Part 1 (1/2)

Thomas Cook.

Places in the Dark.

This book is dedicated to

IRVIN AND LUCILLE HARRIS.

VENA AND T. L. GILLEY.

DUARD AND VIOLET HARPER.

EMORY AND RUTH HARPER.

NELL AND STARLING DAVIS.

MICKIE AND VIRGIL COOK.

LILLIAN AND JULIAN RITTER.

NOMA AND LEON TOWNSEL.

JETTA AND RAYFORD CARSON.

Salt of the Earth.

and to DANIEL FURMAN.

Back at you on paper.

It is so well known in every village, how many have either died for love, or voluntarily made away themselves, that I need not much labour to prove it; Death is the common Catastrophe of such persons.

ROBERT BURTON.

The Anatomy of Melancholy.

Part One.

PORT ALMA, MAINE.

1937.

Chapter One.

More than anyone I ever knew, my brother Billy felt the rapid wings of summer, how it darted like a bird through the trees of Maine, skittered along streams and ponds, then soared away, bright and gleaming, leaving us behind, s.h.i.+vering in coats and scarves.

It was on one of those fleeting summer days that he saved Jenny Grover's life. He'd built a wooden raft out of planks discarded by a local sawmill, packed the s.p.a.ce between the boards with rags and mud, then asked me to help him carry it to the spot where Fox Creek widened and deepened, its current growing turbulent again just beyond the bend, where it made its headlong rush toward Linder Falls.

”I'm going to make it all the way across,” he declared. He was twelve years old, s.h.i.+rtless, barefoot, dressed only in a pair of cut-off trousers.

”It's going to sink, Billy,” I warned him. ”Believe me, it's going to sink like a stone.”

He laughed. ”If it sinks, we'll swim.”

”We? I'm not going out on that thing.”

”Oh, come on, Cal.”

”No,” I said. ”Look at me.”

Unlike Billy, I was fully dressed, having made no compromise with summer beyond a pair of sandals.

”Okay then,” he said. ”You can go back home.”

”No, I'll wait.”

”Why?”

”Because someone has to pull you out of the water,” I told him. ”That's why I came along. To save your life.”

This was not entirely a joke. Five years older, I had long ago a.s.sumed the part of the vigilant, protective brother, certain that throughout our lives I would be there to protect him. I'd already caught him as he tumbled from chairs and staircases, tugged him away from blazing hearths, s.n.a.t.c.hed his fingers from closing doors. Once I'd even managed to drag him off a rearing pony, lower him safely to the ground. My mother had scolded me for that. ”He can't avoid getting hurt, Cal,” she said. ”Next time let him fall.”

It was the sort of statement I'd come to expect from my mother, the great value she put on experience, especially painful experience.

It was not the sort of advice I cared to take, however. Nor, following it, did I in the least intend to let my brother sink into Fox Pond.

”Be careful, Billy,” I cautioned as he stepped onto the raft, plunged his wooden paddle into the water, and pushed out into the current. ”It's white water just around the bend.”

His eyes sparkled. ”You'll be sorry you didn't come with me.”

”No, I won't.”

”You miss all the good stuff, Cal.”

I pointed to the trickle of water already seeping into his raft. ”Like drowning?”

His smile was a light aimed at the world. ”Like almost drowning,” he replied. ”See you on the other side, Cal.”