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  1. The Inquisitor's Apprentice (Upmarket Historical Fiction WIP) CHAPTER ONE - Introduces antagonist, setting, tone and foreshadows the primary conflict The rider pulled back on the reins and brought the donkey to a halt. He straightened his back and moaned softly, releasing the pain and tension of two days and nights without cease on the back of the plodding beast. Although his stomach growled in protest, the priest would allow neither soft bed nor hard bread to tempt him into delaying his voyage here. His two retainers rode silently behind him, their black robes absorbing the brutal heat of the Cordovan summer. In the distance he saw the long, heavily fortified stone bridge the pagan Romans had built over the Guayaquil River to control traffic in and out of the walled city of Cordova. Beyond the bridge, he could see the giant mosque that had become the Grand Cathedral when King Alfonso ended seven hundred years of darkness under the Moors here. The largest Roman outpost in Iberia, the seat of the Moorish caliphate, now to become the purest Christian city in the realm. He cast his gaze towards the Alcazar palace, the temporary home of the Sovereigns as they oversaw the conquest of Moorish Grenada less than a decade ago. The Sovereigns gave the palace, its magnificent Moorish gardens and strong fortifications to the Inquisition after the Reconquista. The Alcazar was now fortalitium fidei, a fortress of faith, and as the new Inquisitor of Cordova and Grenada he would be its humble guardian. Diego Rodrigo Lucero dismounted and fell to his knees in the dusty road. He beat his chest and thanked God for guiding him from lowly schoolteacher and canon of a small church near Seville to this magnificent place of greater service. He knew that God, through the church and the Sovereigns, were entrusting him with the most sacred mission of all – to bring the flock back to the path through love and faith, to purify the souls of this region of Most Catholic Spain. Cordova had been a peaceful place since the Jews were expelled in 1492. Those that remained, the conversos or New Christians, must have been good Catholics because there were but few prosecutions for Judaizing since the burnings immediately preceding the Expulsion. Or was it because the previous Inquisitor had not allowed the flames to grow hot enough, apparently satisfied to takes bribes from the conversos to leave them to practice their forbidden Jewish rituals in private? The bribery didn’t bother Lucero. Many clergy, even Inquisitors, accepted benefices from the people they served to facilitate, delay or modify judgments. Rather, he feared that any remaining allegiance to the discredited Law of Moses or disparagement of the True Faith, even in secret, could lead to a resurgence in backsliding into the error of Judaism. Maybe not today or tomorrow, perhaps in a generation. Cordova seemed tranquil and obedient, but Lucero knew that demons often lay hidden beneath a placid surface. The new Inquisitor got up slowly, stretched and mounted his donkey. He crossed himself. His coal black eyes stared hard at the city. “Let my holy work here begin.” As he kicked the donkey forward, he heard the sloppy singing of a drunken man at the foot of the bridge. The Inquisitor urged the donkey towards the sound. At the bridge, he dismounted and found the man splayed out on the embankment. He pinched his nose against the sour smell of vomit and old piss that emanated from the drunkard. The man looked up the priest and cried out. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned! Look how far I have fallen.” He pointed to the bridge shakily. “I mean I have really fallen. Haha. Get it, Father?” The Inquisitor sighed, then spoke to the man gently. “What is your name?” “Mendoza,” came the reply through a sizable belch. “Mendoza,” repeated Lucero. “An honorable Old Christian family name. Are you from Cordova?” “No, Father. I am from Jaen. I don’t know how I got here. Last night I was with an angel. I supposed she flew me here, haha!” The Inquisitor winced at the man’s foolishness and motioned to his retainers. “Come with us, my son. We will give you a safe place to rest, be fed and to restore your body and soul.” As the retainers helped him to his feet and dragged him towards the donkeys, Lucero whispered to the nearest one. “When we get to the fortress, lock him in a cell away from any other prisoners. God has sent him to be an instrument of our good work.” *** Father Pedro turned the key in the ornate lock and opened the door to the large house on Calle Encarnacion. He bowed and swept his hand towards the interior of the house. “Please, Doctor Lucero, your new home.” Lucero entered the house followed by the priest, the scrape of their sandaled feet on the marble floor magnified