What the Waves Know (20 page)

“Find what you were looking for?” the man asked from behind his desk.

I shook my head with a wave and trotted outside before hopping on my bike. For the next thirty minutes, I handed out posters with Luke's information on them to anyone who would take them and wove up and down the small lanes lining the village square in case Luke really had followed us to the wharf.

Running out of ideas and posters, I pulled into the church parking lot just before ten o'clock, following the
bustle of trays and pans going in and out of the side entrance.

I was just crossing over to the stack of pies where Remy stood when I was stopped in my tracks by a woman's voice barking commands at the group of church ladies propping pastries into place.

“Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo! Over here with the scones. No, no, no—Bundt cakes go over there; cookies, bars, and brownies go here. Fruit pastries are beside the Yemaya—not that one, the pregnant one with crooked breasts! Buns!” squealed a fat woman wearing a paisley tent for a blouse. Brushed up into a beehive do, her hair was three shades of tangerine, making it look as though a fat marmalade cat might have crawled onto her head and died there. “Young la-dy. Yes, you. A little slow on the uptake, aren't we, dearie? That's okay; God loves all his children quick or slow.”

I stared blankly at the perfectly round circles of red rouge drawn on her cheeks as if she were Bozo the Clown's sister. When I didn't answer, she tilted her head curiously. “You're not one of
those
children, are you? You know—touched?”

I shook my head.

“Oh!” She stepped back. “You're the Haywood child!”

I nodded clumsily, praying for Remy to come in and save me.

“I knew your grandmother. One heck of a pinochle player, she was. Your daddy, too. Used to sit right up at
the table with the old ladies.” She paused as though remembering. “You're dumb, aren't you? Not the stupid sort, the quiet sort—like ‘deaf and dumb'?”

I raised my eyebrows at her when she took hold of my wrist and began speaking very slowly, kicking the volume up three notches. Why people assumed my ears were attached to my vocal chords was a mystery, but it happened all the time.

“Why don't you go see Mrs. Trainor? She'll set you straight to work.” The woman turned on her heel and marched back to her table, sending the fat of her fanny jiggling wildly. I wanted to tell her to fuck off, that I didn't have time to sell her stupid cookies, that Luke needed me and that he was more important. But I didn't, and the fact was I didn't know where else to look for him. I headed for a mousy-looking woman with tight aqua leggings and a sunny yellow sweater whom I guessed must be Mrs. Trainor.

“Well, aren't you sweet? What's your name?”

Remy sauntered up beside me quietly. I gave her a pleading look, waiting for her to jump in and answer for me. She did not. Mrs. Trainor bent a little lower, waiting, and I felt a warm flush redden my cheeks. I widened my eyes at Remy, who seemed to be staring right along with the woman waiting for an answer from me. I wanted to knock the plate from her hand.

“I guess she doesn't have one,” Mrs. Trainor chirped, shuffling away.

“Guess not,” Remy agreed, breaking the corner off a frosted brownie then pinching the side square to hide it. “Any luck finding muttley?”

I shook my head, biting my lip.

“He'll show up. Everyone on the island is keeping their eyes open for him and your mum's out searching. Probably has a lady friend somewhere.”

“People! Peeeople!” the woman wearing a tent squealed again. “Let's focusss!”

“Priscilla, get yourself a cup of chamomile tea. Your blood pressure's so damn high your head's about to pop right off your shoulders like some sort of Japanese candle.” Remy laughed aloud right to the woman's face. There was a muted giggle across the room.

“Let's not swear in God's house.” The woman's voice tensed. “What are those?” She pointed to a box.

“Those are Grandma Jo's famous cheese biscuits.”

“Who is Grandma Jo?” The woman eyed the biscuits suspiciously.

“They're cheese biscuits. Just chew one and stick a price tag on them.”

“Why don't you make yourself useful and run the register, Remy?” she mumbled, reaching for a folded index card to price the biscuits.

“Not this year. I'm strictly a baker. Ask Izabella. She doesn't like to argue.”

“Well, God's work isn't for every hand, I guess.”

