FROM AWAY ~ BOOK ONE Page 7

  It seems professional enough, but it can’t possibly be real. Maybe it was vandalized somehow. The penguins drawn in, over something sensible.

  “Mom? There aren’t any penguins on the island, are there?”

  “Penguins? I wouldn’t think--”

  Topping a hill, Dawn sees them. In the middle of the road. Immediately, she stands on her brakes. The SUV lays down black streaks of rubber. Screams to a stop. Angled. Occupying both lanes. Just short of murder and mayhem.

  Less than a foot from the vehicle’s resting place, three nuns cross the road single-file.

  They continue on in profile, without so much as glancing in Dawn’s direction. Faces impassive. Seemingly unaware of how close they came to meeting their beloved maker.

  In shock, Dawn watches the nuns pass. Wimples. Crucifixes. Unremarkable black dresses. Each one carrying an earthenware jar. Held slightly away from their bodies. Like a sacred offering they don’t want to profane through contact. Not the nuns from the ferry. Of that, she’s almost certain. She’s driven too far, too quickly for them to have somehow gotten ahead of her.

  As Dawn’s ears stop ringing, she becomes aware of sounds in the world beyond her own hammering heartbeat. Among them? Her mother’s panicked wail. “--all right? Dawnie?! Answer me!”

  “Mom! It’s okay! It’s okay, Mom. Everything’s cool.”

  “Cool?” Her mom’s voice cracks. “Young lady, you scared the shit out of me!”

  The nuns waddle off the road. Onto a dirt path, cutting through waist-high witchgrass. Towards a grove of trees.

  “I just... I had to make a sudden stop. Everything’s fine.”

  “Fine?! Maybe you should worry more about what’s going on in the world around you and less about... Penguins!”

  Dawn smiles, in spite of the near-miss. “Yeah, maybe.”

  She puts the car in reverse. Backs up, watching the nuns vanish into the woods. Black dresses blending instantly into the shadows. As she straightens out the car, she glances into her side mirror just before--

  --The green Jeep blasts past! It veers into the other lane. Onto the far shoulder. Horn screaming. Missing the SUV by bare inches.

  Dawn leaps in her seat. Yanks the wheel to the side, seconds too late. Not that it would’ve helped any if the Jeep hadn’t already swerved. Only after its horn has entirely dopplered away can she pry her own fingers from the wheel.

  “Mom? I should probably let you go. I, uh... I need to just concentrate on the road for now.”

  “Oh. All right. Call me later. And for god’s sake, drive caref--”

  Dawn clicks the panel. Silences her mom.

  She flexes her fingers a few times. Places them onto the wheel at ten and two. Takes a deep breath.

  And puts it in drive.

  ~

  In the shadow of the chestnut grove, the trio of nuns pause. Peering out through the foliage at the roadway.

  Ever-so-cautiously, the SUV pulls back onto the road. Straightens itself out. Drives away. Slowly.

  They watch, motionless, until the car is well out of sight.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Beneath a web of tubes and wires, Paula Field’s face is badly bruised. Swollen. Her skull is wrapped in gauze. Locked tight in a metal halo. The damage is not limited to her head. Her arms are in casts - one all the way to the shoulder. Her legs are held aloft in traction.

  Various machines gather at her bedside. Observing vitals. Whispering to one another: Beeps and hisses. Drips and puffs.

  Ren stands next to her hospital bed. Holds his hand to a bare patch of arm. Above a cast. Below a bandage. One of the few uninjured parts of her accessible to human contact.

  “I’m so sorry, Polly.”

  Paula doesn’t reply. He doesn’t expect her to. She hasn’t responded to anything since the incident that left her hospitalized.

  “You guys pretty close?” Netty stands in the doorway. Maintaining a respectful distance, but present. It’s her job to keep tabs. Paula, the victim of a crime inside her jurisdiction. Ren, not a suspect, but a connected party. One never knows from whence a lead may spring.

  “We made her our godmother. She’s been like a little sister to Eve.”

  “Eve?”

  He looks over his shoulder at her. “My wife?”