by the vastness of the empty space. “And do not be concerned by the lack of furnishings,” Father Pedro hastened to add. “They have been sequestered by the Holy Office pending the resolution of charges against your predecessor, Dr. Guimal. We will provide new furniture shortly.” The Inquisitor grunted. “I have no need of fancy furniture nor grand accommodations. I am here to do holy work, not relax in comfort.” Of course, of course,” the priest replied apologetically. “But you will need a bed to sleep in and a desk to write upon. Surely our Good Lord would not deny you those basic comforts.” Lucero smiled. “Of course. Thank you. But nothing more than that.” He glanced back out the door at the sound of girls’ voices singing in Latin. “I am, however, gladdened to hear those angelic voices from the convent across the street. That sound will daily be my comfort.” Afterwards, as they walked down the street towards the fortress, Lucero eyed every person who passed them or sat in a doorway telling tales to their neighbor. “I smell the corruption of the Faith here.” Father Pedro furrowed his brow. “We haven’t had any problems since the expulsion. The New Christians in Cordova are sincere believers. The only public auto de fe, acts of faith, have been for blasphemy and the odd sodomy. I believe there have only been two purifications by fire in nearly a decade. One was the burning of the bones of some long dead Jews, and the other the burning of wax effigies of two heretics who escaped to Portugal.” “According to my sources, that was because Doctor Guimal was more interested in filthy lucre than the purity of the Faith. The reason there were no prosecutions is that he forced the converso community to put up a bond of two million maravedis, and pay him ten percent of that annually to be left alone.” “I cannot comment on the inner working of the Inquisition, of course. Dr. Guimal did seem to have a good eye for business, even if it did come at the expense of the Royal Treasury,” Father Pedro offered hopefully. Lucero balled his fists and replied in a low growl. “There will be no more thievery while I am the Inquisitor here. And no one will be allowed to petition the Lord with silver and gold.” CHAPTER TWO - Introduces protagonists and secondary characters, inciting incident Blanca’s father had never allowed her to go with the crowds to watch the burnings in the Plaza de Corredera and hear the screams of the dying. It didn’t matter. She could still smell the rancid smoke and see the ashes wafting through the air and dusting everything in Cordoba. The last burning was only three days earlier. Even the beautiful orange grove that filled the courtyard of the cathedral was grey and dulled by the pain of the city. Her nightmares would continue long after the incessant summer wind and the infrequent rains spirited the ashes into memory. The thirteen year-old found solace from her fear and loneliness at the cathedral, planted like a horizontal cross in the middle of the vast forest of marble pillars of the Mezquita, the old Moorish mosque of Cordoba. She missed her mother and older brother terribly, but shook away the sadness that clung to her heart every day since they had left Spain for Rome over a year ago. Today was a special day, the baptism of General Gonzalo Fernandez’ new daughter, Elvira. Blanca’s father Alonso was to be given the honor of being godfather to the child, just as the General had been godfather to Blanca in this same place thirteen years earlier. She strolled into the cathedral holding her father’s hand lightly, wearing her beautiful new white dress, and the necklace her Jewish uncle had sent her from the Kingdom of Naples. The soft leather shoes her father had made for her were covered in the ashen remains of the latest victims of the Inquisition. Each step Blanca took on the path that led from the grove into the sanctuary raised a small cloud of souls yearning for liberation. Alonso kissed his daughter gently on her forehead and turned to walk to the baptismal font set below the new altarpiece he had commissioned for the occasion. Blanca took her seat among the dark wooden pews, and let herself be swept away from the horror outside by the sonorous Latin chants of the choir. She stared at the altarpiece, a brooding painting of Saint George slaying the dragon. The saint’s face looked like the General’s. Blanca’s father had taught her that religious paintings usually had many layers of meaning, depending on the artist and the patron’s wishes. Beneath the parable of the saint destroying the pagan world, Blanca guessed this painting commemorated the General’s famous victory over the Moors of Grenada. She would ask her father later. A low, troubled murmur rolled through the parishioners. Blanca saw many of her neighbors looking upwards and followed their gaze. She put