“Hey, Priscilla.” Remy snagged a chocolate cookie from the plate of another woman passing by.

“Yes?”

“Bite me.” Remy smiled sweetly, chewing the cookie. “This is the Yemaya Festival, not some freak festival of the Holy Cross.” She patted the Yemaya bust on the shoulder in an animated act of sisterhood.

The woman glanced at Remy sternly then jiggled her way over to open the church doors to let the cookie buying commence.

“Don't you mind about Priscilla Peabody.” Remy chuckled. “She thinks Christ came right down off the cross and hired her to coordinate the cookies of Christianity for him.”

The fact of the matter is, I wasn't thinking about Pricilla Peabody or any other body. My mind was too crammed with thoughts about the burned picture in my pocket and running every horrific scenario I could conjure about Luke's whereabouts. The same
hurry, hurry
whispery feeling I had every time I went into the Pepto-Bismol-pink room echoed off the walls around me now.

I was still thinking about Luke when the first customer stood in front of me balancing a truckload of cookies, breads, and brownies, sounding annoyed. “Is anyone going to take my money?”

“I'll show you how to ring one,” Remy said, coming over to stand at the register. “Then you take over.”

When it was my turn, I tentatively began pushing down the buttons of the old Wood Grain Tin cash register.

“Little girl! Yoo-hoo, little Haywood girl.” Mrs. Peabody leaned over her table of Bundt cakes waving frantically in my direction and puckering pouty orange lips at me like a fat goldfish glugging around its bowl. “Strudels are fifty cents, not thirty-five cents. Amanda, you owe the register fifteen cents for those. We may cheat our waistlines, but we don't want to cheat God!” I felt the heat move over my cheeks. “Chop chop!” Pricilla Peabody snapped her fingers at me.

“You can see from the girth of her hips, Priscilla has an eye for collecting the last crumb.” Remy shook her head when the next customer had gone. “Do you know her husband disappeared three years ago without one trace? We can't prove it, but we think one day she just ate him.”

I rolled my eyes at her, shutting the change drawer.

“It's true, I swear.” She raised one hand in the air, laughing aloud.

Kla ching,
sang
the register four long hours later.

“Two o'clock, ladies! Time to clear out,” shrilled Pricilla. “The pastor's got a wedding this evening. Nora Smith's girl is marrying that bloke from Boston at six. Let's move our withered derrieres and make way for young love.”

Mrs. Peabody should have been a choreographer for the Boston Ballet, because fifteen church ladies rose from
their seats in an act of synchronized standing, folded their chairs with fifteen pert
snaps
, and herded their way to the heavy double doors, discarding Styrofoam cups ringed with coffee in a large purple bin marked, R
EFUSE,
along the way.

“Come on.” Remy stood, snatching a few Boston teacakes. “Let's get you out of here to look for your motley mutt. Here.” She handed two cakes to me. “There's a brick house just as you make the turn off Main onto Laurel Street. It'll be the only one with overgrown grass and a purple door. Mrs. Mulligan. She's a friend of my mother's. Loves sweets. Sweets and roses. And wind chimes. Drop this off to her on your way. The other one's for your house.”

While Remy loaded up the taxi with empty baskets, I stood outside the front door balancing a large pottery platter and nibbling the corners off an oatmeal bar as I watched people pass on the other side of Main Street. Herman's was far enough down that I didn't need to worry about him seeing me when he came out to beat the sand from the storefront steps.

“I got a stack of posters from your mother,” Remy called. “I'll bring them down to the pier.”

I popped the remaining bar into my mouth and brought her the platter to put in the car. Climbing onto the Schwinn, I headed toward home, pausing to stick a poster in the window of Merchant's Hardware. It was purely by chance that my eyes slipped down the alleyway, catching on a
white crumpled bag flitting in the breeze. Another few inches sharpened the corners of the image and pulled it into view with dizzying speed. Then my feet stopped pedaling altogether. What I'd thought to be a bag was really a tattered feather coat pulled into a tight ball—a weak attempt to fend off more stones.