  “Sorry, right!” Netty is horrified at her faux pas. “Eve, your wife.”

  He nods. “They were fast friends from the moment I introduced them.”

  “You two knew each other first. From working together.”

  “She was my protégé.” He turns back to Paula. “Is.”

  Even after looking away so briefly, it’s startling to see her battered face again. Still expecting a match to the Paula he knew. The stored mental image not yet replaced in his mind by this... Damaged version.

  “Who did this to you?” Ren quakes visibly. His hands ball into involuntary fists. He forces them open again.

  Netty checks her watch. Frowns. “Ren...” She crosses to him. Places a hand on his arm. “We should get going. The Old Men will--”

  “You have leads?”

  Netty flinches. Even though she’d prepared herself for this line of questioning, she was hoping to avoid it. “It’s an ongoing investigation. I can’t--“

  “I don’t want to know about them. I just want to know you have some. You can tell me that.”

  Relief washes over her. She nods. “We have some.”

  “Good.” He closes his eyes. “Good.”

  With his free hand, he takes hold of her wrist. Squeezes. “Do us all a favor, Netty: Don’t tell me anything else about it. It’s better I don’t know. Not until somebody’s locked up.”

  A gentle trill interrupts: Ren’s replacement cellphone. He doesn’t recognize the ringtone.

  Netty points to his pocket. “I think that’s you.”

  “Oh!” He lets go of Netty’s wrist to answer it. The other remains resting on Paula’s arm. “Everything okay, there?” Listening, he suddenly tenses up. “An accident? But she’s--”

  Netty reaches for her own phone. Ready to call it in. Seeing this, Ren repeats the report as he hears it. “Everything’s fine... No one else involved... No damage or anything.” He listens a moment. “Thanks for letting me know, but in the future, Eve? Needing to brake suddenly? In no way does that qualify as an accident.”

  Netty looks at her phone before putting it away. The clock does not reassure her.

  “No, I know, but-- No, you had me thinking Dawn was in serious trouble out there. Practically gave me a--”

  Paula’s eyelids flutter. She frowns. A noise escapes her lips: A moan.

  Ren pulls his hand away. Worried he might somehow be the cause of her sudden distress. “Evie, I’ll have to call you later.” He hangs up.

  Paula rolls her head from side to side. Lips pressed together.

  The machines are agitated by her movements. They hiccup and burp. Chatter amongst themselves. Then, calm as she does. Quieting to their usual murmurations as Paula stills once more.

  Nurse Eldon enters. “Have ourselves a little excitement, did we?”

  She inserts herself between Ren and her patient. Breaks their connection. She checks Paula. Looks over the machines. “Not to worry. Everything seems in order, here.”

  “What was that? Was she waking up?”

  The nurse looks at Ren. Her surprise shifts slowly to pity. “No. She wasn’t. I’m sorry, sir, but that sort of thing is pretty much par for the course.”

  He looks past her. To Paula. The woman he knew. Buried there. Beneath injuries and dressings.

  Suddenly hard and cold, he turns. Heads past Netty. Out the door.

  “Let’s go see the Old Men.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Wanda walks along the gravel road. Scuffs her feet. Kicks up a dust cloud with dirt so dry and fine, it fills the air without adding any taste to it. It falls slowly. Only touching down after she’s long gone.

  She passes her own trailer without stopping.
Without so much as a glance. She’ll go home later. For now she is targeting another destination: Delia’s.

  Months since she dropped by. She wouldn’t go there now if it wasn’t necessary. She doubted she’d be welcomed in. Didn’t care. As long as her wallet was.

  Rounding that last corner, Wanda gets that same strange feeling she always has, going to Delia’s. Like entering another world where the rules are not quite the same. As the trailer comes in sight, all ambient noise seem to cut out, leaving her with no sound but the crunching of gravel beneath her feet.

  Partly, this effect is caused by the failed Christmas tree farm next to the trailer park. Rows of barren pine trees act as baffles absorbing anything audible as it tries to enter. But mostly it’s Delia’s old hound dog, Sue. Chained up in the front yard. Barking for all he’s worth. Without ever making a sound.

