CHAPTER 34
“YOO-HOO! HELLO, UP there! Yoo-hoo!” The voice came one morning from the base of the rock and rose thin and muffled through the clouds.
Footsteps thumped heavily across the bridge from the light. Mr. Crawley, who’d been repairing a bit of the railing, was running. “It’s Roberts!” he hissed. “Roberts is here!” He ran behind the house to the steam donkey. “Half an hour till I get this winch running!” he shouted into the gray. Silence from below.
Calling over his shoulder for Archie to stay at his post in the lamproom and for Euphemia to start the lunch, Mr. Crawley fed the fire in the steam donkey’s boiler. There could be no bad luck; no part could break or come loose or appear worn today. Mr. Crawley took on a different personality in this moment of crisis, shedding his easygoing ways and replacing them with those of a commander. Euphemia looked proud as she set off for the barn.
Our valise, heavy with artifacts, was waiting at the front door when I went in to change from my duster into a dress in which I wouldn’t be embarrassed to step off the tender in San Francisco. My frequent treks across the sand had caused me to lose flesh, and I could fit into all of my garments even without a corset. Oskar was in the bedroom, sewing closed the pockets he’d stuffed tightly with the implements he believed to be of most scientific value and didn’t dare risk losing.
“The inspection should give you plenty of time,” he said. “If she shows up.”
His role would be to delay the tender, if necessary. He was confident the captain and the inspector would be willing to wait, if they could be made to understand the importance of their cargo. If they weren’t agreeable, there were other, less cordial ways to postpone the boat’s departure.
I’d planned to take all of the children with me; between the fog and the distraction the inspector was causing, I thought it would be easy enough to slip away unnoticed. But Euphemia had sent the boys to set up the plank table and had pulled Mary into the kitchen with her. Clearly, they would be expected to do their part to make the inspection go well.
However, I found Jane moping behind the house. “She says I’m not much use.”
“Do you want to come with me?”
I held out my hand, and she took it willingly. She didn’t even ask where we were going until we’d reached the bottom of the morro. The surf was large and loud. The wet air amplified the water’s threatening boom as it toppled over itself and its frustrated hiss as it was sucked back into the sea. On the beach, two sailors were unloading barrels from the longboat. They took no notice of us.
? ? ?
I’d expected, and maybe half hoped, to wait fruitlessly by our tide pool, but when we arrived, Helen was sitting on my rock wearing her seaweed dress and corset. Obviously, Jane was the charm. Helen would have heard us coming—Janie was full of observations, and her voice carried like a gull’s. The Indian smiled and nodded shyly at me, though it was Jane who commanded her attention. Euphemia had been right; she did like the children best. She took the girl’s hand so greedily that I was startled. Jane didn’t seem to mind, and I remembered that she’d visited “the mermaid” before, perhaps often.
Helen drew the little girl to the pool, pointing out a type of crab that in all my looking, I’d not yet spotted. I wondered if she’d introduced it there. While Jane studied the water, the Indian studied Jane, tracing the circle of the girl’s ear with a fingertip, stroking and lifting her hair. She clearly craved human touch. From time to time, the girl absently brushed the woman’s hands away with a casualness that brought tears to my eyes but did not discourage Helen. I wished that I had brought all the children with me for the woman to dote on.
For all that Oskar had persuaded me that Berkeley would be best for Helen, I felt uncertain. Watching her, I was aware that her life, while unusual, was not without its compensations. True, she had no one to take care of her, but she lived well enough without caretaking. I envied her independence; she was subject to neither the demands of a husband nor of a light. I admired her resourcefulness and her intimacy with nature. I could see she had a relationship with the children that was obviously loving, even maternal; clearly, they afforded her a sort of sustaining companionship. All of this would end if she chose to go with us, and maybe a cottage and a lady scientist wouldn’t be worth the price.
