thing a few times, that’s all.”

  “Um, that’s not really what Haz—the tractor—does best.” His first concussion had come from ramming into the solid mass of his older brother, head first.

  Five hundred bucks, he decided. That would cover him until he found another
landscaping—

  A scrub pine snapped under the right tire, knocking Boss Lloyd off his perch, which knocked Owen’s hands off the wheel. Didn’t matter; Hazel tracked straight and true, all by herself.

  “Speed this thing up—Billy’s gaining!”

  Billy Dean? That’s why he looked familiar. Owen had bought pot from him only once—way too strong, so he’d given it all to Shana as her going away present.

  Boss Lloyd didn’t mention Mavis, even when Billy dodged around her.

  “Why’s he running?”

  “Wants to beat us to that tree. I told Pierce to keep ’em all inside that damned schoolhouse. . .”

  “What’s so important about one tree?” Owen asked.

  “Exactly. That’s why we have to get there first.”

  Owen’s heart was racing, like he was running too. He bumped up the throttle as much as he dared, but it didn’t change Hazel’s pace.

  “He’s gonna beat us,” Boss Lloyd growled. “Can’t you go any—”

  “So what?” Owen giggled. One skinny drug dealer would be no match for Hazel. Maybe he’d pick Billy up with the front blade—he’d be waving his arms, balancing on the front lip, screaming in terror. “Ever seen a machine like this coming right at you? First he’ll crap his pants, then he’ll. . .”

  Billy tumbled against the tree’s mighty trunk, breathing hard. Turned to look up at Hazel. His face was blotchy red, and his hands gripped the bark behind him—before both hands turned into fists and dropped to his sides.

  “He’ll run,” Owen predicted. “All by himself, he won’t—”

  “And here comes little Miss Mavis. Christ almighty, we were supposed to be all done by now!”

  A mess of shiny black hair and heaving chest reached the tree. Standing tall, Mavis balled hands into fists and glared up at Hazel’s windshield. Eyes boring right into his, just as steely and hard as the night she’d scared him away.

  “Move your asses away from that tree!” Owen shrieked.

  But the only one who heard was Boss Lloyd.

  Mavis

  THE TRACTOR CAME right at her, red and huge.

  Joe, give me strength.

  She’d heard Owen mowing all summer and never thought twice about his machine. A lumbering monster, twice her height—sharp-edged bucket, shiny grill, black smoking stack. Owen and someone else were behind the windshield—please God, let it not be Parker.

  It marched on, steadily. Twelve feet to go. The headlight blinded her.

  She’d stepped on a pricker halfway here, but even with that sharp pain it felt so good to run—sprint as fast as she could down that childhood path, not even looking at her feet. Should’ve listened to Joe—again. If they’d stuck with the sit-in schedule. . .

  But there was no point in wasting her last moments on regret.

  Pierce had blocked the schoolroom door. Breath steadying at last, a sob welled up inside her. Lord, why did you take my good brother and leave the bad one behind? Please damn your servant Pierce.

  Eight feet.

  Courtney ran up, gasping. Mavis wrapped a right arm around her and pulled Billy in against her left side. They’d all go together, cut to ribbons by that shiny shovel.

  James was running toward them, still light years away. No surprise he’d talked his way past Pierce—just too late to save them all.

  If Joe were standing here, tall and solid as God, the red monster would’ve stopped by now. Six feet. . . five. . .

  Would she see Joe in heaven? He was surely there. She might not be allowed in, since she hadn’t listened to him—again.

  Should she close her eyes?

  Three feet from her bare toes, the bucket stopped so suddenly the machine reared forward, then sat back on its haunches. She almost cried.

  You’re all right, Mavis.

  “Thought I was going to piss my pants,” Courtney said, still breathing hard.

  “Or worse!” Billy was grinning.

  James ran up and pulled Courtney in against his suit jacket, eyes closed, as if inhaling her scent. Mavis wanted to collapse against him, but when it was her turn he didn’t linger. Even Billy got a quick man-hug.

  James still had his back to the tractor—the bravest of all—when a gangly man stepped out of the cab, a river of blood streaming down the right side of his face.

  “Malloy!” he bellowed. “Stand aside.”

  Parker

  AS LONG AS Parker lived, he would wish he’d been able to run fast enough to protect Mavis from the tractor. Instead he arrived just in time to see it stop short, sitting back on its enormous rear tires with the bucket only inches from those precious feet. Someone must’ve stolen Owen’s machine—but through the open side window, he spotted a red beard. What was the kid thinking, driving his tractor out into the forest? All those saplings, crushed—and the croquet court, ruined! That was it—Owen had to go.