her hand to her throat and gasped. All around the cathedral, dirty cotton specters with strange, painted designs of fire, demons and bizarrely torqued bodies loomed menacingly above her. The priests had hung sanbenitos around the giant dome. Every day, she saw citizens convicted of minor crimes wandering the streets of Cordoba in these sacks and the conical pointed hats they were forced to wear as penance for their misdeeds. But none of those had frightening paintings as the ghostly shapes hovering over her head. The shafts of light that flooded the cathedral through windows all around the dome were meant to illustrate God bringing the light of Truth and Redemption to the parishioners below. But now it pierced and illuminated the horrible sanbenitos and made them appear alive. Her neighbor whispered that these sanbenitos were from the twenty-seven poor souls condemned as heretics by the Inquisition, turned over to the city council and so recently burned at the stake. Blanca numbly counted the sanbenitos. Twenty-seven. She shuddered and looked away. *** The General and Alonso stood on one side of the font, across from the General’s second wife Maria Manrique, who held baby Elvira. The General leaned towards Alonso and spoke quietly. “Look at those damned sanbenitos. It seems the Sovereigns have given our new Inquisitor permission to prosecute the entire New Christian population of Cordoba. The arrests grow daily. You must be comforted your wife and son left for Rome before the Inquisitor arrived. I never understood why you stayed, and why you kept our dear little Blanca here.” Alonso sighed. “You know I have my work here. My translations and book bindings are no threat to the Sovereigns, and Blanca is too young to be bothered by the Inquisition. I don’t think we are in any danger.” General Fernandez grunted. “You underestimate your importance to the New Christian community here. Your esteem in the eyes of the nobles and the church gives the New Christians hope that this storm will pass.” He clapped his firm hand on Alonso’s shoulder and shook his head. “You have many friends, Alonso, especially among your customers. But the clergy and the nobles can be quite fickle. They may adore your beautiful leather bindings and precious manuscripts, and appreciate your moral philosophy, but when they see advantage elsewhere, well, you know they will take it. I will always defend you and my goddaughter. I am El Gran Capitan of our armies, but alas, even I can’t stay the hand of the Sovereigns if they are turned against you by the Dark One. It was easier for me to defeat the Moors in Granada and the French in Naples than to overcome the Inquisition.” He looked towards Blanca. “I only hope that my Elvira grows to be as beautiful and intelligent as Blanca. It is a pity she spends so much time alone. The child needs her mother.” The cathedral choir launched a soaring aria as Father Pedro began the ritual. He read the scriptural passages, the intersessions of the saints and the prayers of exorcism. After blessing the baptismal waters, Father Pedro addressed the new parents and godfather. “Do you reject Satan, all his works and empty promises?” They responded in unison, “I do.” Do you believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth?” “I do.” “Do you believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, who was born of the Virgin Mary, was crucified, died, and was buried, rose from the dead, and is now seated at the right hand of the Father?” “I do.” “Do you believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sin, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting?” “I do.” Father Pedro raised the baptismal waters. “Is it your will that Elvira should be baptized in the faith of the Church, which we have all professed to you?” “It is.” “What name have you given your child in baptism?” “Aurea,” the parents replied. Father Pedro gazed softly at Alonso. “As godfather, are you prepared to help the parents of this child in their duty as Christians?” Alonso smiled softly at the baby. “I am.” “Elvira, I baptize you Aurea in the name of the Father…” The priest poured the holy water onto the forehead of the baby, eliciting a small squeak. He poured again, “and of the Son…” and a third time, “and of the Holy Spirit.” The ritual was over. The child belonged to the church. *** As the parishioners left the cathedral, Blanca joined her father, the General, Father Pedro and Gomez Solano, the choirmaster. The men complimented the choirmaster and chatted amiably as they walked through the stunning Moorish architecture and out into the sunny orange grove. General Fernandez asked Alonso about his progress on the General’s military manual describing the use of arquebus and new troop formations that the General had pioneered so successfully against the Moors in Grenada. The