FROM AWAY ~ BOOK TWO Page 10

  “Francois and Ida.”

  Dawn jumps. Her grandfather has joined her on the steps. Discovered her, snooping. Unauthorized.

  “Grampy, I--”

  “They’re Martins, these two. Not Lesguettes. Where my Christian name originated, I s’pose.” Martin pokes at the man in the photo. “Right rascal, that one. Said to’ve fathered four bastards to mainland women on his travels. But he always came home to Ida, by-and-by. She’d’ve well been rid of him.”

  “Do you know their names?”

  He looks at her strangely. “Just told ya their names, love.”

  “No, no. The... The bastards.”

  He laughs. “M’afraid I don’t. Doubt anyone would. S’what comes of bein’ bastards. Elsewise they’d be cousins.”

  Makes sense. Dawn gestures with her tablet. “And you don’t mind if I...?”

  “Go straight ahead, girl. They’re yer own people, too. Ya’ve just as much right to ‘em as I or anyone else.”

  “My own people...” She looks off. Dreamy. “And you know who they all are? How they’re related? Can you tell me?”

  “I can. But first ya’ll tell yer ol’ Grampy why a young girl such as yerself is so interested in these fossils hanging on me walls.”

  Dawn nods. Suddenly shy. Uncertain. She taps on her tablet. Slides through screens. Finally, holds it out towards her grandfather. “It’s my Family Tree.”

  Martin takes the tablet. Tentative. Careful, lest he break it.

  Onscreen: A delicate, hand-drawn tree. On its trunk: An oval portrait. Dawn. It splits into two above her. Going on to each of her parents. An image of Ren on one side. Her mother, Eve on the other.

  “I’ve been working on it for almost three years.” Dawn reaches across. Demonstrates for the old man. Taps her mother’s face. Scrubs, drags and clicks through newspapers, photographs, old documents. “I just... Like discovering people’s stories. How they lived. Who they loved. How they connected to one another. It’s like a mystery you have to piece together. And all you have to go on is whatever paper-trail they might’ve left behind.”

  Martin stares at Dawn. Disbelieving. Lost. He searches her face. Her eyes. Then returns to his senses. To reality. “And... Ya’ve done all this on yer own?” He looks down at the tablet once more. Getting the hang of it now. Clicking through the pages with ease.

  “My mom gave me a hand at the start.” Dawn beams. Proud. “But then I took over.”

  “I’ll hazard to guess yer father was somethin’ less than helpful?”

  “That’s one way to put it.” She takes him back to her dad’s branch. Its boughs sadly barren. “I was hoping... I wasn’t going to ask today, but I was really hoping I could get your help on this. On the Lesguettes side. Maybe you could just point me in the right direction, if you don’t think you can spare the time.”

  Martin passes back the tablet with a smile. “Well, Dawn... It seems to me ya’ve found yer way home to yer proper port.” He takes his granddaughter by the elbow. “I’ve a right treat waiting for ya. Though I didn’t know until this very moment, that that’s what I had it here for. Just ya come with me.”

  He grips tightly to the railing. Taking one shuffling step at a time.

  Leading Dawn back down the lighthouse stairs.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Thunder. The iron cylinder pounds the earth.

  Mr. Hunter grips its handles. Straining to hold it upright. Slowly lowering it to the ground.

  The echo fades. The woods quiet. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  Nearby, his wife watches a beat-up laptop on a folding table. Judges the results. Her naturally disgruntled expression shifts towards something like pleasure. She gives her man the thumbs-up.

  He returns it. Gets to work.

  He unhooks the cylinder from the tow-line. Drags the thing back to the Jeep. There, he grabs a black hockey bag. Pulls out a ten-inch wooden stake. Drives it into the impact divot left where the cylinder hit the forest floor.

  It’s a small clearing in a well-shaded area. Out of the sun. Mercifully. A ways back in the woods. Off-road. Well beyond the everyday travels of any potentially nosey passers-by.