The bird's neck was twisted unnaturally upward, and its black eyes, trailing past the mortar lines between the brickwork of Merchant's, stared sadly at the clouds as if the gull had spent its very last moment searching for God, wondering where the hell he'd gone when the bird needed him most.

To Potter's Creek to watch the fish fly
, I wanted to tell him.

A fat blue fly circled once overhead before lighting down on the gull's left eyeball; when it didn't blink, I knew for sure it was dead. Sometimes it needs to be made just that clear. The fly stepped over the gull's eye, coming to rest on the yellow ridge of its lid where a brown stain like a tear ran down from the corner. My eyes settled on the stain, letting the
I'm sorry
sail silently through the air.

I rode away trying to decide if Lindsey was telling the truth about not hurting Luke.

With mint-green pillars
and a front door painted the exact purple black of ripened Concord grapes, Mrs. Mulligan's place was impossible to miss. A bent woman with white hair spun up in pink rollers stood on the porch hanging
wind chimes with mermaids on them from everything and anything she could find to slip a string around. She had managed to dangle five of them in the air, and a pile of about another fifty sat waiting to be hooked onto nails.

Kicking the stand in place on the Schwinn, I scooped up the teacake and pushed the front gate back with a screech. Mrs. Mulligan looked over her shoulder, eyeing the cake in my hands, and set down her chimes.

“Is that a genuine Gertrude O'Malley tea cake?” Her eyes were watery blue and ran slightly at the corners.

I nodded.

“God bless her soul! And aren't you sweet to drop it by. I'd walk a million miles to carry one of those home, but these bones are just plain old. They don't work well anymore and that's all there is to it. My son, Teddy, used to bring me to visit Gertrude every single week before he moved to Texas.”

She looked at me, waiting for a reply. I rubbed my throat as if I had laryngitis.

“Oh, you poor thing! And look at me blathering on. Tea and honey, lots of tea and honey. Can I make you some?”

I shook my head thankfully, pointing to my bike to say I had to be on my way.

“Well, you make some straight away when you get home, you hear?”

I nodded, heading back to my bike. By the time I'd lifted the kickstand, Mrs. Mulligan had untangled another wind chime from her pile and was teetering on
her tiptoes trying to lasso a plant hanger on her front porch. Thoughts of Remy fussing after Mr. O'Malley flittered through my mind and I wondered if Teddy had ever fussed over Mrs. Mulligan. I couldn't imagine Remy moving to Texas. I couldn't imagine leaving my own mother living all alone like that, breaking her neck just to hang a wind chime.

Shaking my head, I got back off the bike and made my way up the porch steps. I pulled a chair up beside her and took the chime from her hand, slipping it over the hook. Within three minutes, we were working in sync: me dragging the chair from spot to spot as she pointed to empty hooks, then handing the wind chimes up to me to hang. Thirty minutes later, her front porch looked like a steel jungle tinkling in the breeze.

“Well, I may not be able to make it down to the real festival, but you have brought the festival to me! Have you ever been before?”

I shook my head.

“Oh my, you're in for a treat. The African drums, curried chicken, people running around in masks, lanterns hanging from every tree. You can feel the magic spinning on the wind like it might pick you up and sweep you right away. Do you know, I met my husband there sixty-three years ago? Imagine that! We danced and held hands all night and then he kissed me right beside the statue of the sea witch. Before the festival ended that year, he bought me that wind chime right over there.” She pointed to a
string of shells strung through bamboo. “I've loved them ever since.”

I touched the tips of the chime beside me softly.

“Well, that's enough of that. I've rambled on long enough. I'm sure you have better things to do than sit here growing cobwebs. Now don't forget what I told you, tea and lemon with a dollop of honey.”

I didn't tell her I'd had about all the honey I could manage for the time being. When it was humid, my hair still stuck to my chin like a strip of fly tape.

Mrs. Mulligan watched me ride away, waving until I'd turned the bend and disappeared from view.

