Then he closed the door and she listened to his footsteps walking away.
Sometimes Loo caught glimpses of her grandmother at the market or heading to the Catholic church on Sundays. If the old woman saw them on the street she stepped into a store and waited until they had passed. When Loo pointed her out, Hawley would say only that Loo looked an awful lot like her mother, and that eventually Mabel Ridge would come around.
“We’re family,” he said. “Whether she likes it or not.”
—
A MONTH PASSED and then another. Little by little Loo got used to the quiet in their new house, to hearing the floors creak in the middle of the night and the rattle of old storm windows instead of highway traffic. When he was home Hawley cut through the silence, kicking off his boots and shouting her name up the stairs. But her father knew how to be quiet, too. More than once he’d snuck up on her in the kitchen, or startled Loo on the roof outside her window. He would not be there. And then—he was there. Clearing his throat or striking a match and making her jump.
One morning she woke to the sound of a bell ringing outside. She ran downstairs and saw Hawley coasting past on a new yellow bicycle. It was her first. He showed her how to ride it in the driveway. He kept his hand on the back of the seat until she got her balance, running alongside. It took most of the day, but eventually she made it down the street and then around the block. She did not notice when he let go.
Together they went to the marine supply store and picked up waders and tools for fishing and clamming. Hawley had learned how to cast and dig for quahogs from his father, and Loo could tell he was excited to show her what he knew. Just before sunrise he shook her awake and led her through the woods to the shoreline. She had never seen the tide out so far, the water just a streak in the distance. The uncovered sand was littered with shells and crabs and a multitude of tiny, tiny holes.
“Watch this,” her father said. Then he crouched and jumped, all six foot four inches, lifting his knees high. His body hung in the air, suspended for a moment, before both of his feet came down with a loud, hard thump. All around them the buried clams released streams of water, squirting straight into the air like hidden fountains. And at that moment Loo knew that they would really stay, that this place was different from all the others: the whole beach springing to life in the early morning, and her father grinning from ear to ear, like he’d just shown her the best thing in the world.
—
AT THE END of summer Loo enrolled in the local junior high. Hawley dug out her transfer file—which included past report cards, recent test scores, copies of her birth certificate and records to prove she had all her shots—and brought it with them to the principal’s office. Loo had gone to seven schools in seven states. This was number eight.
After her placement test they were told that she’d done well enough to skip a year ahead, and would be joining the eighth grade. The principal was a portly, soft-spoken Swede with hair so blond it was nearly white, and a habit of belching whenever he was nervous. He smiled and shook Loo’s hand with his meaty fingers.
“Your mother and I went to school together.”
“Here?” Loo asked. “In this place?”
“There’ve been improvements, of course, but yes, it’s the same building.”
Loo looked around at the steam pipe radiators, the giant windows, the marble steps and lines of old metal lockers. The students eyed her as they walked by. The boys and girls seemed friendly enough. Maybe eight was her lucky number.
“So you knew her,” Hawley said. “Lily.”
“We were friends,” said Principal Gunderson.
“Tell me something.”
“What?”
“About her.” Loo’s father had stepped up close to the principal. He was at least a foot taller than Gunderson, and she could tell he was making the man nervous. Hawley was missing his left earlobe—the cartilage scarred and twisted just beneath the canal—and the principal was trying not to stare.
When she was younger her father used to tell her that a bird had snatched his ear away. Then it was a horse, then a lion, then a cow, then a dog. Loo would imagine each of these animals, setting their teeth into his skin, then she would pull on Hawley’s hair to cover it up.
“She was a free spirit,” said Principal Gunderson. “Everyone liked Lily.”
“That’s not what she told me.”
“I mean, well, I mean,” the principal released a gush of air, then attempted to swallow it back down. “I liked Lily. Perhaps that would be more accurate. I liked Lily very much.”
Hawley remained close, looking down at the man in front of him, as if he was trying to figure out a problem. And then he stepped back, and held out his hand. “Thanks,” he said, “for taking care of Loo.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help you settle in, just let me know.” The man was relieved now, talking fast. As if he had passed some test of his own. “And you should come by the Sawtooth, my family’s restaurant. We’ve got the best fish and chips in town.”
“How about clams?” Loo asked. “Do you sell clams to people, too?”
“Yes, clams too,” said Gunderson.
Hawley glanced at his daughter. Then he reached up and tugged his missing ear.
—
WHEN THE FISHERMEN heard that Samuel Hawley was selling his catch directly to Gunderson’s restaurant, there were complaints, especially from Joe Strand and Pauly Fisk, who sold their shellfish at the weekly market and didn’t like outsiders or competition. Joe Strand and Pauly Fisk had grown up in Olympus. Neither of them had ever left. Fisk was on the portly side, and always wore the same baseball cap with the words “Hong Kong” sewn in the front. Strand liked to keep a small patch of wiry scrub at the base of his lower lip, that he credited with attracting the ladies. They both had ex-wives and sons who lived with them that they struggled to like.
Neither of the men picked a fight out in the open with Hawley, but that didn’t stop them from spreading rumors about folks getting sick off his oysters, or from pouring bleach down on Hawley’s shoreline, either, killing off a whole mess of littlenecks.