We were charging ahead so quickly because of the damage she was inflicting on the lighthouse. If she could be convinced to stop that, we might have time to think things through. With more time, maybe we could learn to communicate with her well enough for her to think things through herself. While Jane was occupied with mounding sand, I touched Helen on the shoulder so she would pay attention to me.
“You must stop breaking the windows,” I said, pretending to pick up a rock and hurl it high into the air. I made fists and then threw my hands open, splaying my fingers and widening my eyes and then clapping my hands over my ears in a mime I hoped conveyed the violent shattering of the glass. I furrowed my brow and shook my head in a stern “no.” I repeated these actions several times, hoping she might eventually catch my meaning, but she only shook her head more and more vehemently in response. It seemed my playacting was communicating nothing to her but gibberish. Or maybe she understood and was refusing to comply.
Over half an hour had passed by this time. I would have to go ahead or give up the whole plan.
“Shall we bring the mermaid back to the lighthouse with us, Janie?” I made myself say these words although I could hardly look at either of them as I did so. I was deceiving them both. Jane would be heartbroken if we got into the longboat. I could almost hear her angry wail. I couldn’t imagine what the mermaid would think; her view was so foreign to me. I reminded myself that all I was doing was leading her there; after that, she would be free to make her own choice.
Jane took Helen’s hand and gave it a little tug, and that was all she needed to do. The woman followed her even after their hands unclasped, as if she were joined to the child by an invisible thread.
It felt strange to walk with Helen along the beach. I realized that despite the heft of her tools and ornaments, despite our merry exchange over my shoes, despite the barrel of broken glass she’d caused us to pitch into the ocean, I half believed she was a mythical being who would evaporate in the real world. But her footprints interlaced with ours in the sand; she was solid as any of us.
The fog on the beach had thickened, and we could see almost nothing through it; I judged our progress by the increasing intensity of the horn. I wondered how much time had passed since Jane and I had left the morro. Would the inspector have finished? Had Oskar been able to hold the tender? I almost wished it gone.
Eventually, the longboat emerged, a dark gray solid in the light gray air. It was waiting in shallow water, loaded with empty barrels, and the sailors squatted patiently nearby, spitting tobacco into the sand. At first I thought they were alone; then I saw that others were a little farther up the beach. They stood together in a clump, stiff and dark, like a colony of mussels. There was Oskar, his jacket so crammed with Helen’s stones and shells that his arms couldn’t hang freely at his sides, and Euphemia and Mr. Crawley, and a little man with a round head and belly like a chickadee whom I took to be Inspector Roberts.
I had imagined the three of us—Helen, Jane, and me—coming alone upon the boat and so being able to let Helen examine it as she wished. I had thought that I would step in first to demonstrate the vessel’s safety. And then we might all three sit in it for a while. This was inconceivable with the others crowding around.
Jane ran to her mother. “We’ve brought the mermaid! Look, Mama! It’s the mermaid!”
Euphemia pulled her daughter tightly against her body. “Yes, I see her, Janie.” She looked steadily at Helen with a wary expression. She didn’t step forward to embrace the woman or even to greet her, as I might have thought she would.
Oskar’s mouth had opened slightly when he saw Helen. I suppose he, too, had believed she might not be real. “Mr. Roberts agrees it would be best to take her to San Francisco.” He was speaking to me, but his eyes were on her.
“Can’t have people destroying lighthouse property, stealing tools,” Mr. Roberts said. He had a pipe in his hand, and he smacked it smartly to dislodge the old tobacco. “Criminal behavior, that’s what that is.”
“She’s not a criminal,” I said. I’d meant to speak firmly, but my voice carried a note of alarm, and Helen, who until now had stood beside me, watchful yet calm, began to shrink back.
“Oskar,” I said, “give Helen her things. The jade necklace. Give her that so she understands we’re her friends.”
“When we get on the tender,” he said, stepping forward. “Let’s get into the boat first. Let’s get going.”
