At the Water's Edge (15 page)

My father emerged a split second later with bulging eyes and a glistening forehead. He stopped when he saw me, and for an awful moment I thought he might hit me.

He turned to Mrs. Huffman. “Pack Madeline's things. All of them,” he said, before swiveling on his heels and marching to his study. When he slammed the door, another door, somewhere upstairs, slammed even harder.

Mrs. Huffman and I poked our heads into the drawing room.

It looked like a war zone. Every vase was smashed, every photograph shattered. The curio table was on its side and missing a leg, and, most spectacularly, the grandfather clock lay on its face, its casing exploded, surrounded by splinters of wood, shards of glass, springs, coils, and cogs.

As I surveyed the damage, an immeasurable thrill swelled up within me, the closest thing to ecstasy I'd ever experienced. If nobody
smoothed this over, I might actually get out, perhaps even with my nose and frontal lobe intact. For the first time ever, I decided not to go up to my mother, and I prayed—actually prayed—that neither parent would yield.

I did get out. Four days later. But not before finding my mother submerged in the bathtub, her hair floating around her like Ophelia's, and an empty bottle of nerve pills by her outstretched hand.

I had broken down and gone upstairs less than an hour after the argument. She had gambled that I would come sooner.

A formation of planes whizzed past, startling me out of my reverie. Meg had told me that “our own fellows” flew by all the time, and that there was nothing to worry about unless the siren was blaring. Nonetheless, it shattered what was left of my nerves.

I walked to the field of white ponies, who once again approached the fence to see if I had anything for them. I unwrapped my sandwich and offered up tiny pieces of crust, but they yanked their heads back in disgust. Realizing that I'd just tried to feed them part of a meat sandwich, I murmured helpless apologies and then ate the crusts myself. Moments later, I devoured the whole thing.

When I passed the graveyard, a single crow appeared overhead, circling and cawing as though it had a personal grievance. It also seemed to be following me. Certainly it was still above me when I reached the entrance to the Cover, and I ducked down the wooded path simply to get away from it. I hadn't gone far before realizing I was being ridiculous, and stopped to get my bearings.

The trees and vegetation were dense, and the ground squelched beneath my feet. I was surrounded by the sound of rushing water, and although the trees were leafless, everything around me was iridescent green, verdant even, with moss clinging to the ground and fallen trunks, and dangling in lacy tangles from branches.

The forest floor was dotted with beautiful toadstools. They were tiny and shaped like chalices, their outsides an unremarkable fawn,
but their interiors were the most spectacular scarlet I'd ever seen. I picked a few and put them in my pocket. As I did so, I found the compass. It was all I could do to not throw it into the trees.

Before long, I came upon a fast-moving river and followed the path beside it. When it veered sharply to the right, I realized that by ducking and dodging, I could see the loch through the trees.

To get closer, I would have had to cross a stream that was feeding the river. There were stones suitably spaced, but I imagined myself slipping, breaking an ankle, and not being found for days, which was entirely possible if Ellis's and Hank's hangovers lasted more than a day, or if the “hair of the dog” turned into another bender.

The idea of not being found swelled into a frenzied panic when, after forty minutes of trying to find my way out, I realized I was going in circles.

I switched directions. I took different paths. I went back to the loch and used the compass to try to figure out which direction the village was, but the paths were hopelessly twisted and there turned out to be multiple rivers. I was Gretel, on my own, and it was too late to start dropping crumbs, because I'd eaten them.

Maybe Mr. Ross or Meg would notice if I didn't show up for dinner—or maybe they'd just assume I was sleeping one off, like Ellis and Hank. Even if they noticed I was gone, they'd have no idea where to start looking.

What kind of an idiot wanders blithely into a forest?

I was about to sit on a log and cry when I caught sight through the trees of a woman kneeling on the opposite side of the river. She was washing what looked like a rust-stained shirt, rubbing it against a large upright stone. Her hair was tied in a kerchief and her clothes were old-fashioned—a long green skirt made of rough cloth, an apron, and worn brown boots that went up past her ankles.

“Excuse me! Hello!” I cried, stumbling forward.

She stopped scrubbing and looked at me. Her eyes glistened with tears, and when she blinked, a single drop fell into the river. Her lips were slightly parted, exposing a snaggletooth. The whole effect startled
me, bringing me to a temporary stop, but soon I was staggering around the winding path, hands on tree trunks, trying to get closer to her.

“Hello! Ma'am? Excuse me! I'm sorry to intrude, but can you please tell me…”

My voice trailed off when I came around a bend that should have put me directly across from her. She wasn't there.