  The big man ties twine around the stake. Uses it to measure. Plants four more. Cardinal corners of a square surrounding the original. With more twine, he connects each stake to the next. Plotting the perimeter of a box. Eight feet long by eight feet wide.

  He plucks the original stake from the centre, and steps over the twine. Leaving the area clear.

  Mrs. Hunter reaches up as she walks past him. Snakes her hand behind his neck. Pulls him down for a kiss. Clutching the back of his bald head. Mashing their lips together. Clinking teeth. Taking all of his oxygen before she’s satisfied. Then, she pushes him away. Gets down to business.

  She steps into the square with her shovel. Lines it up beneath the twine outline. Sinks it.

  Starts to dig.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “Sheriff!” Deputy Schilling manages a nearly convincing approximation of a smile. “Hey!”

  “Yeah!” Netty’s own smile is looser. Unforced. True. “What brings you to the neighborhood, Deputy? Here on a call?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that...”

  “No, huh? I’m here to see my mother, myself.”

  “Oh, is this where she--”

  “Yep!” Netty nods. Rocks on her heels. Hands on hips. “This is where I grew up. Always hoped to find a place here. For Max and me. Just... Couldn’t ever afford anything in the area. Sadly. You know how it is. On a cop’s salary. Without any... Extras on the side.”

  Schilling flinches slightly. Was the Sheriff calling him out? Here and now?

  She looks into the window of his patrol car. He doesn’t mind. Nothing to see but his binoculars on the passenger seat. Nothing incriminating. “And uh... What’s your business here, again?”

  “Ah. Well. To be honest...” Excited, now. His eyes flash. Smile widens. “My business here? It’s really none of your business.”

  “Pfft! Right. I get it. Totally.” She play-slaps his arm. “So it’s personal business, then. No problem. I’m sure you let Millie know you’re off the clock. What time was that, exactly?”

  “Must’ve slipped my mind, Sheriff.” He leans back against the car. Happy just to let the situation unfold and see where it goes.

  “Well, now, see? That is my business.”

  “Oh?” He crosses his arms. Bulging muscles threaten the stitching on his uniform.

  “Uh huh. Come to think of it, if you’re on your own time, I’m gonna need the keys to this patrol car. Just department policy, you understand. I suggest you start working on finding another way home.”

  He tries to maintain his cool, but this is going just a bit too far now. “I should probably ask my friend, Mrs. Rutherford. See what she thinks of--”

  “Ah!” Netty seems to finally understand. “Why didn’t you say so? That’s fine. If it was Mrs. Rutherford that asked you to come out here, then--”

  “That’s not--” Schilling goes pale at the idea of implicating the Old Men. He forces himself to keep up the act. “I didn’t say that, Sheriff. I’m here for my own purposes, alone. This has nothing to do with her.”

  “Fair enough. Fair enough.” She steps back. He has her on the run, now. “Only, like I said: This neighborhood’s pretty important to me, so... I guess I’m going to have to declare it off-limits to you, Doug.”

  Schilling’s smile tremors at the corners. Holds. He squints down at her. This makes things a bit more interesting. “It’s... Off-limits?”

  “Yep. Let’s say...” She looks around. Visualizing the street map. “Hm... North-south, Mariah Street to Rathaway. And, east-west from Cessna to Kellestine Road. That’s inclusive, mind.”

  “Uh... Sheriff?” He laughs. “I’m not sure that sort of thing is within your purview.”

  “No! Of course not. Not as Sheriff. But... I’m not speaking as Sheriff.” She gestures at herself. Her lack of badge
. Of uniform. “Just a concerned citizen. Hoping to keep out the undesirables. No title. Just me.”

  “Just you.” His smile solidifies. “Saying there’s a square of land on this island, on which I cannot tread?”

  She nods. “A-yup. From this point forward.”

  He feels the adrenaline bump. His heart races. Blood pumps hard. He nods back at her.

  She cocks her head. “You gonna get goin’?”

  He shakes his own, side to side.

  “You ready for this, then?”

  He spreads his feet. Hunches over. “I’m ready.”

  “Good.”