My mother was in the garden when I rode up, seemingly oblivious to the crisp bite of the wind, wearing nothing but a T-shirt and jeans. I loved her in jeans. The frayed cuffs and worn knees meant, in this moment, she was just a regular person. She was sitting in a lawn chair staring at a thick pile of paper. I started inside with the teacake, but when I saw her pull a Kleenex from the fold of her sleeve, I stopped, crossing the yard instead. The manuscript she was holding was one of my father's stories, and she was looking at it with lost, red-rimmed eyes.

Setting the cake on her lap, I sat down on the arm of the chair, letting her fingers reach up to stroke my hair.

“Do you remember when he brought us into the forest hunting for puffballs? We hiked for hours and hours. He told us he knew exactly where he was going, but we both knew he didn't. I thought for sure eventually your little twig legs would give out and you would ask me to take
you home. But, no. You just kept stumbling after him like a shadow chasing its body—you wouldn't give up until he did. Remember?”

I did remember. It was early fall and he had brought us to a place called Land and Sea, where thick woods crept right up against the ocean then broke into a mile of sand. I nodded, but she wasn't looking.

“And then he found that clearing in the woods and sure enough there they were, a big old circle of puffballs. He called it a fairy ring, and I told him there was no such thing. He swore there was, that it was caused by the woodland fairies dancing, that every time something tried to grow their little feet stomped it out. He called them something, but I can't recall the name.”

The Nikommo
, I answered silently. He was talking about the Nikommo. Every time the moon was full, he said, the Nikommo came out to dance with the moon, who was their mother. They danced and danced until they had stomped a clearing for the light to shine through. And all the darkness that had crept into the world was erased by the moonlight. Staring out over the ocean, I could hear his voice. I didn't even know I was crying until my mother handed me a tissue from her sleeve.

“‘If you're ever lost.' he told us that afternoon, ‘the fairies will lead you home.' I remember laughing at him, and then we realized we were lost.”

It was true. My father had led us so far off the trail we had no idea how to get back. But he'd told me not
to worry, because we were in a magical place and bad things didn't happen where magic lived. We followed him through thorny bushes and over fallen trees. I was scratched and scuffed from ear to toe, but it didn't matter to me—I would have followed him through the gates of hell and into the devil's bed. And then there was a break in the forest and a flood of sunlight and we were at the beach.
See?
he had said.
Never be afraid to trust the magic in the world
.

“My God, he was maddening. That night, when we finally made it home, he grabbed the Encyclopedia Britannica and handed it to me and there it was—fairy circles. He was right; they were real.” My mother swiped the Kleenex across her eyes.

We sat there together for another few minutes, lost in our own thoughts, before my mother took a deep breath and shook the curls down her back as if shaking herself free of the sticky threads of the past. “We should go see what Grandma Jo is doing. Maybe someone called about Luke.”

For a few moments, I had forgotten about everything but I followed her in with a nod. Nobody had called and dusk was creeping up on the island.

“You want to look for Luke before it gets dark?” My mother pulled a sweater on over her T-shirt, letting her black hair drape across her shoulders.

“I'll start dinner while you two are out,” Grandma Jo said without looking up from the newspaper.

“Just cook for you and Iz. I'm not hungry yet. I'll grab something later.” My mother had not lost the distant look in her eyes from earlier, and now she looked exhausted.

“You'll eat anyway,” Grandma Jo said matter-of-factly.

“Really, I've—”

“Got work to do. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Your antiques have been there for two hundred years, and they'll be there when you're done eating. Probably be worth more, too.”

My mother stopped, looking across the room to the armchair Grandma Jo was plopped sideways in, her toes playing with the fringe of a throw pillow.

“Good Lord! Did you see this?” My grandmother held the paper up in the air, pointing to a photograph of a street riot with a white teen throwing a bottle at a young black boy carrying an armful of books. “Riots in Boston over the busing program to desegregate the public schools. Boston, not Birmingham! They've lost their collective minds. What, do they think dark skin is contagious? There's a peace rally next week. Maybe I should go.” She laid the paper back in her lap, shaking her head.

“No, you should
not
go. You'll end up in the hospital,” answered my mother.

“Well, we should do something.”

“There's stationery in the desk. Write a letter,” My mother pulled a silk scarf around her neck, knotting it below the ear.