When he moved, I saw that our trunk—my trunk—had been behind him. “Why have you brought the trunk? We don’t need all our things for a few months in San Francisco.”
Oskar was focused on Helen and didn’t answer. As he came nearer, she tensed; like a skittish horse, she was gauging his movements. Slowly, he reached for her arm. She stood taut but quiet. He wrapped his hand around her wrist. The motion was gentle, but he had her.
“Trudy,” he said, still not looking at me, “why don’t you get in first? Show her it’s all right.”
“You said it would be her choice,” I reminded him.
“It’s not a real choice if it’s based on fear,” he said. “Get in and show her it’s all right.”
The water around the boat was growing steadily deeper. The tide would help us launch. I remembered disembarking from this same boat nearly a year before. Oskar had given me his hand then so that I could step out like a lady, and I’d soaked my boots. Now, without ceremony, I clambered over the gunwale in bare feet and sat tensely on one of the benches.
“My shoes . . .” I began, thinking that someone would have to fetch them from the base of the morro. I would need them in the city.
Before I could finish, an anguished wail erupted from the beach. Jane was screaming as if she’d been stung by a jellyfish. She was pointing at me, and I understood her meaning. My going was wounding her. I started to climb out again, thinking to go and comfort her, to assure her that I would be back.
The child’s panic seemed to awaken Helen. The arm Oskar held jumped and twisted like a fish leaping from the water. Unsteady on his feet, he lost his grip, and she darted away.
She was seized again almost immediately and this time with more force. Archie Johnston had emerged from the fog and somehow—perhaps when I was climbing into the boat, concerned only with keeping my skirt dry—made his way behind her.
“Here, now,” he said in an unctuous voice I hadn’t heard him use before, “you don’t want to go running off again.” Slowly, so that it wouldn’t look as if he were pushing her, he eased her toward the boat and me. She stumbled slightly, her feet catching in his because he held her so close. “We’re taking you to a nice place now. You and me, we’re going together.”
“Archie.” Euphemia stepped forward. “I told you to stay at the light.”
“I don’t take orders from you,” he said. “The light is your concern. She’s mine.”
I suspected that he’d drunk the wine we’d saved out for the inspector’s lunch.
“You do take orders from me,” Mr. Crawley said. “And my orders are that you go back up to the lighthouse. We don’t need you here.”
“It’s me that don’t need you, Henry. This is my business. She doesn’t belong to you.” Almost caressingly, he passed his hand over Helen’s hip and closed his fingers around the handle of her knife. “Lighthouse Service–issue, I believe,” he said, displaying the blade. “You”—he looked to Oskar disdainfully—“would have let her get away.”
“It’s the damn leg. I’m still off balance. I suppose we’ll have to tie her,” Oskar said. With some difficulty, he opened the heavy flaps of his jacket. Wrapped around his waist was a length of rope. Two lengths.
“What are you doing?” I’d gotten out of the boat and was splashing back through the cold water. “You can’t take her prisoner!”
“Get back in the boat, Trudy,” Oskar said sharply. He was wrapping one of the ropes around her wrists, binding them together. “She’s not a prisoner. This is only until we get her onto the tender. She can’t be thrashing around on the longboat. She might capsize it. If you can lift her,” he said to Archie, “I’ll get her feet.”
“Oskar!”
Helen was twisting in Archie’s arms, kicking so that Oskar couldn’t hold her feet. I grabbed at Oskar’s wrist, but with one violent jerk, he thrust me off, and my back hit the sand with a thud. I gasped, as shocked by my own puniness as by what he’d done.
Helen, too, was weaker than the men. The rope was around her ankles, and though she still bucked and plunged, Archie held her fast.
When I’d charged at Oskar, Mr. Crawley and the inspector had run, too. I expected them to pull Helen free, but they came to me. They helped me to my feet and held me there, lightly but firmly, while the sailors, who saw where authority lay, helped Oskar finish his tying. Helen hung from Archie’s arms, helpless. He carried her to the boat, an unwilling bride.