  He’d always been a barker. But as Sue had gotten older, Sue had gotten deafer. To compensate, Sue barked harder. Howled louder. Until finally, facing the wrath of her neighbors and threats from trailer park management, Delia had Sue’s vocal cords removed.

  On general principle, Wanda finds this shameful and disgusting. A selfish abdication of pet-owner duty. As someone who lives within earshot, however... She can only consider it to be the lesser evil.

  As Wanda approaches, Sue does his very best to warn everyone nearby. Straining at the end of his chain. Neck bulging with the effort. Jaws popping open and closed. Quietly. Achieving nothing.

  Like everyone else, Wanda just ignores him. Circles safely around him. Out of range. Climbs the steps without incident.

  Her hand quakes as she reaches for the handle. The shakes getting stronger. The sweats will be next. Worse will follow after. Hopefully, she can get herself settled before it comes to that.

  The door isn’t locked. It’s never locked.

  So Wanda doesn’t bother knocking.

  ~

  Groans. From every direction. Dying only as Wanda closes the door behind her. Agonies ending when she shuts out the sun.

  Every window covered. Veiled by patterned bedsheets and tattered nylon flags. All nations represented. Everywhere else but here. Whatever daylight enters is filtered first through many layers of multicolored fabric. Dimmed to a warm glow.

  That’s how they like it. Those gathered there. Stretched out on sleeping bags along the base of every wall. Laying on top of one another. Limbs entangled. They prefer the shadows.

  Wanda allows herself a moment to adjust to the air in the trailer. Warm and wet. The collective breath of those amassed around her. Thick with body odor and rot. The scents of those beyond caring. She breathes through her mouth to minimize the smell.

  She plots a path through the maze of bodies. Moving forward with care. Searching constantly for bare floor on which to tread. Ever-shifting terrain demanding renegotiation. Ultimately, people are stepped on. They grunt. Whimper. Some quickly withdraw wounded appendages. Others just allow it. Wait it out.

  Wanda can’t waste worry on anyone who lays on the floor without the good sense to get out of her way. Tries not to think about who they are. Where they’ve come from. What brings them there. She knows full well how short the path can be. How few the steps that led them there. And that simply by being among them, she may be sentencing herself to eventually share their fate.

  She hasn’t quite reached the bedroom when Delia’s voice greets her from its darkness: “Can’t do it, Wanda. Sorry. I just can’t.”

  ~

  The bedroom is not furnished exactly, though it is full. A haphazard mound of mattresses and cushions climbs into one corner. A single mass formed from foam and feathers. Held together by comforters and goose down duvets.

  Central in the pile - and every bit as pillowy herself - is Delia. She lounges, unconcerned. A jungle cat in repose. Claws retracted, for now. Reclining comfortably in a shaggy terrycloth robe pulled only very loosely closed in an incomplete feint towards modesty.

  Her sleepy eyes follow Wanda closely as she enters. Appreciative. Tracing her shape from top-to-toe.

  “Delia...” Wanda smiles. Gives her hips an extra ratchet as she nears. “Since when does anyone tell you what you can or can’t do?”

  “Word comes from on-high, love. If I don’t cut you off, they cut me off. And I know you understand: I cannot be cut off.”

  “Of course I understand.” Her eyes pick up details in the darkness. Hone in on a row of nailpolish bottles lined up on a shelf behind Delia’s spongy throne. Empties. On another shelf, the bottles are full. Iridescent goo twinkling within. “I understand we both have needs.”

  She lets her jacket slip from her shoulders. Kicks it away.

  Delia brays with laughter. Tosses back a headful of unkempt curls. “But Wanda... It’s been so long since you last dropped by. We both know you’ve been satisfying your needs elsewhere.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong.” Wanda shakes her head. “Sure, my needs have been met. But there’s only one place I get anything like... Satisfaction.” She crawls up the soft pile. Delia shifts over to give her room. She slides herself into the space. Constantly aware of her proximity to the nailpolish bottles and their contents.

  Nose to nose, they lie.