bookbinder smiled. “I will go to Sevilla tomorrow to pick up the manuscripts from the Cromberger printers. In another week I will have two copies bound in the best Cordovan leather and embellished with rubies to represent the blood of the vanquished.” The General beamed. “Wonderful. One copy for me and one for the King. I will deliver it myself. He will want every one of our officers to study the new methods. We have a world to conquer.” In the middle of the grove, four black-robed, hooded Dominican priests lurked like bad omens, accompanied by several heavily-armed catchpoles and Martin de Leon, the alguacil of Cordoba. The Dominicans faded back as the alguacil shouted, “Arrest him in the name of the Holy Office on the charge of Judaizing!” Alonso gripped Blanca’s hand tightly. The catchpoles rushed towards Blanca’s group and grabbed the choirmaster. They quickly wrestled him towards the arched exit of the compound, followed by the silent Dominicans. Gomez Solano shouted in bewilderment. “I am innocent! I believe in the True Faith! Please, someone help me! Father, give me sanctuary!” “I am sorry, my son, there is no sanctuary for heretics.” The priest looked around at the rough-looking men lounging by the well in the grove. “Alas, it appears only murderers, thieves and rapists have a chance at redemption, not heretics.” The choirmaster’s pleas faded as he was engulfed in a cocoon of black robes and spirited out of the grove. Martin de Leon walked heavily towards the General, his two broad swords clanking against each other under his cloak. The General’s eyes blazed. “What is the meaning of this, Martin? How dare you disturb my daughter’s baptismal day!” The alguacil quaked but quickly regained his composure. “I am sorry, Gran Capitan, but the choirmaster stands accused and must submit to the Inquisition. Inquisitor Lucero himself ordered me to arrest him here today. I must follow his orders as I did yours before the walls of Granada.” He bowed and hurried away. General Fernandez spit and cursed at the fleeing alguacil. “Coward!” He turned red-faced with anger towards the priest. “This is outrageous! Father, were you aware of this?” The priest grimaced and wrung his hands, looking from the General to Alonso and back. “Inquisitor Lucero is rooting the Judaizers out of the Church. I have told him there are no Judaizers here but he will not be stopped. He made an example of the choirmaster to force everyone in the cathedral staff to fall in line. Especially me, because I objected to hanging the sanbenitos in the cathedral. I had no idea he would do this today of all days. I don’t know who he will go after next.” “I must write the sovereigns immediately and bring this before the Cortes,” the General growled. “This man’s excesses and venality must be stopped now!” He turned and stormed out of the grove, hurling blasphemies at anyone in his path. Father Pedro put his hands to his head and sighed deeply. “Poor Gomez. You remember he was the cantor at the old synagogue. His name was Abram Levi then. Jews, even former ones, are especially mystically inclined. As choirmaster, Gomez could continue his spiritual search in safety, or so I thought.” Alonso thought back before the Expulsions, when a younger Abraham Levi would chant on the holy days and manifest the light of the shechina into the synagogue. “He could reach those heights in his music because he had found something. I don’t think we will ever know what it was.” “Nor should we ever speak of it again.” Father Pedro made the sign of the Cross and retreated towards the cathedral. Alonso called after the priest. “Would you have told me if I was the subject of the Inquisitor?” Father Pedro stopped and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “I would tell you out of love and respect for you and your family.” He exhaled sharply and shrugged. “But I might not tell you out of fear.” As Blanca and her father hurried away from the cathedral, she looked back, fearing the sanbenitos would follow her, but knowing they would surely appear in her dreams.
  2. April 1989 Southport, Maine Someone had told her once that the red house had withstood years of abuse from the gales and never faltered because it had good bones. But the house that fishermen looked to as a landmark in the fog was now a beacon of neglect. Galene stopped at the front door and scraped her fingernails along the siding. Red paint peeled off in shards. At least she’d had the roof replaced last year. She tussled with the finicky lock and cringed as the door creaked open in protest. The air inside smelled like must. Furniture covered in white cloth. Dust motes dancing. A memory tugged at her. She shook it off. The large windows in the parlor stretched across the room, affording views of both Sheepscot Bay and the ocean beyond where a flock of gulls soared