Ferry to Cooperation Island

by Carol Newman Cronin

  At the end of the breakwater, Lloyd pushed the throttles forward as far as they would go and aimed the bow just south of the rocks marching out from Bird Island. Too bad it was dead low tide, he could’ve taken the shortcut.

  Just as the half-sunk nun passed by to port, an alarm sounded. A brain-piercing shriek, right under the wheel. What the hell—

  The motor lost power, squealed, shut off.

  Shit.

  “What happened?” Owen asked, his voice too loud in the sudden silence.

  Lloyd turned the key—nothing. Slid the throttle back to neutral, tried again; still nothing. The gulls were laughing at him.

  Shit, shit, shit. Nothing ever went according to plan on this stupid island.

  Owen—who’d been glancing over his shoulder—pointed aft. “Here they come.”

  “On what, the Queen Mary?” But it was another boat even nicer than this one, speeding their way.

  “Get out the fire extinguisher,” he told Owen.

  “What?”

  “Want to go to jail? If not, do as I say.”

  The kid unstrapped the red canister and held it up. “Now w-what?” he hiccuped, lurching to port as their wake caught up with them.

  “Keep it down out of sight, until they get close. Then spray the driver, in the face if possible.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Or go to jail,” Lloyd repeated, spreading his hands. “Your choice.”

  Bird Island’s rocks marched out, single file, like a boarding party. The tide was setting them out toward open water, but the wind was blowing them onto that damned shoreline. And right now, the wind was winning. Lloyd pressed a button to lift the outboard. If he could make it inside the first ledge without running aground, maybe the other boat would be too big to follow. The bow obligingly pointed toward the beach, and a shiny black bird flapped off a rock into the water, surprised by their unexpected change of direction.

  Owen squatted down, extinguisher trapped between his knees, hose at the ready. His hand was shaking, and every minute or so his whole body would convulse with another hiccup. The boat behind was coming toward them faster than Lloyd expected—twin out-boards, that’s why. He’d stolen the wrong boat.

  Lloyd locked his gaze on the rocks ahead, listening to the whine of engines getting closer and louder, hoping Owen would do as he was told without any further instructions. If Lloyd didn’t watch, he couldn’t be a witness.

  He heard the other boat slow down, and once the extinguisher hissed Lloyd looked aft. Most of the fire retardant had blown right back onto Owen, and when the kid tried to step back, his shoes slid right out from under him and he landed butt down on the foamy floor.

  “Forget the fire thing!” Lloyd roared. Owen reached for the rail, steadying himself, and got back to his feet, still hiccuping. “Find a line, and toss it under the boat when he comes alongside.”

  “We left the lines on the dock, remember?”

  “There’ll be more—check that forward locker. Quick!”

  Owen’s skin was blotchy, and his teeth were chattering, but he was soon lifting out a coil of white anchor line.

  “Make sure it pays out clean.”

  The other boat had circled around the end of the first ledge and was aiming for their starboard side—and a big rock just below the surface. Maybe they’d hit that—but no, they avoided it just in time. Whoever was driving—in shadow under a T-top, and hidden behind a large wrap-around windshield—was a local.

  “Get ready,” Lloyd said to Owen, who was just standing there, hiccuping. Twenty feet, then ten—

  “Now!”

  Owen tossed the entire coil overboard.

  “Jesus, kid! Not like that. . .”

  The white line sank to the bottom, now less of a threat than the rocks all around them. The other boat was able to nose in bow-to-bow, and a woman in a Brenton Ferry Company hat came out from behind the console, carrying her own line. Courtney—for Chrissake, his own captain—somehow lassoed their bow cleat with a lucky toss and gave the driver—that damned harbormaster—a thumbs-up.

  “Start the motor with the engine still tilted up, Lloyd?” the harbormaster called, backing out the same way he’d come in.

  How the hell did he know that?

  The harbormaster—Mike, was it?—used the twin outboards to spin the other boat in its own length. Courtney paid out just enough slack in the line to maneuver, but not enough to catch in the props. A pox on them both.