“It’s best if she goes, Trudy,” Mr. Crawley said. “Oskar’s right. She’ll be better off at the university. With people to take care of her.”
“Yes,” the inspector agreed, brushing sand from his trousers. “The Lighthouse Service isn’t equipped to deal with irregularities like this. If the university wants her, by all means, let them have her. She won’t last long anyway. These people are weak, you know, when it comes to disease. They lack disciplined habits; that’s their trouble.”
“Come on, now, Trudy.” Oskar held out his hand to me. “It’ll be better once we’re away.”
Unsure, I looked to Euphemia. But she’d turned away from the scene long before. She had Jane by the hand and was helping the little girl trudge through the soft sand back toward the mountain. They were nearly to the path, their forms softening in the fog. I wished I were scrambling up with them, shut of all of this.
“Euphemia!”
At my call, Euphemia and Jane turned. For an instant, they stood frozen, staring, but then Jane, taking advantage of her mother’s distraction, pulled her hand free with a tug. Without hesitation, she began running headlong, away from the security of her mother and her home, over the pitted sand and the dark tangles of kelp toward me, her body jolted by her own stiff, still babyish steps, her face lighting with the pleasure of her speed.
“Janie, stop!” Euphemia came after her with long strides, but Jane had a head start.
Archie turned from the boat, where he’d deposited Helen among the empty barrels that crowded the bow. He scooped the little girl up. “All right,” he said. “I’ll take her, too.”
Oskar squeezed my hand. “Don’t argue with him,” he said quietly. “Once we get the Indian to the tender, we’ll bring Jane back.”
The inspector’s head jerked birdlike as he looked at each of us in turn. “What’s going on here?”
With relief, I saw that Euphemia had reached her brother. I knew that she would take Jane from him and put him in his place. She would demand that he untie Helen. She would put right again all that had somehow gone wrong. What happened next alarmed me more than any of the horrors that had come so far: Euphemia fell to her knees in the sand.
“Archie.” Mr. Crawley had reverted to his skim-milk voice. “You don’t want to take Jane. What will you do with a child?”
“Put that girl down,” the inspector ordered. “What’s going on here, Crawley?”
“What’s going on,” Archie said quickly, before Mr. Crawley could speak, “is that I’m taking my wife and my child away from this place. As I have every right to do.”
“You can’t take Jane!” Euphemia and I said the same words together. My tone was outraged; hers was plaintive, desperate, a tone that didn’t sit right in the mouth of Euphemia Crawley.
“I can.”
The girl, who at first had sat trustingly in her uncle’s arms, an elbow hooked around his neck, bent away from him like a drooping flower and reached for her mother.
“I have a right,” Archie said. “She’s mine.”
He’d been undone, I saw, by grief and unhappiness. I understood the power of these emotions now.
“She’s not yours,” I insisted calmly and firmly. “Your baby died.”
Helen’s voice came from the boat. She was speaking in her own tongue, a stream of urgent, incomprehensible syllables.
“She’s right.” Oskar let go of my hand and stepped toward Archie tentatively, as if approaching a madman. “I’m sorry, but your child died years ago. You know that.”
Archie didn’t look at us. He kept his eyes on Euphemia, sister and mother both to him, and she looked steadily back. She held her arms out. “Please, Archie, think of Janie. Give her to me.”
I thought I saw his shoulders shift, as if he were readying his arms to do as she asked.
“That’s right,” Inspector Roberts broke in. “Your baby is dead, Johnston. Yes, it was recorded in the logbook. It was some time ago, but I have a memory for these details. ‘Baby Johnston born and buried.’”
Jane had straightened herself. Anxiously, she rubbed the blue appliquéd flower on the bib of her pinafore with sandy fingers.
Archie gave her a little shake so that her head bobbed up and down. “Jane is Baby Johnston,” he snapped. “She belongs to me.”
