Summer Harbor (31 page)

They climbed from the boat into
Blithe Spirit,
carrying two cans of gasoline. Grainger tossed her anchor over, careful that its line slid between the bitt and into the chock, then executed a figure-eight maneuver around a cleat to hold the anchor line tense enough, short enough, that there would be very little swing.

With a graceful sweeping motion, Kiley and Grainger drained the two gasoline cans all over the deck, cockpit, and sole of the little vessel. The slow action reminded Grainger a little of the ritual blessing of the fleet, holy water cast at the bows of the fishing boats.

He handed Kiley back into the Zodiac and followed. Then he motored away just far enough that he thought his old pitching arm would still reach. Grainger lit a flare and stood up, and Kiley put one hand on his belt to balance him. He pitched and the flare landed in
Blithe Spirit
’s cockpit. In an instant the boat was on fire, flames spreading like liquid up the sides and to the mast, where the varnish bubbled and the fire crawled upward as a sailor climbs.

He remembered climbing the mainmast of the schooner he’d been first mate on, remembered the feel of the swaying beneath his feet in the footropes, his safety dependent on his sense of balance. Now Kiley held him, and he was balanced. He sat down beside her and they wept, clutched together, feeling the heat from the fire on their wet faces, and knowing that they both were free.

The smoke began to rise in the still, purple-colored air. In a few minutes it would begin to rain; lightning was already streaking the eastern sky. Thunder, its voice unrestricted by the open ocean beyond Maiden Cove, rumbled on and on, like a baritone singing plainsong.

Their pyre rose higher and higher, and in the smoke and flames they imagined that they saw Mack’s spirit rise. He, too, at last was free.

It was just past four o’clock, and the living room was winter dark as Will came through the front door. Before he even shrugged off his coat, Will plugged in the Christmas tree lights, then stood back to admire the big spruce cluttered with packages under its widely spread lower branches. On Christmas Eve there would be even more, when Nana and Pop got there and added their gifts to the pile. And, in a silly adherence to implausible belief, on Christmas morning there would be three or four for him signed by Santa.

In his left hand, Will carried the mail. Mixed in with the bills addressed to his mother and the Christmas cards addressed to them both was an envelope with just his name on it—one he’d been waiting for ever since finishing his last class of the semester. One that, in some sense, he’d been waiting for forever.

Mom would be home from her new job at the hospital in a few minutes, so if he wanted to read it in privacy, he should open it now. Yet with deliberate slowness, Will sorted the day’s mail into three piles. Holiday cards, bills, junk. He kept the envelope marked “GenSearch” in his hand.

Twice his mom and Grainger had come up to Ithaca to see him at school. The first time, on Parent’s Weekend in October, they had told him they were moving the wedding date up. It seemed that they’d gotten a head start on a sibling for him.

“Too much information,” he’d protested, but the truth was that he was very excited about having a little sister or brother, even if he was nearly grown and would pretty much be outside of the family unit. He pictured himself coming to visit, the look of adoring delight on a toddler’s face as he brought a present guaranteed to please, making sand castles on the beach.

Will took the envelope into the living room, setting it unopened on the couch as he laid a fire in the fireplace. Next year, the Santa gifts would be innumerable. Never very far below the surface was the question: Would the child be fully his brother or sister, or genetically half? Despite the unwelcome persistence of the thought, Will knew that he’d never consider the baby anything less than his full sibling.

He sat in front of the fire, teasing the flame into catching, then building, throwing its warmth on his cold face. The old Sunderland house was still a work in progress, but Grainger and his mother had made great inroads on rehabbing the place. This fireplace was one of the first completed projects, and the best feature of the eighteenth-century house.

Will played with the edge of the envelope, running it between his thumb and forefinger, turning it over and staring at the address. In his grasp lay the answer to his lifelong question. He half hoped the envelope would open itself, a magical act that would absolve him of having asked the question. Grainger had lived up to his promise and allowed a swab of cheek cells to be sent to GenSearch. That was the second time he and Kiley had come together to visit, just before finals. Grainger had taken them out to dinner afterward, Catherine with them. While they told stories of life on campus to entertain the adults, Will could see Grainger looking at him, amusement or fondness in his eyes. It didn’t matter to Grainger if their blood was the same or not. He loved him as a son; whether his own or Mack’s, it didn’t matter. It was Will’s question, his search. And he knew that once his paternity was known, there would be no unknowing it.

Will heard the back door open and his mother call to see if he was home. He still held the envelope in his hand—the one that would forever define his life and his relationship to his sibling, and to his father, whoever he turned out to be.

“I’m in here, Mom.”

Will stood up, and dropped the envelope into the flames.

A dark wisp of smoke rose up as the thin paper caught, rising skyward toward the night.