  Before Lloyd even understood the plan they were under tow, skirting the last bit of ledge and out into open water. When a wave caught the bow, Owen fell down again—this time, landing on a seat on the forward side of the console.

  “Jesus, Lloyd, what the hell were you thinking?” the harbormaster asked, glancing back over his shoulder. He didn’t even have to shout to be heard over those two purring outboards. “Even by your standards, that was pretty stupid.”

  “I had a marine emergency,” Lloyd replied, crossing both arms over his blood-encrusted shirt. “Couldn’t get my ferry started, and I had to get—”

  “Your ferry!” Courtney snorted. “Like it’s your damn island.”

  Well, yes.

  “So you steal my boat and burn out the impeller?” The harbormaster shook his head. Then he pointed behind them at the inner ledge, which was sucking and gnashing water like a hungry sea monster. “Good thing we rescued you; isn’t that where your grandfather’s body was found?”

  Shuddering, Lloyd looked away. Think!

  “What’s your preference, Courtney?” the harbormaster asked next. “Slow tow or fast tow? Slow gives ‘em plenty of time to think about how many laws they’ve broken. Fast would be nice and wet.”

  “Slow sounds good to me, Mack. I don’t think anyone’ll be docking my pay for a late ferry run today, and it’ll give the lawyers a little more time to toast Sachem Joe.”

  Mack, not Mike. Stupid name.

  “Slow it is then.”

  The boat, built to be stable running at high speeds, rocked and rolled when towed at a snail’s pace. By the time they reached the entrance to Narragansett Bay, Owen was throwing up. Lloyd was too damned mad to get seasick. Think!

  Castle Hill lighthouse was perched high, on rocks just as black and mean as Bird Island. When Alison was small, they used to bring her down here to watch the boats going by. She could spend hours tossing stones into the ocean, and it was only a short walk back to their house afterward. The same house his wife had kicked him out of, months ago. . .

  It was when Mack turned to starboard and closed with the shoreline, running in a back eddy to avoid the ebbing tide, that Lloyd had his next brainstorm: he’d swim for it. Yes it would be cold and wet, and his cell phone wasn’t waterproof. But once he climbed out of the water onto the rocks, he could walk home. Alison might be there; if not, his wife was terrified of boats. Surely she’d be able to dredge up some pity for a near-drowning, caused by an irresponsible employee?

  Without another thought, Lloyd stepped up onto the side deck and dove overboard.

  James

  TWELVE MINUTES BEFORE Joe’s will reading was due to start, James walked into the Sachem’s cottage to find Lizzie—white blouse, creased gray slacks, black heels—already organizing a large stack of papers on the square table. That explained the golf cart tracks along the path; walking down the bluff in those pumps, carrying that box, wouldn’t have ended well.

  Giving James a grateful smile, Mavis retreated to the kitchen. Gumbo followed, so close he was almost underfoot.

  Only six days since he’d last stood in this room, but everything— even the sound of Joe’s coffee grinder—was different. The red armchair had been pushed off into a corner under the eaves to make room for the table where Lizzie sat. No more hospital bed against the window; instead there was Pierce, admiring his boat on the dock in West Harbor. Must be his aftershave James smelled.

  Lizzie was lifting folders and papers out of a cardboard box and dividing them into two stacks
, each already two inches tall. How had she managed to create so much paperwork from such a short life?

  “How’s Mayor Frank?” she asked.

  Like a shrunken gnome, James thought. All summer, Newport had beckoned as an escape from his island worries, but yesterday’s trip ashore had been a nightmare. First, the hospital visit, where a bandaged Mayor Frank insisted he could still live on his own. Next, the police station, where Mack signed a statement about the boat theft and they learned Lloyd had made bail. (“Should’ve left him to drown,” Mack muttered, as they headed down the dock to reclaim the harbormaster boat.) And finally, the long tow home. Over beers at the fish shack, Mack explained the steps to rebuild the outboard. But even his tasty sea stories about other heat-fried impellers couldn’t wash away James’s black mood.

  He’d texted Courtney last night, knowing she’d understand how a destroyed mayor and a destroyed motor would be too much all in the same day, but she hadn’t responded. And thanks to Joe’s will reading, he’d miss this morning’s ferry arrival. The surest way to read Courtney’s mood was how hard she reversed the starboard throttle on the turn into the dock. . .