  “I miss this,” says Wanda.

  “I wish I could help you,” Delia replies.

  “You can. You’re the only one who can.”

  Delia shakes her head. “Go see the Old Men. Do that, I can give you whatever you want.”

  “But that’s why I need it.” She holds out a shaky hand. Her fingers beat little tattoos in the air. “How can I see the Old Men like this? You know what comes next.”

  She does. She looks at Wanda seriously. Debating.

  Wanda holds her gaze. Waits. Trap shut. Making no move. Further action could only screw things up for her.

  Delia sighs. “You know I’m powerless around you.”

  Wanda nods. “I count on it.”

  “They said I can’t sell to you. They were very clear on that.” She reaches for Wanda. Pulls her closer. “But nobody said anything about making a trade.”

  Wanda smiles. Seals the deal.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Merryweather Lesguettes is buried atop a hill. Looking out over a vast expanse of rolling green waves, with marble stone whitecaps.

  Her marker features a lighthouse. Carved in relief above her name. Beneath it, the inscription: “We’ll take the watch. You’ve earned your rest.”

  Her husband Martin doesn’t speak to her. Not out loud, anyway. Just sits on the folding stool he’s set up on the grass of his own burial plot waiting next to hers.

  He’s already bagged up last week’s flowers. Placed the new bouquet in her verdigris-tinted vase. He’s collected any leaves and litter that might have accumulated on or around her little patch of earth. Raked the grass so it all flows in one direction. He thinks of this as making her bed. Tucking her in. It’s simultaneously the least and the most he can do for her.

  But - like the regular shaves-and-haircuts making him presentable for their weekly date - in reality this is how she continues to take care of him. Without these visits as motivation, it’s hard to say if he’d still bother to take care of himself at all.

  Aaron gives his grandfather space. Waits by the car. No longer interested in the graves he once found so fascinating. Back when his mom played Grampy’s chauffeur and he would just come along for the ride. In those days, he’d wander through the headstones. Reading every name. Every date. Moving amongst his ancestry as though mingling at a cocktail party. Wanting to get to know and be known by them.

  Now, they blend together: Similar names. Chiseled into similar monuments. Now, Aaron just leans against the big oak tree. Bides his time.

  How many of his predecessors performed the same menial tasks he’s now undertaking? Keeping watch over waters which may well be empty of danger. Patrolling the shoreline without ever encountering anything out of the ordinary. Had there ever been any point to it? Or was it alw
ays just busywork? Meant to convince Islanders there was some importance to their continued existence?

  A mission. Critical to mankind’s survival. The world’s last defense against... Something.

  Had they questioned it? Or was it always a foregone conclusion? You take your place in the Circle. Continue the work of your forebears. Pass it on to your sons. Your daughters. Had that been enough for them? Could it be enough for him?

  His grandfather rises. Begins the long process of gathering himself to leave. More stiff and crooked with each visit. Always surprising to Aaron. Contrasting with the powerful man he idolized from childhood - though Martin was undoubtedly well past his prime even then.

  Now, Aaron sees scars superimposed over the man. His rawhide skin covered in deep gouges and bites. War wounds. With one very literal baring of his chest, Martin had singlehandedly shifted Aaron’s needle back towards belief. But he still can’t shake the questions: What does it prove? We don’t know how he got them. He didn’t even try to explain. Just stood there and let you fill in the blanks.

  That’s how the Circle works. They give you the barest hints and wait for you to do the rest of the work. From the first time Aaron’s mother told him anything about the island’s secret history, he’s been aware of his grandfather playing an important role, without ever knowing what it was. Somehow, he’d never considered that the cranky old lighthouse keeper might’ve been a soldier. A warrior. The truth had never been offered, so he’d never asked.

  Bending toward the litter bag, Martin seizes up. Waits out some unknown crick or spasm. With battle-scars covered, he’s once again reduced to enfeebled senior citizen. Of limited use and diminished capabilities. His history hidden. Even from those closest to him.

  Aaron moves to meet the old man halfway. Takes the stool from him. The rake. Before he can carry them away, his grandfather stops him.