Part 13 (1/2)

Just past the last of the bunkers Keegan cut the motor, letting us drift with the waves. A cl.u.s.ter of machines, the yellow and orange and vivid green of crayons, stood on the sh.o.r.e. They had torn gra.s.s from the earth like a scalp, discarding it on one of the artificial hills, exposing the dark, rich soil. The area they had uncovered was large, and puddles had formed across it in the recent rains, so that in the overcast light it looked barren and uninhabitable; bleak, a quagmire.

”They sure don't love the land, do they?” Keegan asked. ”That's the first stage of the first development. Not the one your uncle and Joey and Blake want to build, but a different company. We got a court order to have construction stopped temporarily. We're trying to prove that the sale of those parcels was invalid.”

”I hope you can. You really should look into the groundwater. Because there's a layer of shale beneath the soil that drains this whole area, and it looks like they're damaging that here. Plus, the kind of development you're talking about will strain the whole fragile ecosystem of the lake, which is already under stress. And this whole watershed drains into Lake Ontario, eventually. That's the thing with water systems. Everything's interconnected. Everything affects everything else.”

”Really, we'll have to put you on the committee. I mean it-I called some friends while you were with Max, and it turns out the conservation groups have filed papers about the water table. That, along with the wildlife protection, is their main issue.”

”That's good. What do you think? Will you win?”

”I don't know. But here's hoping.”

He turned the motor on again and took us past the lurid machines, past a forested section of land and a cl.u.s.ter of buildings, to a clearing. Here, the chapel stood by itself on a hill. It was built of red stone; the paint had peeled away from the doors, leaving them a weathered gray. A small graveyard, enclosed inside an ornate iron fence, stood beside it.

”There it is,” Keegan said. ”I can't wait to see the windows all uncovered. It's a good thing they were boarded up, or we'd have lost them. I'm glad it's far from the airstrip, too-less chance of damage from vibrations.”

”It looks so strange, here all by itself.”

Keegan nodded. ”Believe it or not, the chapel was in the center of town. There was a blacksmith, a grocer, a seamstress. More than five hundred people lived there, and they were all scattered to the winds overnight. And before they came, the Cayuga and Seneca lived here, fished and hunted here.”

”I'm hungry,” Max announced.

”Granola bars and juice in the backpack,” Keegan said. ”It's up there, under the bow.” Max lifted a curtain and scooted into the cavelike s.p.a.ce.

”He likes it in there,” Keegan said. ”He'll stay there the rest of the ride, I bet.”

We pa.s.sed more forested land, more fields, and came to the sh.o.r.eline my mother owned: the boathouse and my kayak on the shale beach, the wide lawn up to the house with its porches and French doors, its cupola.

”Remember that night you snuck out?” Keegan asked. ”I was waiting right here in the canoe, trying to stay in the shadows. You were wearing a white dress.”

”I nearly tipped the canoe trying to get in,” I said. ”I got soaked.”

”It was a warm night, as I remember.”

”It was,” I said, remembering how we'd sat spooned close together, me leaning back and Keegan's arms around my waist, and the moon floating above us.

”We were so young, weren't we?”

”Yes, we were. We were indeed.” Keegan lingered for a moment longer before he turned the boat in a wide curve and headed back, the damp wind rus.h.i.+ng over our faces.

We docked, and Keegan lifted Max from the boat as we talked, making tentative plans to meet at the chapel on Wednesday. We parted at the sidewalk, but I stood watching them walk, Max skipping again, his shoes flas.h.i.+ng, as they went hand in hand back to the gla.s.sworks, back to the fire and motion.

The Impala was stifling. I opened all the windows and doors to let it cool while I took out my phone to check my e-mail. Nothing more from Yos.h.i.+, which made me a little uneasy. Maybe he was just busy. I pulled up an earlier message and then a photo of the two of us, taken by a stranger outside the hot springs. Yos.h.i.+ had his arm around my shoulders, and we were both smiling, and there was nothing in the picture to reveal our languorous dance in the dark kitchen, or the little flares of anger, or the trembling earth.

There was a message from the Serling College Special Collections office confirming that they had possession of the collected papers of Vivian Branch, and saying also that they were in the process of researching my request. Last was a message I didn't expect, from Oliver Parrott. It was very formal, inviting me to visit the museum again to go through some of the images from his archives. Stuart would be there, he a.s.sured me, though the house wasn't officially open on Sat.u.r.days, and I was welcome to bring someone, too. He had spoken to the church, he said, and felt quite pa.s.sionately about the connections that were emerging. He could not wait to see the other windows, and he had stood for a long time this morning before the window on the landing of the woman with her arms full of flowers.

Full of irises, I thought. I thought.

Yes, I wrote back. I wrote back. I will come. I will come.

Chapter 10.