I scanned the bank quickly, confirming by the uniquely shaped rock that this was indeed where she'd been. I looked around desperately, listening for the sound of footsteps or crackling branches. There was no sign of her, yet I couldn't figure out where she could possibly have gone, or what I had done to make her flee. It was as though she'd simply vanished.

“Please come back!” I shouted, but the only answer was the sound of rushing water and the cawing of the crow, which was still somewhere above me.

“I'm lost! Please!” I yelled one last time, before sinking to my knees and bursting into tears. I stayed like that for about ten minutes, sobbing like a child.

Eventually, I pulled myself together. I got up, wiped my face with the backs of my gloves, and brushed off my coat, which was muddied from kneeling. Then I straightened my scarf and staggered forward, using the umbrella as a walking stick.

W
hen I finally found my way out of the Cover, the sight of open sky and the towering, rugged hills made me weep again, only this time with joy and a completely unexpected rush of gratitude to the divine.

Although nominally Protestant, I'd given up prayer many years before. The last time I'd prayed for something, my request had been granted, but the means of my delivery to boarding school had apparently required my mother's death.

Despite my dubious history with God, I was so grateful at being delivered from the Cover that I decided to stop by the church and offer up a small thanks—but only if it still felt right when I got there, and only without asking for anything specific, and only if there was no one else in the building.

I had just climbed the steps when I saw Mr. Ross at the grave I'd found so tragic the first day I'd gone walking, the one with the young family whose members had perished so close together. He had his back to me, but I recognized his broad shoulders and unruly hair.

After a moment he knelt and placed his hand on the granite marker. He bowed his head and stayed that way for several minutes.
Then he put something on the ground, rose, and headed for the gate, where Conall was waiting. He trudged up the road toward the inn with the dog at his hip, never knowing I was there.

I descended the steps and went to the grave. He'd left a handful of snowdrops.

“Willie the Postie came by with some letters for you. I set them by the register,” Meg said when I came in.

She was behind the bar holding glasses up to the light and then wiping them with a dish towel.

I hung up my coat and collected the letters. There were several addressed to Hank and Ellis, which I dropped on the counter, and one addressed to me, sent by airmail. I recognized the handwriting immediately. My relief was so great I almost dropped it.

I sat by the fire and tore it open.

January 18, 1945

Dearest Madeline,

I was most surprised to receive your telegram. I can't imagine how you think I could—or would, for that matter—arrange for an airplane to save you from your “awful mistake.” Have you any idea what that would entail? Clearly not. I take partial responsibility for that, having shielded you from the realities of life as best I could. You embarked on a most foolish and dangerous endeavor without affording me so much as the courtesy of a discussion, thus depriving me of the opportunity of saving you from yourself—much as you did when you decided to get married behind my back and without my permission.

I had to learn of your most recent hijinx second- or even thirdhand from cohorts of Frederick Stillman amid rumors of nefarious and, dare I say it, arguably treasonous dealings. Until your telegram, I had no indication that you had even survived the journey. I have taken the liberty of informing the Hydes and
Boyds that their offspring also survived, since you did not indicate otherwise.

I wish you had come to me, my dear, but since you did not, I can do nothing for you. I will not bankrupt myself to bail you out of a situation entirely of your own making and that any sane person would recognize as, well, not. Whether you intended it or not, you have once again made my life most difficult.

Most sincerely,

Your Father

P.S. You should probably know that your in-laws are furious, and your friend Freddie has his own fish to fry.

P.P.S. I agree that you should stay away from the ocean. I'm afraid I think you should stay put until the end of the war. I wish you luck.

I stared at the letter long after I finished reading it. He'd written and sent it the same day he received the telegram. I knew that it would be difficult and expensive to arrange for a flight, but it was certainly not impossible. The Germans didn't control the airspace, and military commanders flew back and forth all the time. He'd simply decided I wasn't worth saving, apparently without even taking the time to sleep on it.

I put the letter back in the envelope and tossed it into the fire. Within seconds it was engulfed in flames—white, orange, red—and then finally was just a rectangle of black melding into the charred logs.

I realized Meg was watching.

“Is everything all right?” she asked.

“No. Not really.”

She continued to stare at me, but I could not think of a thing to add.

I stayed by the fire through the rest of the afternoon and then into the evening, as the locals filed in and the lumberjacks arrived in groups. I was barely aware of them. I didn't even respond when Conall slunk over and plopped down at my feet.

“You haven't moved in hours,” said Meg, bringing me a glass of sherry. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I'm afraid not,” I said. “But thanks for asking.”

Meg stiffened. “Here they come.”

I turned to watch as Hank and Ellis emerged from the stairwell. Although they'd shaved and gotten changed, they looked every bit as sepulchral as they had in the morning.

Meg came over immediately, bringing their mail and a letter opener.

