The Treasure of Maria Mamoun (13 page)

“That would be nice,” Celeste said as Maria coasted to a stop in front of them, at the last moment putting her foot down to stop herself from tipping over. “Instead of leaving her alone to die. I'm just saying.” Celeste's eyes twinkled.

Maria had never seen her mother laugh, but sometimes she did kid a little, like she was kidding now. It meant she was in a good mood. She'd been in a lot of good moods lately. Definitely more often than back in the Bronx.

Frank spent the rest of the evening helping Maria ride, until she could mount, turn, brake, and dismount all by herself. They quit only when it became too dark to see. Then they sat around the tiny kitchen table, sharing Hattie's lasagna, green salad, and peach cobbler.

“That poor guy has to drive all the way up-island,” Celeste said after Frank left. “That was very nice of him to help you like that.”

“He
is
very nice,” Maria said.

“Yes, maybe.” Celeste gathered up the dirty dishes and took them to the sink. “Tonight he definitely went beyond the call of duty.”

“So I can ride the bike off the estate now, right?” Maria asked. “Frank taught me everything I need to know, and Hattie says the bike path is perfectly safe.”

“Yes, fine, fine, all right, as long as you wear your helmet,” Celeste said. “But if you kill yourself, don't come crying to me.”

*   *   *

The next morning, after she had discharged her dog-walking duties, Maria ran back to the cottage and packed for her first day of bicycle freedom. She stuffed the leather-bound map, a bottle of water, and a chocolate bar in her school backpack. Then she found her mother's cell phone and threw it in, just in case. Her mother didn't take it with her to the Great House because there was no reception there, or anywhere on the estate. Celeste complained that she had to walk halfway down the long drive to make a static-filled call. Though Maria wasn't sure whom she would call if she needed help. She had no idea what the Great House phone number was, and she didn't even know if Frank or Hattie had cell phones. But at least she could dial 911 if she had to. And the screen could function as a watch.

Her tires crunched over the crushed-shell drive. Then the bike path began where the private road ended, and it ran parallel to the main road all the way to town. A nice wide margin of grass separated Maria from passing cars. The route
was
easy to follow—a straight shot most of the way, with few hills, and signs at every turn. Clearly the island had been set up for tourists.

After a couple of miles, she stopped being afraid and began to enjoy the ride. It seemed summer was nearly here. Green washed the fields, and the trees had leafed out. Even the air smelled fresh and warm.

She pedaled past sweet summer cottages and glorious mansions. She passed a school, but all the children were inside and the building was quiet. Maria felt relieved as she slipped past, unnoticed. More than a few farms had horses or cows that looked up as she whizzed by. A heron fished in a salt pond, and a man in hip-high rubber boots stood in the shallows dragging a long pole through the glassy water. She stopped briefly to watch, and saw an osprey being harried by three crows.

She found the library easily enough, and neither the librarian nor the few patrons asked why she wasn't in school. Maybe this, too, was a function of a tourist-centered town—maybe they just assumed she was on an early vacation with her family. The librarian simply smiled and handed Maria a slip of paper with a password and a computer cubicle number.

“We'd like you to keep it to half an hour,” the librarian said. “Unless no one is waiting.”

Maria quickly located a useful website about privateers. Apparently they
were
like pirates, only they worked for the government, raiding enemy ships. But then she decided it didn't really matter. What was more important was figuring out about Captain Murdefer, why all his stuff was in her cottage, and which outer island he'd visited. Perhaps it was best to start with something concrete. Like Captain Murdefer's boat,
Le Dernier Corsair
. But she got too many results and they were all in French. Though she didn't speak or read French, she knew enough from the snippets her mother said to recognize the language.

She went to a translation website, typed in the boat's name, and selected “French to English.” The translation box read
The Last Corsair
.

She dictionaried
Corsair
. The definition came up: “1. a pirate; 2. a privateer [from Old French
corsaire
pirate, from Medieval Latin
cursarius
, from Latin].”

