The old man grasps a cleat for balance and peers through the companionway into the cabin below. A seat cushion and a baseball cap float in the pool of water. On the chart table is a stack of books, its faded sailcloth wrapping loose, a twisted pile of twine beside.
He sits on the helmsman’s seat. The Lab is silent. There are only birds to interrupt his thoughts, and the quiet chatter of wind and Lake and the creaking complaints of the boat. Charlie Livingstone is not on board.
Wind Dancer is empty of life except for the flickering glow of a kerosene lantern, weakly but defiantly burning, lashed to the boom like a beacon.
2
Morgan
What a fucking waste of time. A bunch of do-gooders, sitting around dreaming up stupid policies. We’re exploring . . . what did they call it? “Restorative rehabilitation processes.” They can say they’ve tried, that they’ve reached out with compassion to some poor underprivileged soul—look how brilliant and forward-thinking we are. Wrapped up in their tiny little worlds with their perfect polite children who go to class and do their homework, and petition to banish junk food and end starvation in Africa and play on the basketball team and never come home high on Saturday night. And they pat themselves on their backs and say, Look what good parents we are. Look what good citizens we are. If they only knew.
Let them put a tiny stitch in a gaping wound, set my feet on the right path. I’ll apologize, and go through the motions of accepting their compassion. It wasn’t my fault, really. It was the system that let me down.
Fucking waste of time.
They searched my backpack. I should have ditched it before I got to McDonald’s. Or at least the spray-paint cans. No chance talking myself out of that one. No, Officer. I was nowhere near Boreal Retirement Home. No, sir. I had nothing to do with that graffiti. Those aren’t mine. I was just holding them for a friend. Which one? Oh, umm . . . he’s not here.
Assholes. No one spoke up for me. No one. They all kept their eyes down and sucked on their Diet Cokes, their faces plastered with the same condescending looks their parents use. The poor thing. Can you blame her, really?
Apparently they could.
When they brought me home, I could tell Laurie was pissed. She gave me that “disappointed” lecture that made me roll my eyes. I was placed with her and Bill a little over a year ago, and while they act like they care, I can’t be bothered. They’re not my parents, and I have no interest in pretending they are. I won’t be there long. I’m just another foster kid in a stream of foster kids moving through their house.
The bus lurches to a stop in front of a sprawling building and deposits me in front of Boreal Retirement Home before it huffs and drives off. I’m left standing alone on the quiet tree-lined street while the cold wind grabs at me. Here and there, clumps of fallen leaves tumble along the curb. I follow them along the sidewalk to the entrance.
God, I hate fall.
*
The door is locked, and I yank on it a few times before I notice the intercom. Of course it’s locked. This place is full of rich old folks, the ones who can afford the private nurses and full-time chefs and river location. As if they could give a shit. Probably can’t even remember what they had for breakfast. I press the buzzer, and a voice crackles over the intercom speaker. Couldn’t understand a fucking word, but I assume they’re asking my name.
“It’s Morgan. Morgan Fletcher.”
There’s a long pause before the door buzzes and the lock clicks open.
I find the administrative office and pause to knock on the open door. Behind the desk, a middle-aged woman is shuffling through folders.
“Sit down, Morgan,” she says, without even bothering to look up.
So I perch on the edge of one of the chairs and wait. A sign, barely visible among the stacks of papers on the desk, reads “Anne Campbell, RN, Executive Director.” I suppose she’s going to administer my “restorative rehabilitation.”
“All right.” Ms. Campbell sighs, extending the folder in her hand. “You’re Morgan Fletcher.” She removes her glasses and places them on the desk. “I see.”
I know what she sees. She sees what she wants to. She sees my straight black hair, dyed so that it shines like midnight. She sees dark kohl circling my gray eyes, my tight jeans and high black boots and the row of silver studs along my earlobes. She sees my pale face that I’ve made even paler, and my bright red lips. She doesn’t see that I am, maybe, just a little scared. I won’t let her see that.
I slouch back into the chair, and cross my legs. So that’s how it’s going to be. Fine.
Ms. Campbell opens the folder. “Well, Morgan, community hours, is it? It says here that you have agreed to clean up the graffiti and assist with further maintenance work under the direction of our maintenance supervisor.” She looks at me again. “You’ll be here every Tuesday and Thursday right after school for the next four weeks.”
“Yup.” I tap my toe against the front of the desk and look at my fingernails. They are painted red, like my lips. Blood red.
“I see,” she says. Again. Ms. Campbell pauses for a moment, and I can tell that she’s studying me. I know what’s in that folder. I don’t want her judgment. Worse, I don’t want her pity. I shift my gaze to a spider plant on the top of the filing cabinet. She sighs again. “Well, then, I guess we’d better get you introduced to Marty.” She leaves the folder containing my past on her desk, and I have no choice; I follow her down the hall.
Marty is old, but not old like the people who live here. He reminds me of a beardless Santa Claus, complete with round belly framed by red suspenders. His eyebrows have a life of their own, the hairs standing out in all directions and curling down, snowy white and bushy. They make up for the lack of hair elsewhere on his head, which is shiny bald on top but has a scruffy fringe reaching from ear to ear. It is the eyes below the runaway brows that I notice most: piercing blue, the color of the sky on a cold winter day.
Marty’s sitting at his desk, an old card table shoved against one wall of a stocked supply room. On the table is a pile of newspapers and a book with a painting of dancers on the cover. I recognize the artist: Degas. He’s one of my favorites. Our tattered old book had paintings by all the Impressionists, but I liked Degas the most. Marty’s probably using the pages to wipe paintbrushes.
“This is Morgan,” says Ms. Campbell.
He stands up, adjusts his suspenders, and looks at me with those icy blue eyes until I can no longer hold his gaze and look down to the spattered tile floor at my feet.
“Morgan,” he says, nodding. “I’ve been expecting you. Better put on some coveralls.”
Ms. Campbell turns and leaves without saying another word.
I get a feeling Marty has more to do with me being here than she does.
3
Elizabeth
The tea has arrived with its usual punctuality. It is one thing I admire about this place.