“Maybe. You better go if you're going to make it before dark,” Grandma Jo said, flipping the page.

I followed my mother out the door, untangling Luke's leash as we walked down Knockberry Lane.

“Luke!” My mother's voice was getting raw from a day of calling into nothingness in hopes of an answer. We'd made it to the turn-off beyond the small cottage when we met Mr. O'Malley and Remy hiking in from the opposite direction.

“Ladies.” Mr. O'Malley tilted his head.

“Good evening,” my mother greeted them. “Out for a walk?”

“Yes,” Remy answered a bit too quickly.

“Actually,” Mr. O'Malley corrected, “she just doesn't want you to know we were taking one more look to see if that pup of yours got himself turned around by the orchard. This one was fretting over the weatherman calling for rain overnight.” He swatted Remy gently.

“I was not fretting; it's a dog. I was just looking for an excuse to get this old goat to air his bones out for a bit. That's all,” Remy grumbled. “And now that he has, I'll return him to his couch for the late news.”

“No sign of him, huh?” my mother asked.

“Not a hair,” Mr. O'Malley said. “But, like I told Remy, I wouldn't worry. Pups get the wanderlust. I once had a shepherd that was gone two whole weeks. By the time he came back, he'd been spotted from cove to cove of this place. A farmer kept him one night over in Mantuck. A boy played fetch with him down on the jetties. Ran over this whole blessed island having one ball of a time.”

Remy looked at her father like he was crazy. “When? When did you ever have a dog in your whole blessed life?”

“I just did, that's all.” Mr. O'Malley settled his eyes on me. “And he came back just as good as he left, 'cept spoiled and fatter. So many people around the island fed him their leftovers, he came back believing he'd like to have steak for his dinner instead of kibble. Other than that, though, he was just as shiny as new.”

Remy rolled her eyes, tugging Mr. O'Malley's sleeve to get him moving again. They'd made it about ten yards before she turned back, yelling, “Don't forget about Herman's tomorrow. I'll meet you there at nine-thirty.”

“Nothing?” Grandma Jo
asked when we returned. Instead of setting the dining room table, she'd laid silverware and plates on the coffee table next to the fire, tossing three throw cushions from the sofa onto the floor for seats.

“Nothing.” My mother sighed. “I'll get Remy to drive me around again tomorrow. Maybe we'll have better luck.”

“I'll bet he's back by then,” Grandma Jo crooned. “Silly pup.”

“Let's hope so.”

We finished dinner in silence, and Grandma Jo served Remy's teacake for dessert.

“Leave the dishes.” She waved a hand at the sink dismissively. “I'll get them in the morning.”

After dinner, Grandma Jo and my mother both disap
peared behind their bedroom doors. I climbed the two sets of stairs to my room and turned the lights off, watching the wind pick up outside. Tiny droplets of water were already clinging to the window, and the sky said it wouldn't be long before it was raining in earnest. Witch's Peak towered in the distance.

Climbing under the covers, I had only just closed my eyes when a thought brought me upright in bed. I pulled on a dirty pair of jeans from the pile of clothes growing at the foot of my bed, fishing through the pockets until I found Luke's leash balled up inside and, carrying my shoes to keep from being heard, darted down the utility staircase. Grabbing a flashlight from the broom closet, I eased the door open, cringing as it squealed on its hinge, and slipped into the night

Trotting toward the path that wove to the ridge, I kept my eyes peeled for any trace of Mr. O'Malley before dipping into the shadows of the orchard and heading for the old apple tree in the middle. Once I was past it, I paused, making a whistling sound with my tongue and listening for an answer. Rain was starting to fall and the thrumming of it smattering against the rocks made me strain both ears to hear. I tried again. The muffled answer came in the way of a distant whine about three yards away. Another whistle. Another whine.

Getting on my hands and knees, I crawled along a trail of fallen rotting apples, stopping every few feet to whistle again and listen until I found myself crouched at the top
of an irrigation pipe Two more whistles, followed by a bout of whimpering, and I was sure it was Luke.