SOME DREAMS MATTER, ILLUMINATE A CRUCIAL CHOICE, OR reveal some intuition that's trying to push its way to the surface. Others, though, are detritus, the residue of the day rea.s.sembling itself in some disjointed and chaotic way, and those were the sorts of dreams I had the night before I drove back to see Oliver Parrott-dreams of chasing after Max, whose laughter I kept hearing in the trees, floating over water; dreams of running across the depot land, trying to climb out over the fences, which kept growing higher. Yos.h.i.+ was in the dreams, too, trying to help, unable to find me. Frantic dreams, they left me tired, and I woke grouchy to another rainy day, the sky so densely gray and the rain so thick that I couldn't see the opposite sh.o.r.e.

I pulled on the only pair of jeans I'd brought, my last clean T-s.h.i.+rt, and the same dark blue Night Riders sweats.h.i.+rt. In the gray light, the color made me look bleached-out and tired. I brushed my hair and teeth, collected a basket of dirty laundry, and made my way downstairs.

Though it was Sat.u.r.day and she had the day off, my mother was already up and dressed, her short hair moussed into spikes. She was sitting on the floor of the living room, near the door to the sleeping porch, a cup of coffee steaming by her side and several big boxes lined up at the edge of the rug.

”I'm taking it on,” she said. ”I don't have to work today, and so I thought I'd start digging into this mess. Want to help?”

”Oh, not really. It's such a funky, rainy day. It's put me in a bad mood.”

”Well, have a quick look anyway. Blake's coming by in a few minutes to take a few things.”

I got a cup of coffee and sat down beside her on the floor, pulling open the flaps of the box closest to me. It was full of books, children's books. I pulled out The Little Engine that Could, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, The Little Engine that Could, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, and and The Cat in the Hat The Cat in the Hat. They were worn from many readings, the cardboard corners dented in places, the pages soft.

”Oh, that's a good one,” my mother said, reaching for Goodnight Moon Goodnight Moon. ”I loved this one. So did you. I must have read it out loud three hundred zillion times. Anyway, I promised Blake this box of books, now that he'll have a use for them. I'm glad you told me, Lucy, even though it was awkward at first. I mean, yes, Blake was a little upset, but I think he really wanted to talk about it, too, and when he realized I was happy about the whole thing, he relaxed. Really, I can't wait,” she went on. ”People always say how thrilling it is to know you're going to be a grandparent, but I didn't imagine it really would be. I've set another box aside for them already, filled up with old toys.”

”What about me?” I meant to say it in a kidding way, but even to my own ears I sounded a little shrill. Seeing my mother so excited made Blake and Avery's baby seem very real, and although it was ridiculous, I felt left out, or left behind, the sweep of life moving on while I kept doing the same things over again in different places. ”Sorry,” I said. ”I'm in a lousy mood-I didn't sleep well. I guess I just mean that if I ever have a baby, everything will be long gone.”

”Trust me-people will pa.s.s things on.” She looked at me then, and added softly, ”But if there's anything special you want to hold aside-you know, for some day-go ahead. Blake and Avery won't even notice.”

”It's okay. Maybe that mobile Dad made when I was born. I'd like to keep that.”

My mother nodded. ”It's already in a box in your closet. I put it away-oh, a couple of years ago. And the trains he made for Blake. I put those away, too.”

She reached into the box in front of her, pulling out a handful of folders.

”So-you and Yos.h.i.+ have any plans?” she asked, trying to sound offhand and failing so miserably that I laughed.

”New plans every day, it seems. But no. If you're talking about settling down and having children, no.”

She nodded and rested her hand briefly on my arm, which irritated me because I was afraid she felt sorry for me. ”Just curious,” she said, pulling away.

”Need help with any of that?” I asked, glad to change the subject, as she caught a slipping folder. ”How's your arm feeling, by the way?”

”I'm fine. I saw the doctor yesterday. I'm healing nicely, he says. If all goes well, I can get rid of this Aircast next Wednesday, hooray. Oh, look at this, Lucy.”

She handed me a poem written carefully on wide blue-lined paper, back when kids still practiced cursive writing. I'd decorated the edges with dolphins and fish, waves and seash.e.l.ls, even though I'd never been to the ocean.

”Guess my inclinations were clear even then.”

”Guess so.” She glanced at several files full of business papers left from my father's time at Dream Master and chucked them into the recycle bin.

”Ah, report cards.” I gave her a stack of Blake's, and pulled one of mine out, from fourth grade. ” 'Has strong writing skills and loves science . . Needs to work on sitting still.' That was Mrs. Blankenthorpe,” I said. ”I remember her. We used to call her Mrs. Battles.h.i.+p.” Needs to work on sitting still.' That was Mrs. Blankenthorpe,” I said. ”I remember her. We used to call her Mrs. Battles.h.i.+p.”

”That's terrible,” my mother said, though we were both laughing.