on an updraft, monitoring the water below for prey. A few landed on the granite ledge overlooking the bay. They still nest there, she thought. All these years and they still know to come home. There wasn’t time to linger over memories though. She needed to find her journal that she’d stashed years ago. A flight of steps led her to the attic and a flip of the switch bathed the room in a muted yellow glow. She yelped at the sight of the dress mannequin in front of the only window in the room. At first, she thought it was a real person. No. Just a ghost standing watch over the scattered remains of the people who once inhabited this house and didn’t take the time to clean up their mess. The chest was on the floor next to the mannequin. She unlocked it with a key, yanked it open, and the first thing she saw was the silk dress she’d retrofitted when she was seventeen. For him. She pulled the dress out of the tissue paper she’d wrapped it in, examining it in the natural light. Surprisingly, there were no moth holes. Standing up, she draped it over the mannequin where she had first discovered it, falling in love with the fabric’s silky embrace. Oh God, don’t do this to yourself. Move on. Find the damn journal and get the hell out of here. She returned to the chest. On top of a Montgomery Ward box that held her wedding dress was the trilogy of the sea by Rachel Carson. They belonged to her dad, and she read them to him almost every night until they had both read all three books at least twice, memorizing entire passages. Her eyes pooled, and she wiped at them with the back of her sleeve, getting mascara on it. She took the books out, set them aside, and rummaged around the bottom of the trunk until she felt the leather-bound journal. Lifting it out of the chest, she swung around, startled by a sharp bark. A yellow lab bounded up the stairs, its claws scratching the wooded steps, and sprinted directly at her, almost knocking her over. “Sit!” she said, grabbing for the collar as the dog licked the back of her hands and wagged its tail. “Sit, Beebee.” “There you are. Didn’t you hear me calling you?” Sasha stood in the doorway, hands planted on her hips. Arms akimbo. Galene let go of the collar and pulled the journal to her chest. “Jeesh, Sasha. Beebee scared the hell out of me.” Sasha stepped into the light. Her curly black hair now white, her blue eyes just as vivid as they’d always been. “BeeBee, come.” She motioned for her dog. “What are you doing up here?” “How’d you know I was here?” “I was walking BeeBee and saw a car with out-of-state plates and…you know you left the door wide open to the house?” She strode across the room and embraced Galene. “Why didn’t you tell anyone when you were getting in? We could’ve picked you up at the airport.” “I didn’t want to put anyone out, so I rented a car.” Sasha stepped away from her and poked at the journal. “Found your old diary?” Her dark brows slanted. “I remember that thing. You were always writing in it. Look, if there’s anything about me in there that my kids shouldn’t know about I suggest you burn it.” “It’s about me. Not you. And don’t worry. I won’t let it get into the wrong hands. I just want to read it again. I stopped by the house to find it. Thought it might jog my memory about the summer I worked for Rachel Carson. I need to think of what I’m going to say at the memorial.” Sasha rolled her eyes. “I know. That’s all everyone around here is talking about.” There’s not much else to talk about on this island besides other people’s business and the latest catch, Galene thought. But didn’t say out loud. “Where are you staying?” Sasha continued. “I got a room at Newagen.” “Lucky you. I hear they’re booked solid. You’ll be hobnobbing with all the bigwigs. The Governor is staying there as well. You sure you’re ready for this? There’s going to be a huge crowd.” “I lecture to a room of over a hundred students every week. I think I can handle it.” Sasha swiped a piece of hair away from her eyes. Galene recognized the dark red nail polish on her fingernails, chipping off like the paint on the house. “Oh, my God! Is that the dress you wore to the boat club party years ago? You kept it?” Sasha took a handful of the fabric in her hand. “I always loved this dress.” Galene stopped herself from telling Sasha to leave it alone because she didn’t want to come across as unkind in the short time she had here. “I’m only here for a few days,” she said to change the subject. “I’ve got to get back for finals week.” Sasha’s dreamy gaze remained on the dress. A smile formed on her lips, most likely remembering a time when they were both young and determined to makes something of their lives. A passing thought, a disturbing memory perhaps, caused Sasha to chomp down on her lower lip. She turned her attention to Galene. “Why’d you keep it?” “I don’t