So
Le Dernier Corsair
meant “The Last Privateer.” It was the same name as Mr. Ironwall's sailboat, but in French. She sat back and considered what that meant. It definitely meant that Mr. Ironwall had been playing her when he said he had no idea who Captain Murdefer was, because he'd named his sailboat after Captain Murdefer's boat.

Out of curiosity, Maria typed:
Murdefer, French to English
.

Do you mean mur de fer?
the computer asked. The cursor blinked at her.

Maria replaced
Murdefer
with
mur de fer
and hit Enter.

The English box said “wall of iron.”

Maria sat back in the chair and stared at the screen. Wall of Iron.
Iron wall
.

Murdefer
was French for Ironwall.

*   *   *

On the bike ride home Maria thought about her discovery. Something Hattie had said on that first day—what was it? All of Mr. Ironwall's ancestors had been captains: whalers, merchants, maybe even pirates. Captain Murdefer must have been an ancestor of Mr. Ironwall's. That was why the cottage had an oil painting of Captain Murdefer's ship, and his old treasure map. That's why Mr. Ironwall and his cousins went out looking for pirate treasure. They'd hoped to find their ancestor's secret cache. But he said they never did find any treasure. So there must still be a secret cache out there to be found. Which brought her back to her original problem—how to get to the outer islands?

Maria was so lost in thought she didn't notice that she'd ridden back to the school until she heard the loud voices. A pack of wild children spilled out the open doors and into the parking lot, laughing and screaming.

Maria slowed her bicycle and stopped beside a bus shelter. It hid her from the crowd, but she could watch them. If they stayed, if her mother kept her job, she would have to join that pack next September. They seemed as wild as the kids from back home, with their yelling and shoving. She wondered if Paolo was in that crowd. She pushed off and pedaled quickly away, before any of them could reach her. She didn't stop pedaling until she was safely at the estate.

 

19

U
P
-I
SLAND

Maria had completely forgotten they'd promised to go to dinner at Frank's house that evening, and by the time she got back to the cottage, her mother and Frank were already sitting outside waiting for her.

Now Frank drove Maria and Celeste up-island in his old truck. Maria dreaded the whole thing. Paolo would be there. Maybe if she stuck with her mother and didn't say anything to him it would be okay. But her dread grew as they turned down one dirt road after another, each more potholed and narrow than the last, until they came to two tire tracks between a stump and a mailbox. They rattled down that for a bit, then the track abruptly ended. An old woman appeared and grabbed Maria as soon as she tumbled out of the truck.

“I'm Ella Newcomb, but you can call me Grandma—everyone else does.” She looped her arm through Maria's.

The old lady was nearly as round as she was tall, and she wasn't very tall at all. She looked like a cartoon grandmother. She wore a cotton dress with an apron overtop, and her gray hair was in a bun. She had a homely round face, as if made of dough, and her ocean-colored eyes sparkled.

Maria's mother introduced herself, putting out her hand. “And this is my daughter, Maria.”

“I know! I've heard all about you from the boys! They can't stop talking about you two—so that's why I made them invite you.” Grandma Newcomb winked at Frank. “Now I know why you keep going on.”

“I brought you
arak
.” Celeste held out a bottle-shaped package.

Grandma Newcomb unwrapped the paper and inspected the blue bottle with unreadable gold script. “Well, isn't that interesting.”

“It's a special Lebanese drink,” Celeste explained. “It tastes like licorice and you have to put the ice in first, then when you pour it over, it turns white.”

“Well, we'll have to try it at dinner.” Grandma Newcomb guided them up a slate stone path. “Pops's still napping. Those pain pills he's got for his back knock him out—then he doesn't sleep well at night. I wanted to ask you about that, Celeste, what you think of them. I wonder if he's getting too much. He cracked some vertebrae falling off a ladder a number of years back, but he can still get around just fine.”

Before them spread the Newcomb compound—two cedar shake houses and a handful of weathered sheds. The buildings looked ancient, with their shingles silver and their rooflines sagging. Chickens ranged through the vegetable patch, bees buzzed around a couple of wooden hives, and starlings swarmed the apple trees that were just beginning to show little green apples.