Inspector Roberts looked from Archie to the Crawleys. “I suppose you expect me to order that the child be cut in half.” He shook his head in disgust. “We’ve got to go before this fog gets any thicker, or we’ll miss our chance. We’ll sort this out in San Francisco and send her back, if need be.” He wiped his palms together briskly, ridding himself of the last grains of sand, the dirt of this place, and climbed into the boat.
As the two sailors heaved at the hull with their shoulders, its flat bottom began to slide along the wet sand.
“Goddammit, Archie. Put Jane down!” Mr. Crawley lunged for his brother-in-law, but Archie was too quick. He dropped Jane onto one of the seats and jumped in after her.
“Trudy! Come on!” Oskar was sitting on the gunwale, one leg in and one leg out of the boat. He stretched out his hand to me.
Jane was howling piteously; Helen’s face was hidden by her hands and her hair. The thought of being any part of this kidnapping revolted me, but I knew that I’d already caused enormous damage, and I wouldn’t compound it by abandoning them. I grasped Oskar’s fingers and let him pull me into the boat.
Immediately, Jane scrambled into my lap. “I don’t want to go on the boat!” she cried. “I want my mama!”
I tried to soothe her as the sailors pushed us away from the shore. They held the boat steady until they were nearly shoulder-deep in the water, and then they hoisted themselves over the gunwales with practiced ease and each grabbed an oar. The surf was breaking directly before us. The trick, I saw, was to get the boat over the foaming curl without being forced back to shore or, worse, capsized. To me, the feat seemed impossible, and the inspector, who was struggling to control the tiller, looked as if he agreed.
“We’re too heavy,” he barked. “Too low in the water.”
We yawed suddenly, caught by the force of the break, and our bow slipped north. I could feel the wave catching hold, lifting the starboard side high, tilting the port gunwale dangerously close to the water.
Jane shrieked, her mouth against my neck.
“For God’s sake, can’t you shut her up?” Archie said.
Oskar scrambled over the seats to the back of the boat and shouldered the inspector brusquely aside. He tucked the tiller under his arm and hugged it against his chest. Once I might have admired the skill with which he encouraged the boat to nose over the top of the wave and then steadied it as it collapsed into the trough, but now the way he controlled our course struck me as arrogant and his confidence unnatural.
The bow teetered upward as another wave, traveling just behind the first, caught us. I clutched Jane with one hand, grasping the edge of my seat as well as I could with the other to keep from tipping backward off the bench. As the wave passed beneath us, we tottered forward, and I braced my feet against the floor, buckling at the waist, trying to keep from spilling headfirst onto Helen and the empty barrels in the bow. Spray shot in all directions, pummeling our faces with cold, salty wet.
Beside me, our steamer trunk rocked on its end. The sailors had loaded it into the boat while I had been focused on Helen and Jane. I understood what its presence meant. Oskar was going back in triumph; we wouldn’t come here again.
Helen’s face was still buried in her hands. All I could see were her fingers and her hair, which hung heavy and tangled as kelp. I’d reduced her to this, a hopeless, faceless thing.
Over and over we plunged, I assumed toward the tender, which must have been anchored not too far from the shore, although I could see nothing but gray fog and darker gray water. The boat shuddered with every fall as the waves punished us for this journey and tried to drive us back. Sickness, my own internal waves, rose high in my throat, sickness at what we were doing, ripping this woman up by the roots. And what about Jane? Oskar had promised to take her back when we reached the tender, but I no longer believed he would do anything that didn’t suit his purposes.
I turned and shouted over my shoulder. “Oskar! Go back! Turn back!”
“What?”
“I want to go back!”
A blast of water, cold as if there’d been no spring, hit me in the face.
“No!” he shouted. “Look! We’re nearly there!”