know,” Galene said as she choked back tears. Damn it, Sasha. Leave it alone. Maybe Sasha noticed the raspiness in Galene’s voice, because she let go and stepped away from the mannequin. Galene headed toward the stairs, Sasha right behind like a collie nipping at her heels. “Come on BeeBee,” Sasha called, and the lab barreled past them, almost knocking Galene over. “Do you know what you’re going to say at the memorial?” “I’ll figure it out.” They ended up in the parlor surrounded by white drop cloths, layers of dust on the mantel, and a fireplace that hadn’t felt the lick of flames in ten years. Maybe coming here was a bad idea. She’d given up on the place. Stopped renting it out because she didn’t feel like hearing renters complain about the lack of water pressure or the broken slats on the deck. She only did the bare minimum for upkeep, as was evident by the peeling exterior. Her brother kept telling her to sell it. The value of coastal property had quadrupled since her father-in-law bought the place in the 1960s. Sasha hugged her unexpectedly, and the warmth of it settled her. “I know it’s difficult for you to make the trip back. But I’ve really missed you.” “I’ve missed you too, Sasha.” “Then why don’t you plan to stay longer?” “I can’t.” “Then come back when the semester ends. Fix this place up. Have you forgotten how nice the summers are here?” “It’s hard not to,” Galene said. “Don’t take it personally. I’m usually tied down by my research.” She failed to mention that her summer stipend hadn’t come through. The funders were rethinking their commitment to her work studying the impacts of global warming on the marine life in the Salish Sea. “I’ve never taken it personally. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out why you made a pit stop to this place to find a twenty-five-year-old diary so you can reminisce.” Galene clutched the leather journal closer and stalked outside to the car. “It’s not reminiscing. It’s research.” She stepped into the car and shut the door. Sasha rested her elbows at the window as Galene put the car into gear. “Sure it is.” *** Her attention drifted to the murmuration over the fir trees dotting the coast. High above the audience on the lawn, the starlings were putting on their own choreographed show. The surf muffled their song, but she knew they were communicating to each other. How else could they accomplish these aerial theatrics?. They alighted en masse onto the branches of a tree, and on cue, pitched back into the air, circling, fanning, creating waves of black smoke along the horizon. From her viewpoint on the deck at the Inn, she imagined they were harassing the hawk waiting restlessly in the tree. He finally gave up and flew away. “…am happy to introduce one of our hometown heroes to the environmental cause, Dr. Galene MacGregor.” The clapping brought her back to the stage, to the event, to the people on the lawn waiting for her to speak. With a nod and a smile she took her place at the podium and focused on the audience. She’d learned long ago to keep her attention on the last row, a trick mastered when she felt seasick on a boat. Keep steady. Not that she felt seasick, but a feeling had crawled up her arms, tingled the back of her head, made her brain buzz. She couldn’t pinpoint it. Clearing her throat, she unfolded her notes and found them unacceptable. All of the lectures in the world hadn’t prepared her for this. The crowd waited expectantly for her to speak. The blood drained from her head, their faces went blurry. Was she about to faint? “Uhm. Do you need a moment?” the last speaker, the mayor of Booth Bay, whispered in her ear. Shaking her head to bring back some energy she said, “I’ll be all right.” Someone handed her a glass of water. She took two gulps, faced the crowd, and spotted her brother, Sam, in the front row next to Sasha. Galene spoke, “The other speakers here have spoken about Rachel Carson’s influence. Her message to us all about the perils of neglecting the natural world. And she’ll always be memorialized for that. But my memory of Miss Carson is of a warm, caring, private friend. She became my mentor when I desperately needed one.” Galene locked eyes with her brother to register his reaction. Noting none, she continued. “My mother died when I was young and the summer I met Rachel my entire world changed. Growing up on a small island, one doesn’t realize the vast opportunities that lay beyond the shore. Cloistered. I recall using that word about my life.” A few people chuckled, and she imagined it was one of her many cousins who were in the audience. “But Rachel made me recognize the potential I had when women like her, especially women scientists, were not taken seriously. Her critics, called her all sorts of names: spinster, hysterical, a mystic instead of a person of science. Through it all, she held her head high and showed true grace. Because she knew. She knew she was dying. And no one could take away her fortitude, her belief that as part of nature, it was up to nature to decide when her time came. As she told her best friend, Dorothy Freeman in one of her letters, reminiscing about a time she and Dorothy sat right here and watched a migration of monarchs over the lawn where you now sit, ‘…we felt no sadness when we spoke of the fact that there would be no return. And rightly—for when any living thing has come to the end of its life cycle, we accept that end as natural.’ “She was a keen observer. Her trilogy of the sea is a poetic account of the life cycle on the variety of species who rely on the ocean. I think she’d like most to be remembered not as the woman who catalyzed the environmental movement. But a biographer of the sea. Because it was here, by the ocean, she was happiest.” The applause died down, she regained her composure to allow a wide smile to break across her face, took another gulp of the water, and sat. The master of ceremonies announced a cocktail hour followed by dinner for those guests that had reserved tickets (tickets had cost three hundred a person and Galene doubted Sam or Sasha had forked out the money for a lobster bake when it was their lobster catch everyone was going to be eating). People came up to the deck and wandered inside when the breeze picked up and a chill descended. As she followed the crowd into the bar, Sam took her by her elbow. “Hey.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek. “We’re not staying.” “I didn’t think you would be.” “Come to dinner before you leave?” “Sure. I’m here until Tuesday.” His hair was still the same tawny brown, flecked with gray at the temples. His expression hopeful as he said, “Call us?” “Yes. I’ll call in the morning.” Sasha came up to say goodbye just as a man strode up and said, “Galene.” She did a double take. Although they were inside, he hadn’t taken off his black-framed wayfarer sunglasses, the type that were popular in the sixties and were making a comeback with celebrities. He lifted them onto his head and her heart caught in her throat. It was him. “James?” It came out as a croak. “James?” Sasha took the familiar stance of hands planted on hips. “Oh. My. God.” Galene widened her eyes at Sasha, communicating without saying, shut the hell up. And go away. “James, you remember my good friend Sasha?” He grinned, the corners of his eyes wrinkling like they always did, making him appear cheerful. “Of course.” His hair, once a deep brown, was now totally gray. His face had turned jowly, one reason she hadn’t recognized him when he took his seat on the lawn. That and his padded middle. No wonder she had felt unsettled before speaking. She’d seen him without recognizing him right away. He’d always been so chiseled. And without the bronze summer tan she remembered from their youth, he appeared—doughy. Galene hoped Sasha recognized her pleading expression after all of these years. “Sasha, so glad you came today. I’ll see you tomorrow? I know you have to go.” “Yes. So right. See you tomorrow. Goodbye, James.” And Sasha parted, leaving Galene to face the guy, now a man, she’d loathed for half of her life. “My company donated a lot of money to the Nature Conservancy for the upkeep of her preserve,” he said to explain his presence. The Rachel Carson Salt Pond Preserve in New Harbor was one of many memorials. “That’s nice,” Galene said, sounding as if her tongue had swelled to twice its size. He coughed into the back of his wrist. “I…uh…would you like a drink?” “Yes. A Chablis please.” She watched him make his way to the bar. As he did, a few people patted his shoulder, spoke into his ear. He threw his head back and laughed at a joke someone told him. Who were these people and how did he know them? Why was he here? He came back, handed her a glass, and as if on cue said, “When I heard you were speaking, I knew I had to come. We spent a lot of time in those tidal pools. You me and Trevor.” His eyes skimmed over the top of his tumbler of bourbon to meet hers. Ice tinkled in the glass as he sipped. “How is Trevor?” His face changed. “Trevor died in Vietnam.” “Oh, I’m so sorry. He was such a good spirited kid.” “Mother was crushed. She never recovered.” “That’s terrible.” It surprised Galene he talked about his mother with no note of bitterness in his voice. Losing Trevor must have been the end of what was left of their miserable family life. He put on a smile. “You look the same. And I hear you’re doing wonderful work out at the University of Washington is it?” “Yes.” “Still tramping around in the seaweed?” “Kelp beds. I study the impact of warming ocean temperatures on the kelp beds.” “Ahh…that global warming stuff. You take that seriously?” She bit her tongue. Took a long draw