  The first two teeth Schilling loses are the lateral and central incisors on the right side of his lower jaw. He swallows both before he’s even registered the pain of their extraction.

  That pain is Schilling’s most pleasant memory by the time Netty’s done beating him. Lip split. Left ear a cauliflowered mash. Broken blood vessels in each eye. Both cheekbones fractured. Two additional molars left behind in a bloody glob of spit on the sidewalk. Her energies concentrated on his pretty face. Mostly only attacking his torso to get him to drop his guard.

  He’s losing consciousness when she drags him up the block by his legs. Out, by the time they get to Kellestine Road. He doesn’t even have to feel the cement scraping the skin from the back of his head. For this small blessing, he should consider himself fortunate. He won’t.

  Netty leaves Schilling in a heap on the far side of Kellestine. Walks back into her neighborhood, lighter. Spring in her step. Song in her heart.

  She’ll have to decide later if the routing was wise or not. For now, she just wants to enjoy it. She’s been hoping for an excuse to feed Schilling his teeth for at least two years.

  ~

  “The key to tightrope walking, Ren, is not balance. An innate ability to stay upright has precious little to do with the endeavor.” Judge Jocelyn Hubert fills a teapot with water. Sets it on the stove. Preparing tea as she pontificates.

  “The key is counterbalance. Adaptation to external forces. Wind. The shifting of the rope itself. A million microscopic changes which must be felt and adjusted for instantaneously.” She sets out two teacups. On two saucers. “If you intend to advance, for every move you make, you must make another in order to maintain a consistent centre-of-gravity. Lift a foot? You must lower an arm. Hips shift left? Your shoulders must shift right. Every movement has a necessary compromise baked-in.”

  Still a public defender when Ren left town, the judge has never lost her love of speechifying. Ren wouldn’t think of breaking in, except she has paused to allow him the opportunity: “I have to confess... I didn’t realize you came from circus people, your Honor.”

  She laughs. “The more politicians I’m forced to deal with, the more of a contortionist I seem to become. At this point, for every good thing I hope to accomplish, I need to accommodate the Old Men in two or three onerous ones. But, this is how I’ve survived. Ultimately, it is through my understanding of these fundaments that I’ve flourished in my chosen field.”

  Choosing almost randomly from different canisters, she fills two mesh infusers with loose tea leaves. Hangs them from the lips of the teacups.

  “I grasp that this is the reality you’ve been forced to exist within, Judge Hubert. I’m just not so certain there aren’t other options.”

  “If there are, I’ve yet to come across them.” She takes him by the arm. Leads him out of the kitchen. Into the sitting room. “What you’re asking: Going so flagrantly against their declared wishes... It risks throwing away any progress I’ve made in my entire career. I’m partially retired. A few short years from stepping down from the bench completely. I’d really rather not fill what little time I have remaining with constant roadblocks and strife. And I have yet to hear an argument from you that convinces me doing so might be worthwhile in a single facet.”

  Ren remembers which chair the judge reserves for herself. Takes the one meant for him. “Of course, you’re right, your Honor. The Old Men will undoubtedly have an equal and opposite reaction to any move you appear to be making not in line with their interests. Helping me will undoubtedly have repercussions and taint all your future dealings with them.”

  “I fear that’s putting it mildly.”

  “But, if I may say so, I believe you are predicating your conclusion on a faulty premise: That things as they have been are necessarily representative of things as they shall be. In point of fact: I’m in no way certain you will continue to need to contend with the Old Men at all.”

  Judge Hubert leans back in her chair. It rocks slightly. “They’re woven into the very fabric, Ren.”

  “They don’t have to be. They aren’t necessary to the integrity of the weave. We can unravel it. I can.”

  The judge whistles. “You mean to bring them down.”

  Ren neither confirms, nor denies.

  “You’ve always been a dyed-in-the-wool shit-disturber, haven’t you?”

  He smiles.

  Footsteps on the porch. The front door opens. Netty enters.

  “Hello, Darling.” Judge Hubert smiles brightly. “Look who’s come for a visit.”