Indeed, the fog had momentarily thinned, and I could differentiate the dark form of the tender from the thick air. We were nearly there. The hideous sickness rose in me again. I knew the inspector was right. Helen would die; she would be a subject, a specimen, delivered to other Oskars and other Archies to be examined under a microscope until she succumbed to tuberculosis or measles or one of the other ills our civilization harbored. I had delivered her. I may as well have popped her into a jar of embalming fluid.
And what would happen to Jane?
“I’m sorry.” My voice was drowned out by the wind; my tears were indistinguishable from the ocean water that ran down my face. My sorrow was compounded by the futility of my apology. Neither of them would understand me anyway.
And then, as we lurched over the crest of yet another wave, a buffet of wind lifted a hank of Helen’s hair, and I saw that she was not bent over herself in despair. She was biting, gnawing steadily, with her yellow, worn teeth on the rope that bound her wrists.
“Helen!”
I heaved myself to my feet, Jane wrapped tightly around me, and began to stagger awkwardly toward the bow.
“What are you doing? Sit down!” the inspector snapped.
The boat dipped and I with it, nearly losing my balance. Another dose of cold water flew over the gunwale, soaking the front of my dress and the back of Jane’s.
“Sit down, Trudy!” Oskar yelled. “What are you doing? You’ll tip the boat!”
What was I doing? I felt as if I were yanking myself free of a current in which I’d been caught. I had loved him, joined him, gone with him, followed him, but now I could think of nothing but stopping the destruction we two had set in motion.
“Sit down!” Archie made a lunge at me.
“No! We’re going back! We’re going back!”
Helen had freed her hands, and she bent over her feet, tugging at the ropes, trying to find the weak points. The tender stood out clearly, only about fifty yards away. The captain had seen us and was calling to the boilerman to stoke the engine.
Archie’s arms closed around Jane and me together, as if we were one of the barrels. He dragged at us, trying to force me back onto the bench. Then Helen rose. I can’t say there was understanding between us, but we were bent to a common cause. When the next swell began to lift the boat, we leaned together, Helen, Jane, and I, concentrating our combined weight against the gunwale that was already dipping dangerously low. We leaned together, and we overturned the boat.
It’s one thing to have cold water splash your skin and another to be submerged in it. I remember the shock and the freezing rush around my ears as I plunged. Little Jane was like a stone around my neck, and my heavy skirt tangled around my legs like a mermaid’s fingers. I buried my fingers in the crossed straps of Jane’s pinafore to hold her tight against my chest, and then I kicked and kicked, drawing my legs together, as I’d seen little octopi do in our tubs.
Jane and I surfaced as a two-headed creature, gulping the breathable air. For a moment I could see nothing but the gray-green slope of the next wave that bore down upon us, but rather than break over us, it lifted us to its crest along with a small, empty kerosene keg over which I easily threw my free arm. The tender had dropped its lifeboat, and within minutes I was twisting Jane’s straps around a boat hook that the captain himself held out to us.
They’d come to our rescue first, but the rest were close by. While the captain wrapped Jane in a blanket, I looked anxiously for Helen’s dark head among the men. She wasn’t beside the two sailors who’d heaved themselves over the hull of the capsized longboat, nor near the inspector who’d grabbed one of the floating oars. Nor was she with Archie, who clung to a large barrel. I craned my neck, but in every direction I could see only waves, riding relentlessly toward the shore now shrouded in murk. I was hopeful; I didn’t think a woman who could dive for abalones and spear fish while swimming was likely to drown when the shore was in reach.
I searched for Oskar, too, and when I didn’t spot him at once, I assumed that he was beyond the next wave or on the far side of the capsized boat or hidden by one barrel or another. After all, he had no reason to swim away. But soon I was screaming his name, standing on the seat to extend my view and trying to scrape at the fog with my eyes. This time no one tried to make me sit down.
We rowed in widening circles for an hour while the foghorn moaned. Jane was shaking with cold and I with a fear that made me vomit over the side. We found the mail pouch and all of the barrels, but Oskar, along with our valise and our trunk, was gone.
“A drowned man ought to float,” the captain insisted stubbornly.