  “What happened to the mayor?” Pierce asked, turning away from the window to shake James’s hand. Before anyone could answer, he added, “Thanks for everything you did for my brother, James. I understand you were here every day.”

  “Did you stay over, since the, uh—since Saturday?” What did you call a memorial service that turned into a tree-hugging standoff? For the first time in days, James felt his mouth stretch into a smile.

  Pierce was shaking his head no, dislodging a few strands of carefully swept-back hair. “I was needed at home for Sunday service.” He sat down so heavily on Lizzie’s right that James winced, wondered if the spindly chair would collapse; instead Pierce knitted his fingers together and bowed his head. For sure those eyes were wide open— darting across Lizzie’s papers, looking for clues. The lawyer didn’t seem to notice—or maybe she just didn’t care. Joe’s wishes would soon be clear, though the single hour Lizzie had scheduled for this will reading didn’t seem like enough time to get through all that paperwork.

  Pierce was the only Borba James didn’t trust. What had really gone on between him and Lloyd? Didn’t matter anymore, James realized. Lloyd had made bail, but no Newport judge would let a boat thief off lightly—even one claiming to be a pillar of the community. West Brenton was safe, for a month or two at least. By then, surely Sheila’s injunction would finally be heard and Lloyd would be removed as president of the West Brenton Land Trust.

  Mavis set down the coffee tray at her place on Lizzie’s left and nodded for James to sit down too. Four for bridge? he heard his mother say, totally out of context.

  Mavis poured thick black coffee from Joe’s pot into a small cup, which she placed in front of Pierce.

  “Cream and sugar?” he asked.

  Mavis shook her head, lips pressing firmly together. So one thing would remain the same around here; black coffee only, at least as long as Mavis was in charge.

  Last winter, Joe had said everything he had would go to her, which would make Pierce mad. Was James here to play go-between? He rubbed his scar, frowning.

  “All right, James?” Lizzie asked.

  “Just—thinking about the big shoes I have to fill. Though Joe really liked to go barefoot.” He reached for a chuckle, but the lump in his throat turned it into a cough.

  Mavis placed her hand on his forearm, fingers warm from the coffee pot. “All of us. Together. Not just you.”

  Her eyes were red, but her gaze was steady. She pulled her hand away to divide the rest of the bitter brew evenly between two remaining cups. Mavis didn’t drink coffee.

  “Thank you,” Lizzie said, taking time for a tiny sip. “Everyone ready?”

  Gumbo lay down between James and Mavis. Where was Mémé— shouldn’t she be here?

  Setting her coffee aside, Lizzie reached down into her handbag and extracted a single sheet of lined legal paper, densely covered on both sides with a familiar scrawl. Pierce instantly swiveled his eyes to read its back; Lizzie just calmly lifted up a folder from the right-hand stack, hiding the words.

  “Joe told me that the only language he didn’t like was legalese,” Lizzie said, looking at each one of them in turn. “So he spelled out his final wishes in simple English and asked me to read it to the three of you. All backed up by official documents, of course—” she tapped a fingernail against the left-hand pile. “And I’m happy to answer any questions after I finish. Clear so far?” She looked around the table again, waiting for three separate nods.

  “Okay, here we go.” Lizzie cleared her throat. “This is the last will and testament of Joseph Flannery Borba, dated June 29, 2010. Witnessed by. . .”

  So Joe had updated his will in those final days. Was that why James was here then? He didn’t want anything from the guy—unless all those people smarts could somehow be transferred.

  “Dear Mavis,” Lizzie read. “You showed me how to express myself well in only a few words, so here goes. First, I know I don’t have to ask you, but take care of Mémé. Second, you’ll find I’m leaving behind more money than you might have expected from such a simpleton brother. I didn’t tell you sooner because I wanted you to know you could support our family when called upon to do so. Thank you for working so hard for us these past few months.

  “Now I’m going to ask a big favor. I’d like you to use some of what I’m leaving behind to formalize the land trust, and I think you should run it. Everyone who depends on you for clean laundry, clean rooms, and safe baby deliveries will just have to learn to get along without your help.”

