I paused before descending and turned back toward David, standing awash in the light of dawn. “I hadn’t thought of more,” I said, “but I do now.”
Throughout summer, we continued to welcome visitors from as near as Silver Islet, as well as from Port Arthur and Fort William and occasionally, on yachts traveling the Great Lakes from as far away as Chicago. Emily did not wander often, and at that, it was never far. She tended to shun the boaters who dropped their anchors in the bay or moored at the wooden dock, and for their part, the young people who arrived with their picnic baskets for day trips avoided her. Although the night at the cemetery had faded to distant memory, there were stories about the reclusive woman who ran the light at Porphyry and her strange daughter who didn’t speak, but wandered through the woods like a ghost, enchanting animals. I was comfortable that Emily kept to herself, content with her pencils and papers and paints. Perhaps that was why I felt I could let down my guard to slip away that late summer day, shrugging off the bond that clasped us so tightly together, to satisfy my reckless young heart.
We had not planned it, although we leaped at the opportunity to venture off alone. Mother was salting fish that David had brought back as payment after a day helping the Niemis lift nets. Emily was sitting in a wooden deck chair, overlooking the cobbled beach near the point. The waves were not large, but they paraded toward the shore and then disappeared, hissing, between the stones. I knew she would be absorbed for hours watching the patterns shape and reshape themselves as the water stained the dark ground and the sun battled to dry it. David and I set off in Sweet Pea with instructions from Mother to check the snares and bring in a basket of new potatoes from our garden plot on Edward Island. He brought along his shotgun, hoping to find partridge bathing in dusty bowls of dirt or foraging in the shrubbery.
As we headed out from the boat harbor, we could see a vessel approaching from the west, and recognized it as the Richardsons’ boat. It did not surprise me in the least; I had expected the cottagers from Silver Islet to visit on the last few weekends of summer. School would be starting soon, and the leisure of holidays and excursions to the islands would come to an end as young men headed back to Queens or McGill or the University of Toronto. I watched them pull into the boat harbor as David guided Sweet Pea into Walker’s Channel and around the point to where Pa had dug a root garden many years ago. I waved at Arnie. His cousins were with him, Everett and Jake; they often returned to visit for a few weeks before the routine of autumn settled in. I had not spoken with them for years. I had no desire to.
We grew a variety of vegetables at the point—tomatoes, beans, peas, squash—but the soil was too shallow for much else. This place was much better suited to potatoes, beets, and carrots, but its relative isolation also meant the rabbits were able to readily feast on the plants. As we beached Sweet Pea, we flushed a partridge, and David headed off in pursuit while I checked the snares near the garden. They were empty.
The sun beat down, surprisingly warm for the end of August. As I worked, digging the rows of potatoes, the sweat began to prick my neck and trickle between my breasts. Inspired by Millie, I had taken to wearing pants a few years back, finding them much easier to move in, but that day I longed for a flowing cotton skirt that allowed the freedom of the wind. I harvested judiciously, loosening the soil beneath each mound before reaching my hand in to select one or two potatoes from each plant, leaving the others undisturbed to continue drinking in the rainfall and drawing nutrients from the earth for a few more precious weeks. By the time my basket was full, my hands were caked with soil, my blouse was sticking to me, and my face was flushed, streaked with dirt and sweat. I gazed longingly at the blue-black water.
In the heat of the midafternoon, I gave in to its deceptive allure, stripped off my clothing, and slid into the cool embrace of the Lake.
I tried to tell myself afterward that I did not think of David. It isn’t true. I did. I thought of him watching me floating on the grounded sky, my black hair fanned about my head, my skin pale against the darkness of the water. It is easier for me to say that I did not think of him. That I did not plan it. That it had not been my intent. But I did. I thought of him, and felt his eyes on me. And it is what I wanted.
When I emerged, my skin tingling and my bones aching, gasping from the cold, he was standing there, a lone partridge dangling by its feet in one hand, its wings slightly agape, and his gun resting on his shoulder. I stood shivering, water dripping from my hair and running down my back to slide into the Lake like a spring stream. He laid the gun on the grass, the hen beside it, picking up my blouse and pants and holding them out to me. I looked up into his face; his eyes were twinkling with amusement that hadn’t touched his mouth, his brow furrowed in mock reproach. I reached for my clothes with one hand, the other remaining wrapped about my chest, but he drew back, beyond my reach. I did my best to scowl at him, taking a step out of the water, and he responded by stepping farther away, the grin breaking free, dancing about his cheeks. I darted toward him, snatching at my clothes, but his grip on them was firm. He dragged me to him until I was wrapped in his arms, warm with the heat of the sun against the damp water of the Lake still clinging to my skin. I shivered, not with cold, breathing in the smell of him, the tang of his sweat, the remnants of gunpowder, a hint of tobacco. My clothes dropped forgotten to the ground.
We spent the afternoon beneath the trees, the warblers and vireos serenading us, drinking water straight from the Lake, eating late-season wild raspberries, and dozing beneath the cloud-dusted canopy of blue. It was the first time I felt wholly and completely free.
We returned home at twilight. I lied to my mother, telling her that we had been unable to start the outboard motor and that David had spent most of the afternoon taking it apart and putting it back together again.
“Where’s Emily?” I asked, placing the basket of potatoes on the floor and heading upstairs to prepare the light.
“I haven’t seen her for many hours,” was her reply. “But I’m sure she’ll be home before the light is shining. She never stays away long now.”