“If you don’t mind,” I answer, “just a bit farther out, where the sun can reach.” She obliges me.
Last night, I was restless. I drifted between sleep and wake, walking the world of dreams where the conscious mind slips into illusory tales. I could not see the wolf pacing this time, but felt his hot breath damp against my cold, dry skin. I cast about desperately for Emily, calling her name only to have it drowned by the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs of Porphyry. My hands, slippery with sweat, tore at the branches, hanging like dark curtains shrouding the forest. When I woke with a start, my heart was racing.
Not yet.
I lay there for a time, just breathing. There was no need to turn on a light when I climbed out of bed. I know every inch of my room with despicable intimacy. The single bed covered by the quilt Emily and I stitched so many years ago out of scraps of fabric rescued from the rag bin or clipped from old dresses. One small dresser against the far wall, containing a lifetime of memories pared down to a couple of drawers. The chair that Pa sat in when he read the paper; the only chair that survived and made the journey from the lightkeeper’s house when we left the island. It waited for us, tucked in Maijlis’s attic for almost sixty years, while Emily and I wandered the world. There are days when I think I can still smell smoke clinging to the tattered fabric.
Wearing only a cotton nightgown, my feet bare, I crossed the room and opened the window. The breeze, cool and damp, was quick to respond. My hair, now the color of a snowy owl, clung matted to my forehead, pasted there by the roaming of my sleeping mind. As I eased into Pa’s chair, the air wandered through me, purging the wispy remnants of the dream. I could hear the clear sounds carried by the night. The clanging of a railroad crossing and shunting trains, their diesel engines complaining with the effort. A siren. Ambulance. Someone was facing tragedy. Cars. Not many. It must have been late. Or very early. There was no wind to engage the trees in conversation. It was then that I heard it. Yes. So faint but there.
A fog signal.
I dozed for a time where I sat until the coolness became too much for my thin gown and I made my way back under the quilt to wait for the halls to stir with the sounds of morning.
But now it is midafternoon; the sun has burned all the dampness from the air and warmed the earth enough that I can smell the richness of the soil. Marty’s doing. He knows about compost and mulch. And like the painters in his treasured books, he’s an expert in color. The Michaelmas daisy must be blooming by now; lavender purple with a bright yellow center. Perhaps the Japanese anemone survives still. Certainly the mums last as late as this.
I can hear sparrows foraging beneath the picnic table. There is another sound, too. Scraping. And the faint buzzing tempo of distant music, oddly reminiscent of Mozart. Ah, yes. Marty mentioned this to me. A girl, he said, Morgan. Vandalized the fence several weeks ago and set all sorts of chins wagging about the idleness and disrespect of today’s youth. But not Marty. He told me, in his cursory way, that her painting intrigued him. But it’s the Mozart that intrigues me.
I realize I have been sleeping when I wake to the sound of footsteps heading toward me on the sidewalk. I assume it is the aide, coming to return me to my quarters. What an old lady I am now. Sleeping in a wheelchair, no less, wrapped up like a baby in woolens and fleece. Have I come full circle?
There are three sets of footsteps. Curious. The sparrows continue to chirp, but the steady, rhythmic scraping behind the fence abruptly grows silent.
“Miss Livingstone.” The voice belongs to Ms. Campbell. “These two police officers would like to have a few words with you. Would you like me to bring you inside?”
I should have recognized the sound of their shoes. They would be black and stiff and polished to a shine. “No. No, thank you, Anne. I’m sure anything they have to say can be said right here. Please, have a seat.” I nod in the direction of the picnic tables.
“Very well, then. I’ll be in my office if you need me.” Ms. Campbell’s sensible footwear recedes.
“Miss Livingstone, I’m Constable Ken Barry. This is my partner, Constable Cheryl Coombs.”
I do not offer my hand. I do not wish to be rude, but it has been my experience that officers of the law rarely bring glad tidings.
“We’ve just come from a meeting with the Coast Guard, and . . .” Constable Barry sounds like he is fumbling for his words. “A sailboat was found washed ashore, damaged and abandoned, in Middlebrun Bay near Silver Islet. The boat’s name is Wind Dancer. It was registered to Charles Livingstone. Your brother.”
I can hear the sparrows. It sounds to me like they are quarreling.
“Miss Livingstone, there is a remote chance that he was able to get to shore. The gentleman who discovered her—a man named Arnie Richardson, who says he knows you—managed to wade out and climb aboard. It is possible that Mr. Livingstone made it off the boat safely.” He pauses. “It’s possible, but unfortunately it’s not likely. It would help if we knew why he was out there, out on the Lake at this time of year, and where he might have been going. We could then focus our search. Can you think of anything that could help us?”
There must be more than ten sparrows. They sound like they are in the hydrangea on the far side of the fence, waiting to return to the patio.
One of the officers places something on the table. “These were found on board. They appear to be old logbooks from Porphyry; we think they may have been your father’s. Arnie Richardson thought you should have them. He said he’d heard you moved back to Thunder Bay, that we could find you here.”
The sparrows are moving again; their fluttering wings have carried them to the branches of the lilac bush. They rest for a moment and allow a raven to fill the space with his croaking presence. I am tired. It is time for my afternoon cup of tea. And Marty gave me that tin of shortbread cookies. It is beside the oil lantern. The one that looks like the lamp that was always in the assistant keeper’s house at Porphyry Light. The sparrows would enjoy a few crumbs of shortbread. I will have to remember to bring a cookie or two tomorrow if the weather cooperates and I am able to sit outside again.
But they are waiting. They are waiting for me to say something. They have spoken with Arnie Richardson. They want to know about Charlie. They want to know why he was out on Wind Dancer. They want to know where he was going. They don’t realize he had become a stranger to me. But even at that, I know. There is only one place.
“Porphyry Island. He would have been going to Porphyry Island.”
6
Morgan