  Mavis swallowed, her eyes widening.

  Lizzie continued. “I know you don’t like bureaucracy, but setting up an official organization is the only way we can protect our home from development. It may be hard at times, but James will help you and the locals will listen to James. Yes they’re whites, but as our father said many times, the good ones are more trustworthy than some of the Narragansetts. No offense meant, Pierce.”

  Two spots of red bloomed on those round cheeks.

  “Now that I have your attention, Pierce—” Lizzie’s glasses remained on the paper “—I know you would prefer me to give everything I have to your church. Instead I’m doing what I think best to protect the place we grew up from the cursed blight of sprawl.

  “Here it is, my brother: I’m leaving $10,000 to your church, no strings attached. No need to waste any of it on plaques or acknowledgments.

  “Sorry it’s not more, but—” Lizzie turned the paper over “—I didn’t get to work for as many years as I would’ve liked.”

  Pierce had clamped his jaw shut and was breathing hard, nostrils flaring in and out. Ten grand was probably more than he’d expected—and yet a tiny percentage of what setting up a land trust would require.

  Lizzie sipped at her coffee.

  “Now James. I always tried to get you to treat people as well as you did boats, but I’ve come to see that you were absolutely right about our little ferry; its survival is key to this island. I’m leaving you the money to buy it outright, which means—”

  Mavis grunted. Pierce let out a strangled cry. James’s scar throbbed.

  “. . .which means you can’t go off sailing again,” Lizzie continued, “but I believe it will lead to what’s best for both you and our island. I hope I’m right; if not, I’ll meet you up at the trees any time you say, for another war of words.”

  James tried to laugh through the lump in his throat, eyes filling, even as he wondered: How much money were they talking about here? Enough to set up a land trust and buy the ferry. . . while throwing just enough to Pierce’s church so he wouldn’t kick up a fuss.

  There was more. “My house and everything else I leave to Mavis and her descendants.”

  Descendants? Mavis was kneading thumbs over the backs of her hands, frowning, as if she had the same question.

  “Last and defi
nitely least of all,” Lizzie read, “please talk Mémé into letting the smart folks at Dana Farber have my body. I’d be honored if our cousin Geoffrey would chisel a marker for the burial ground, to be placed next to our father.”

  Finally, Mavis let out a sob.

  “Oh, one more thing: Anyone who disputes any part of this plan will instantly lose his share.”

  Pierce snorted, then tried to hide it behind a cough.

  “Wherever you go on our island, I’ll be with you.” Lizzie raised the paper to read the last line. “It’s signed, ‘Still here, you know. Joe.’”

  When she set down the sheet again, the silence no longer felt eerie—as if Joe’s wisdom had blown into the room again, through the open window.

  Tears ran down Mavis’s cheeks, sliding down to darken her red shirt like raindrops. James handed her a paper napkin. She pressed it into her eyes.

  “Any questions?” Lizzie asked, setting Joe’s final letter down on top of the righthand stack of paper.

  “Are all the amounts specified in the actual will?” Pierce asked. “Seems a little strange that only my money’s spelled out in dollars and cents.”

  Not your money, James wanted to say. It’s for your church.

  “The interest from the estate will cover a small salary for—”

  “So there was a lot more than expected then,” Pierce said. “How. . . I mean. . .”

  “I think Pierce is wondering where all the money came from,” James said quietly. “Joe had less than ten years as a lawyer, and there must’ve been school loans—”

  “No loans,” Mavis said.

  “Not even for law school?”

  “Scholarships. Plus dishes and dimes.”

  Washing dishes, picking up dimes, Joe had replied, when James’s mother had asked, the summer after freshman year, “How are you making ends meet in that expensive city, dear?”

  Until this summer, James had always had a steady income—even during the seven years Joe’d spent earning two degrees—but his current bank balance wouldn’t have covered the tab at the Inn bar, after Joe’s service. (Thank goodness Parker hadn’t accepted that offer, inspired by too many beers—and the assumption that Joe’s estate couldn’t cover it either.)