It was then I remembered all he’d sewn into his pockets—the ax head; the pestle; the flat rock “possibly for grinding acorns”; the scraper “perhaps used to clean hides or peel bark”; the smaller version of the same “likely used for scaling fish”; the pieces of jade, bored through and strung on a twenty-six-inch length of braided hair, “ornamental, ceremonial, or spiritual”; among many others, more than enough to drag him to the bottom.
At last the captain would search no longer, and we rowed back to the beach. The captain and the inspector rode the platform with us to the top, and they waited while Archie packed his things. The inspector said he’d overlook the kidnapping, since the child had been returned, but he couldn’t allow a man who’d been insubordinate to his superior to keep a post at a lighthouse. Archie muttered that he was done with the place anyway and couldn’t wait to be quit of it.
Euphemia told me later that the captain had come to her and Henry. “I may know what happened to the young man,” he’d said. “But it’s a raw thing for the widow to hear.” He told them that from the deck of the tender, before he’d stepped into the lifeboat, he’d seen Helen, or as he described her, “a strange beast with a human head and arms but a fish’s tail”—she’d not, apparently, been able to untie her feet in time—cutting through the waves like a porpoise in the direction of the beach. Such a creature, he maintained, might easily have consumed a man.
Jane
1977
WE’VE SEEN ALL through the buildings, watched the filmstrip and drunk the cocoa, and been encouraged to buy a key chain or a mug or a postcard of the Fresnel lens. The teenagers are beginning to slouch back down the morro of their own accord, their faces hidden in the wings of their hair. The little boy is hanging off his mother’s hand, suspending himself at a forty-five-degree angle to the ground. It’s time to go.
As we’re making the turn at the base of the light tower, I think of one last thing. I walk to the edge and lean out to take a look at the cairn. Although it had always been difficult to see from this angle, I know just where to stand. But there’s nothing there except more brown rock.
Lydia gives a little gasp, hurries over, and begins to pluck at my arm. “Please. You’re far too close to the edge.”
I step back as I turn to her. I don’t want to give her a heart attack. “I was looking for the stones.” I hadn’t known it was a grave before I’d read Trudy Swann’s story. To me, it had been more like an altar.
“What’s that, dear?” Lydia’s raincoat is folded over her arm. She holds a hand against her brow to shield her eyes from the sun as she squints at me, puzzled and a little impatient.
“The pile of smooth stones. It used to be below the light tower here.”
“Oh, you mean the baby. Yes, I don’t like to mention it if there are, you know, children in the group. It might upset them.”
She doesn’t ask how I know. Some people have no sense of curiosity.
“Someone threw the stones away. Probably the same who shot the windows up. You know how people are. It’s better, I think, that the little body is unmarked. Who knows what people might do in a place like this?”
“So there’s still a body there?”
“Oh, yes. Lucius Crawley. The name was carved right into the tiny coffin. I like to think of him as a little angel now. The angel of the lighthouse.”
We were walking down, and I had to take Danny’s arm and concentrate on where I was placing my feet and on not thinking about the pain in my knees. Then, too, at my age it takes a long time for understanding to bubble up through years of sludgy assumptions. It wasn’t until I’d packed myself into his Japanese box and we were bowling along what I still think of as the “new” highway, looking west at the brave stand of buildings and that breast of a mountain upon which I’d been raised, that I realized that the little Crawley grave confirmed the suspicion I’d formed when I’d read Mrs. Swann’s story. I was the mermaid’s daughter.
Trudy Swann had written that she wanted “someone to know how she lived.” The mermaid, I believed she meant, the woman she had saved. But now I saw how I, too, had lived. Three times I’d been delivered into the world, first by the one who had birthed me, then by the one who had raised me, and then by the one who had restored me to them both.
“Let me tell you,” I said to Danny as we rounded a bend and Point Lucia was no more, “about Trudy Swann. I want someone to know how she lived.”