  He wanted to protect Mavis, especially once Courtney and Billy melted away into the forest. Why did those two disappear so fast? The tractor had already stopped—but then he spotted Lloyd’s head, sticking out above the far side of the cab.

  What the hell was he doing up there?

  In case Lloyd looked left, Parker stepped out of sight behind the other big tree—and then peeked around the rough bark to keep an eye on Mavis. She was tiptoeing away, giving the tractor a wide berth; he waved her toward his safe haven, but instead she turned to face the tree again, wrapping her arms around herself. His heart ached, but she was safe now—and if Lloyd or anyone else went after her, Parker would fight him to the death.

  Blood ran down Lloyd’s face and neck—he must’ve hit his head on something. “Out of my way, Malloy!” he shrieked. “I have every right to—”

  “You have no right at all.” James wiped the sweat off his forehead with the left sleeve of his suit jacket. “Land trust presidents are supposed to protect trees, not destroy them.”

  Hunter Moody jogged up, panting, a bramble scratch on his left cheek and his black minister’s shirt untucked. He stopped right next to Mavis and put his arm around her shoulders; Parker bristled, but stayed put—out of sight. The harbormaster and other locals followed, gradually building a semi-circle of witnesses around tractor and tree.

  Lloyd’s eyes never left James. “We’re not even on West Brenton land. We never crossed the dividing—”

  “This whole area’s protected by the 1954 Watershed Act,” Hunter called. “We don’t always listen to the feds, Lloyd, but when it’s our water supply we—”

  “Should’ve locked you up on drug charges when I had the chance,” Lloyd growled, like he hadn’t even heard the booming voice. Blood soaked into his white polo shirt. “You and your damned sit-in have cost me a lot of time and—”

  “Jesus, Lloyd! Give it a rest!” the harbormaster said. “Don’t you know when you’re beaten?”

  A steady stream of people came up the path. “What happened—is it all over?” “Looks like they saved the trees, anyway.” “Who’s the guy with all the blood?”

  Barb the baker was followed closely by the gallery owner—no sign of his wife. The schoolteacher and her husband strolled up hand in hand, as if they were out on a nature walk. Patty from the Bean shifted her baby to a fresh hip. Even a couple of lawyers from ashore had made it out here; what would they make of such a crazy scene?

  A flicker of white emerged from the woods: Billy, beelining for Patty to lock his arm around her. Courtney followed him, sports bra showing through her sweat-soaked Brenton Ferry shirt. Lloyd’s employees would blend into the crowd now, or be hidden by the cab of the tractor. Anyway, their boss remained laser-focused on what was right in front of him, for once—James. Who’d just shrugged off his blue suit jacket, revealing a Brenton Ferry Company logo.

  “Planned that, didn’t you,” Lloyd growled.

  “Planned what?” James didn’t look down; maybe that was the only white shirt he owned.

  Lloyd’s face was red with both drying blood and rage. “You and me
have a little unfinished business,” he said to James. “Then we can get on with things.”

  “Things like running over your employees?” James asked, as casually as if they were at a company picnic. “Or attacking sit-in folks? Owen didn’t plan all this on his own.”

  Owen had attacked Mavis? The crowd muttered; others must be wondering the same thing.

  The schoolteacher pressed forward through the crowd, her thick braid evenly dividing the back of a lilac blouse. When she reached the tractor, she called up through the open window. “Hello again, Owen! Remember me? I just spotted Sachem Pete, up in the tree. He’s—”

  “I saw him too!” Mavis moved forward to lock arms with the shorter woman.

  Owen slid the window closed, but the glass couldn’t hide his red face—almost as bright as his beard. Sachem Pete—was there a third Borba brother?

  “What the hell are you d-doing out here, Owen?” Parker didn’t know he’d spoken out loud or stepped out from behind the tree until everyone turned to look at him. “I—uh—this v-violates your emp-ployment c-contract.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” someone said.

  “We all figured you’d planned this whole thing, Parker,” the harbormaster said, turning to stare at him over the crowd. “A little blood sport, to entertain your guests. So they wouldn’t realize you can’t possibly see Europe from here, or wonder why there’s no Brenton rum distillery tour. Were we all wrong then?” His smile was loose, pleasant—teasing, Parker realized, even as humiliation heated his cheeks and locked up his tongue.

  A woman tittered. A man guffawed. James chuckled. Soon everyone was laughing at him—even Mavis, though she half-covered her smile in apology.

  Parker clenched his fists, but he didn’t retreat behind the tree. He’d take their scorn like a man—hoping his silence came off as strength, not mortification.

  When the tractor revved up again, all the laughter died—as quickly as if some invisible conductor had cut it off with a baton. Lloyd ducked his bloody head back inside the cab and slammed the door.