“Two whiskeys,” Hank said, taking them from her. “Make them doubles. And keep them coming.”

The letters were responses to the advertisement they'd placed in
The Inverness Courier
from people who'd seen the monster and were willing to be interviewed, and the excitement of that—along with the whiskey—brought them both back to life. They consulted their watches and decided that it was not too late to call. Hank waved Mr. Ross over.

“We need to use the telephone,” he said.

“It's up the street,” said Mr. Ross, stroking his beard.

“What do you mean it's ‘up the street'?” said Ellis.

“I mean it's
up the street
,” Mr. Ross repeated, folding his arms across his thick green sweater.

“There's a telephone booth just a little ways up the road,” I said, not exactly clarifying, but hoping to defuse. “It's not far. I think it takes coins.”

“It does,” said Mr. Ross, nodding. “Do you need change?”

“You don't have a telephone? You don't have electricity
and
you don't have a telephone?” Ellis said.

“Ellis, knock it off,” said Hank. “You're giving me a headache.”

Mr. Ross went back behind the bar. Our eyes met a couple of times, and after that I was careful not to look.

I wondered if he'd always worn a beard, and what he'd look like without it. I wondered why he didn't have a wife, for there was nothing wrong with him that a little feminine attention couldn't fix. I wondered what it would be like to be married to him.

I wondered what it would be like to be married to anyone other than Ellis. Had the coin fallen the other way, would I have let myself be persuaded that I was in love with Hank and married him instead? Probably. Either way, I'd have been bamboozled into a marriage as real as the monster tracks Marmaduke Wetherell had pressed into the shores of the loch with his hippo foot.

I was still lost in thought when the policeman arrived, and noticed only because Hank and Ellis fell silent. The tired-looking man, in his mid- to late fifties, stopped just inside the door.

“Bob!” Meg called from across the room. “Bob the Bobby! We haven't seen you in ages. Any news from your Alec?”

“Some. We've had letters. He can't tell us where he is, but he did say he's flying a Spitfire.”

“Well, that's something, isn't it?” said Meg. “It's a pally ally you'll be wanting, I assume?”

“I'm afraid not,” he said regretfully. “Joanie's had me sign the pledge. Also, I'm here on official business.”

“Oh?” said Meg.

The policeman cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “Angus, do you think I might have a wee moment?”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Ross, coming around the bar. He joined the bobby by the door.

Hank, who had his back to them, put his finger to his lips. Ellis gave a knowing smirk, and both of them rearranged themselves into better listening positions.

“It's about the…
incident
,” said the bobby, dropping his voice to a whisper on the final word. “You know normally I wouldn't bother you
with such things, but I'm afraid you did throw the water bailiff in the river.”

“Aye, that I did. And I'd do it again. He deserved it, speaking like he owned the place.”

“I've no doubt, no doubt at all,” said the bobby, shaking his head sympathetically. “Only, he made an official complaint up at Inverness, and so I am forced to say something. And there it is. I've said something.”

“It's all right, Bob,” said Mr. Ross. “I understand.”

“Only, could you show just a wee bit more restraint next time?” The policeman held his forefinger and thumb so close they were almost touching. “Perhaps in the future you could just dangle him the tiniest bit?”

“Certainly. Next time I'll just dip his toes. His socks won't even get wet.”

The bobby laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “That's grand, Angus. You know I wouldn't interfere if there hadn't been an official complaint. You know we all appreciate everything you do.” He lowered his voice again. “My mother greatly appreciated the bit of salmon the other day.”

“Ach,” said Mr. Ross, waving him off. “That could have been anyone.”

“We know perfectly well who it was.”

Our landlord waved again and said, “If your business is concluded sufficiently for the purposes of reporting to Inverness, how about a wee dram on the house?”

“But Joanie's had me sign the pledge…”

“Just a wee one. And you know what they say. Always carry a large flagon of whiskey in case of snakebite, and further, always carry a small snake.”

“I've not heard that,” said the bobby. “Who said that?”

“Some American film guy. Has a potato for a nose. A jowly sort of fellow.”

“Well, it's bloody brilliant. But what's wrong with a potato for a nose?”

“Absolutely nothing. And if Joanie finds out, I'll get you an adder. Or throw you in the river. Whichever sounds better at the time, in terms of needing a dram for consolation,” said Mr. Ross, draping an arm across the man's shoulders and leading him to the bar.

“Well in that case I don't suppose it would do any harm,” said the bobby, a look of relief flooding his face. The men at the bar, the locals, pulled a stool up beside them and welcomed him.

“Poaching,” said Ellis, tapping his chin and staring at Hank. “That carries quite a stiff penalty, if I'm not mistaken.”