  “He’s not the only one.” Netty gives Ren a distinctly sour look. “Might I speak to you outside a moment, Mr. Lesguettes?”

  Ren begins to rise. The judge won’t have it. Smacks him on the knee. “Sit! Sit! That’s the kettle now. I’ll see to the tea. Give you two some... Privacy.” She stands. Squeezes Ren’s shoulder. “Just like old times.” She exits.

  Once satisfied her mother has gone, Netty turns on Ren. “You complete and utter asshole.”

  “I had to ask.”

  She rolls her eyes. Drops into her mother’s chair. “You have no idea the damage you’ve caused.”

  “She hasn’t said yes.”

  “I should hope not. But it doesn’t matter. They already know you came to her.”

  “The Old Men? How do you even--”

  “My deputy followed you here. Schilling.”

  “That jackass?! Is he--”

  “Taken care of. For the time being. But he’s far from the only bullet in their gun.”

  Ren exhales. Sits back. “They won’t hurt her.”

  “They don’t have to. They can do far worse if they feel it’s warranted. Maybe you don’t realize how insidious they are. Their tentacles are everywhere. In everything.”

  Ren nods. “I think I have some idea.”

  “Okay...” He’s really starting to piss her off. “So, you know... You just don’t care. As long as the bridge goes up, the rest of the island can go straight to hell. That the general sentiment?”

  He looks at her, hard. “You must really think I hate this place.”

  Netty scoffs. “People who love something don’t generally desert it for decades without so much as a glance over their shoulder as they go.”

  “You can’t take apart a machine from the inside. Not without becoming a cog in it yourself. Look at you, Netty. Your mother. Good people. Best of intentions. Making the compromises you need to in order to get into a place where you can change things. Rising to major positions with real powers. A judge. The sheriff. And what can either of you do to fix the way things are run? Nothing lasting or meaningful. In the act of climbing, you’ve come to depend on the structure you hoped to tear down.”

  This is not what Netty was expecting. “Ren...”

  “Decided we should forego tea for today.” The judge returns. Holding two stacks of paper. Each held together with a black binder clip. “Seems you’re in a bit of a hurry.” She passes one to her daughter. “Go with God.”

  Netty flips through the pages. Eyes widening. It’s the court order. Signed. Authorizing the arrest and detention of protesters occupying the Cumberland Channel Bridge who refuse to remove themselves, once given notice. “How in the world did you--”

  “Don’t be such a Luddite, dear. It’s the miracle of modern technology. That, and a very enthusiastic young clerk on twenty-fo
ur hour call.” She holds the second copy towards Ren. Yanks it back when he reaches for it. “This hangs my ass out in the wind, Ren... I’m taking you at your word.”

  “You won’t regret it, your Honor.” He takes the papers. Gives her a hug.

  She talks into his ear: “Don’t forget, I still hold your rain check for dinner. You need to bring by that daughter of yours for me to meet.”

  “Will do.” Ren heads for the door. “Where are we parked, Antoinette?”

  Netty groans. Follows.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The saving grace is: The girls have brought weed.

  This consoles Max substantially more than either Mandi or Allison could manage otherwise. He has little doubt his mom will smell the evidence of their unlawful misadventure in the air when she arrives home. Guesses he’ll be getting a pass. On account of nearly blowing up. On account of his best friend doing so.

  Letting them inside, Max delivers unto the girls a pair of hoodies. To cover and warm their chilled, wet selves. They fight briefly over the black one. Pull them on. Make a big show of removing what they had on beneath. Apparently they would now be taking the sweatshirts home. Not really his intention, but...

  The trio retires to the partially-finished basement. Cement floors. Stud walls. Furnished in inherited leftovers. On a dusty futon older than they are, they kick the gong around.

  If not good, exactly, it’s good enough. Dulling some of the day’s edges. Taking Max’s mind off his wounds. The physical ones. Softening the emotional ones, too.

  And - thankfully - it brings Mandi and Allison down to an acceptable level of chill. Kills off their bullshit personas. Makes them more like themselves. The selves he can stand. They become more thoughtful. Less manic. Almost tolerable.