Letting the leash slip from my hand and slither to the grass, I snaked my hand down the metal duct, brushing my fingertips against the wet fur at the scruff of Luke's neck. Rain was already pulsing down the pipe, creating a stream around him. He was jammed, the loose skin behind his ears slipping out of my grasp each time I got a hold of him. The panic in his whine rose with the water pouring in around him and the oncoming storm.

“Shh . . . shh . . . shh. I'm—I'm . . .” I pushed the words through the cracks of the vault I'd kept tightly sealed for eight years before I felt my throat harden to rock again. Luke barked and began to cry and I felt my heart begin to race. “I—I'm c-c-c . . .” I wiggled my hand deeper, getting hold of his paw.
Don't let go. . . . Don't let go. . . .
Luke scratched at my hand, desperately trying to wrench himself free and digging himself deeper into the mud. “I'm c-coming,” I squeaked, beginning to cry like a baby. “Don—don't drown. P-p-please!” I needed him to know that I was there, that he hadn't been left behind. My father had vanished into the night before I could make things right, before I could tell him how much I wanted him to stay. I couldn't let that happen again.

With the rain starting to pound against my back, I knew I would never even make it to Remy's house in time to get help. The water was already to Luke's neck and he had dug himself into the mud so thoroughly his small
body was acting like a drain plug. He whimpered, craning his neck into my fingers for help. “H-h-hold on!”

Other than a stray word or ugly hiss, I hadn't heard my own voice in eight years. With the rain barreling down and thunder rumbling, I could barely make out the words now—but they were there. I heard them. That was my voice, the one that had chased my father out of existence that night. I did not know if I could pull the right words free to save Luke, but I knew for sure he was going to die if I didn't try. Mr. O'Malley's cottage was the closest. I had to get him.

I stood up and bolted for the trail, the tears on my face washed clean by the rain. I'd made it less than ten yards when a hand grabbed my arm from behind, swinging me around in a 180-degree spin.

“What the fuck are you doing up here again!” Riley shook me as if he were scolding a three-year-old. For an instant, he looked like he might lunge for me, strangling me to death right there with the rising storm as his only witness. Still, even with him glaring at me through the night, he was the most welcome sight I'd ever seen. I grabbed his hand, pulling him with me. “Are you fucking crazy, too? Just like your stupid father. Let go of me!” The words rang through the orchard and the past eight years. But this time I refused to let go. I tugged at Riley's arm with both hands until he stumbled after me.

Back at the pipe, I dropped to my hands and knees and stuck my hand down, horrified that it plunged into water
with only two inches of air on top. “L-L-Luke!” I gasped. “Help.”

Riley didn't even seem to hear that I'd spoken, shoving me aside and looking around for something to pull Luke free with. Snatching up the leash, his fingers flew around the nylon, snapping it into a slipknot and guiding it into the pipe until he'd weaseled it around Luke's front legs. He tugged twice.

“Son of a bitch!” He pulled the line up empty of anything other than mud and a fistful of wet grass.

Two more tries and the leash tightened around Luke's legs. Riley tugged, edging him up an inch at a time until he was loose enough to scoop him out with his free hand. Luke whined, every inch of him muddied and shivering violently. Nevertheless, he was alive.

“Got him!” It was the first time I'd heard Riley's voice drained of rage. Standing up, he peeled off the flannel shirt he'd been wearing, wrapping it around the puppy and rubbing the mud and water from his nose. It was a full minute before he saw me sitting there with my face in my hands, wailing. I knew I looked dumb, the stupid kind not the quiet kind, but I couldn't stop. My entire body was heaving and shaking even though I knew Luke was alive. But suddenly, it wasn't about Luke. I wasn't fourteen. I was six and running, running, running. Everything was not okay. I wasn't fast enough. Time ran out.

“Come back,” I whispered. The words were gathered up by the wind and kited away. “P-please come b-back.”
Soaked through to my underwear, it took me a full two minutes to collect myself. I wiped my face, streaking mud from my sleeve across my cheek, and Riley yanked me to my feet before stuffing Luke in my arms like a swaddled baby.