“The time will pass much more quickly if you have someone to share it with.”
Silence. Except for the scraping. And the hint of melody.
“Why don’t you take a page from Tom Sawyer, convince someone else to paint the fence for you.”
“Who’s Tom Sawyer?”
I shake my head. “What are they teaching in schools these days?”
“Stupid things. Waste of fucking time.”
I can’t decide whether to laugh or sigh. She is naive. In spite of her hard shell, I know more about her than she would ever admit to. Her parents are either dead or absent and her home, whatever that is, has little appeal. She covers up her fear and loneliness with anger, and in a desperate attempt to belong, makes stupid choices and misinterprets what she thinks is love. Judging from her reaction to the police, I would wager she has aligned herself with some sort of disreputable characters, who likely abandoned her at the first sign of trouble. But there is something about her. Something unique.
“So, this is a better use of your time?”
“Can’t think of anything I’d rather do today than paint a fence.” Her tone is sarcastic, but I sense that the facade she is working so carefully to build is fragile. There is a need for her to reestablish herself after the vulnerability of being caught in my room, of having to be rescued by an old lady. And a blind one at that.
“I think it was my least favorite thing to do. Not that I painted fences, per se. But whitewashing. There was always whitewashing. Every summer, whitewash the cottage, whitewash the fog station, and whitewash the light tower. God, I hated it.”
The scraping continues.
“I’m listening to Epica,” she says.
“Never heard of it.”
“Them.”
I can just make it out. I lean back in my chair, listening to the strains of violin and cello and the haunting voice that accompanies them. It takes me back. It was winter. Emily and I lay on the carpet in front of the woodstove, the Lake outside frozen silent while a million stars pricked the inky ceiling over the hushed stillness. Pa sat in his chair, smoking his pipe. Mother was mending. Our Zenith radio was tuned to the NBC station in Michigan, the signal drifting across the subdued expanse of the Lake to our isolated island, transporting my ten-year-old self far from the boreal forest to a magical world. I sat entranced, listening.
The music changes now, abruptly, as drums precede what can only be an electric guitar. It is unusual, to say the least.
“Good lord, what type of music is that?”
“Symphonic metal.”
“Interesting.” I’ve never heard such music; an odd combination of classical and some sort of angst-riddled approach to contemporary noise. I can see why it appeals to her.
Morgan tosses the scraper into the bucket and sits down at the picnic table. She lights a cigarette. I make no comment. I am sure she expected one.
“Have you heard anything about your brother?” she asks.
“No.”
I rearrange the blanket that covers my legs. The girl intrigues me.
“Look, Morgan. When I told you I hadn’t seen my brother in over sixty years, I wasn’t being completely truthful.” She does not respond, but continues to smoke her cigarette. “He has not tried to contact me in all that time, but two days before his boat was found abandoned, he came here. They brought him to me outside in the garden, and he didn’t say a word. After a few minutes, he left.”
The smell of the cigarette hangs in the air, damp and heavy.
“Morgan, those books may hold answers to questions I have about my past. I can’t read them. But you can. And if I’m not mistaken, you have the time.” Marty would read them eventually, I’m sure. I could ask him. But I ask her instead, “Perhaps we can make a trade? You keep reading me the journals, and I will give you one of those paintings you find so interesting.”
I can hear her grinding the cigarette beneath the heel of her boot, but she is silent. She must have removed one of her earbuds, as the strains of Epica are more easily discernible, mingling with the chattering of sparrows and the rustling of the wind through the hydrangea.
“Can I pick which one?”
It is an interesting response. There are three sketches. One is a dragonfly, the other a hummingbird, and the last a detailed study of beach peas. Common themes repeatedly transcribed from various angles. Some critics suggest that a series of the same subject could almost be compiled to create a three-dimensional image, as though each interpretation adds a layer that expresses a slightly different perspective, yet immediately associates with the others. Even as sketches, they are each worth a tidy sum. But I don’t think that is the appeal to her. What does she see in one of those pictures?
“Yes.”
“All right, then. Let’s get started.”
14
Morgan
Derrick’s voice whispers to me when the old lady suggests I continue to read her father’s journals. Maybe this is the chance I need.
But we don’t go to the woman’s room. We sit in the sunroom at the end of the hallway, looking out on the courtyard and gardens. The coveralls hang in Marty’s office, and I’ve left the oversize boots there, too. My own are black, and lace up the front almost to my knees. They are much quieter when I walk down the tile hallway and across the wooden floors. I’m dressed all in black, like a raven, except for a scarf I got for Christmas last year from Laurie, bright cobalt blue with threads of silver, which I have laced through the belt loops of my jeans. I’ve heard that ravens like shiny things, just like magpies. I keep my eyes open.
I place the journals in a pile on the table, and the old books look strange and out of place on the modern furniture here. I’m almost afraid to open them, they’re so fragile. But I have no choice, and carefully turn the pages until I reach the last entry I read.
“Now where did we leave off?” I ask, skimming the words. “Your parents moved into a lighthouse on some island out in the middle of Lake Superior. The Spanish flu was killing people. Some guy named Grayson went off the deep end and drowned or something.”
“He didn’t drown,” the old woman replies.
“What happened to him, then?”
She hesitates before answering. She’s sitting in a chair, her hair combed and pulled into a tight braid that falls down one shoulder, and she’s taken off her sunglasses. “I find sometimes it’s better not to know the end before the beginning.”
So I continue.
“All right, then. Nineteen nineteen to nineteen twenty.”