“Those birds are a nuisance—they got all my blueberries last year, so I had to chicken-wire them. We'll see what we get this year.” The old lady gestured to some bushes covered in wire mesh.

“Grandma and Pops make nearly all the family's food from what they grow and hunt,” Frank explained.

“Oh, now that's an exaggeration,” Grandma Newcomb said. “Pops hardly hunts anymore. Harry—that's my eldest, he won't be home till the five o'clock ferry—Harry brings home a deer or a turkey now and again. Pops just fishes and rakes oysters. You want to see them? Bet you city gals have never seen oysters like these. We can have some for supper.” Grandma Newcomb led Maria and Celeste to a patch between two raspberry bushes.

“Got to keep a stone on the lid or the raccoons get in.” The old lady bent with a grunt to lift a rock off a wooden cover set in the ground.

Underneath, dug into the dirt, was a white plastic bucket. Grandma lifted a batch of seaweed, then a damp sponge, and revealed a pile of living oysters.

“They stay cool and fresh for weeks this way. Paolo, get us about— Where'd that boy go?” She looked around the yard, and then turned to Maria. “He was here right before you arrived. You like oysters?”

“I don't know, I've never tried them,” Maria said. Maybe Paolo was avoiding her, too. Good.

“Oh, well then, we've got Pops, me…” She counted on her fingers. “We'll need about fifty or so. Frank can get them, can't you, Frank? I'm taking these ladies in. Hattie's baking and she'll want to see you.”

Maria looked warily about for Paolo, but he was nowhere to be seen. Grandma Newcomb bustled them into the kitchen. It was a tiny room with a low-hanging ceiling made even lower by the exposed beams hung all over with bunches of dried herbs, ropes of garlic, and strings of chili peppers. Maria pointed at the chilies and garlic—clearly
someone
in the family cooked with spices—and Celeste shrugged.

Like their cottage on the Ironwall Estate, the kitchen, living room, and dining room were all one space, with the separate areas defined and divided by counters and handmade furniture. A large woodstove took up a great deal of the room, and it was not only their source of heat, but also their cookstove and oven. A kettle steamed on top, and something fragrant simmered in a cast-iron pot.

Hattie was rolling out biscuits on the sideboard and she waved Celeste over to keep her company. Maria found herself alone with Grandma, who busily swept papers and magazines off kitchen chairs and onto the already-crowded floor.

“Pops's a big one for reading. And he won't throw anything out. Would you like some tea? I have some of last year's honey still, and the mint is nice—it held its flavor well.”

“Yes, please.” Maria peeked through a door. She didn't want to be surprised by Paolo.

“Go on and look around if you like while the water boils,” Grandma said. “You can't get lost. It's a straight line.”

Maria considered the invitation. Then her curiosity overwhelmed her dread and she said, “Could I use the bathroom?”

“Sure. It's to the back and up the stairs.” Grandma pointed through the series of rooms toward the back of the house.

It seemed all the other rooms led off this main area, one after another like cars on a train. Maria went through a small room lined with bookshelves straining under the weight of books, and another in which paintings covered every inch of wall. Another room held glass globes brimming with African violets. It was as if each time a new person had joined the family, they'd just added another room off the back of the old one, with no thought to hallways or privacy. If you wanted to get to your bedroom, you walked right through someone else's. She wondered where Paolo slept. And his mom. Did they share a room? And where did they put Frank? And apparently there was that other son, Harry, also.

Maria was so used to her small family of two, she couldn't imagine living with so many people so close up against each other.

She slipped into the next room and bumped into a gnarled old man. He was short and round like Grandma, but more bent. His hair rose from his head like white smoke, and he wore a trim white beard and glasses. His legs bowed out as if he'd been straddling barrels his whole life, and as he shuffled across the room he rolled from side to side as if he were on board a ship in a storm. Maria figured this was Grandfather Newcomb, or “Pops.”