of her wine. “Well,” he continued, “I always knew you’d do something with yourself.” “Really?” She wanted so desperately to remind him of their last conversation, where he told her she’d move to Boston to be with him. “Did you ever get into Harvard?” She hoped this was a dagger that would ward him off. Send him scurrying. “Haha. That’s a long story. I own a company now. Real estate.” “Good for you.” His eyes grazed over her figure. “Get back home much?” “Rarely, I’m sorry to say.” She wasn’t, but it felt like she was supposed to say this. “Is this your first time back here since…?” She couldn’t bring herself to say what should come next. The awful summer of 1962 that had started out so sweet and ended up so tragic. Though out of tragedy she had love. He shook his head and puckered his lips. “No. But that’s probably going to change.” “There you are.” A young woman, Galene guessed was in her late twenties, came up to them and slid her arm into his. He patted the back of her hand. “Galene, meet my wife, Violet.” “Nice to meet you.” “You as well. You gave a wonderful speech.” Violet smiled politely, looked around as if finding Galene non-threatening, and not worth the effort. “Look at this crowd! Everyone is here.” She sounded like a chirping chickadee. “Hey, I just saw Farrah by the bar. I’ll be right back.” And she took off. “You were saying?” Galene said, trying to keep her expression neutral. Inside, she wanted to scream. He raked his free hand through his thick, wavy hair as his gaze followed his wife sashaying to the bar through a thick crowd of people. After taking the last swig of his drink, he puckered his lips and said, “I’m planning to buy the red house. The one my dad owned way back when we first met.” Galene dropped her glass, and it shattered, wine coating the floor, slithering around her feet. Everyone’s attention turned to them and a hush fell across the room. She felt like she was under a microscope. A server scurried over with a rag, wiping up around her shoes. “I’m so sorry,” Galene stammered. “Are you okay?” He was actually concerned for her. “I’ll be fine. I just need to sit,” she said. He took hold of her by the waist and guided her to a chair in the lounge by the fireplace. People gave her a wide berth as they passed. She inhaled and stared into the flames, afraid to look him in the eyes. “It’s probably jet lag,” he said. “Yes.” “I’ll stay with you until you feel better.” “It’s fine. Don’t worry. I have a room upstairs. I think I’ll go lay down.” “Wonderful. Then I’ll see you again.” “What do you mean?” “We’re staying here too.” Galene Early Spring 1962 Southport, Maine There’s gray, and there’s black and white. Gray times are those when you make concessions to survive. Black and white times are when you won’t. Today is gray. A fox got into the coop last night, chased the hens off their nests and ate the eggs. Dad doesn’t know yet. My brother Sam forgot to close up the coop before he went out, and I don’t want to give our dad another reason to be mad at him. So, I’m off to find gull eggs. The temperature was arctic last night, but as dawn creeps over the horizon, it provides a glimpse of warmer weather. The heat builds with the rising sun, coursing through my limbs, my face, my breath, as I venture out onto the rocky shore, slick with sea spray and small pools of water reflecting the silvery dawn mist. The herring gulls, with their muted gray wings, are less aggressive than the black backed, and smaller, so I start with their nests. I throw a pocket-sized rock to shoo a gull from her nest and snatch an egg before she can pierce my hand with her beak. It’s warm from her incubating and a wave of guilt washes over me briefly before I place it in the wicker basket. We need to eat. The indignant bird has a partner who joins her, circling in the air above my head. I move to another nest. Alert, this pair torpedoes my feet with their bills. I dodge their attacks as best I can, and they peck at my rubber boots like a small hammer. They’re in a frenzy now and my luck will run out soon if I don’t hurry. I’m able to take four more eggs before being chased off by one of them nipping at my hair. Their squawking protests echo as I run away. The things we do. If Sam had closed the coop, I wouldn’t be here wanting to screech back at the birds. “Sorry, you can always lay another one, but we’ve got to eat.” A few pairs of black-backed gulls have nests on the farthest ridge. As I approach, they flap their wings. One lifts its beak, opens wide and screams. I remind myself that their protective instincts aren’t half as bad now as they will be once the chicks hatch. When I was the height of Sam’s knees, he took me out on this ledge to see the chicks, warning me to stay away from the nests. I may have gotten too close, or not have paid attention to his warning. A pair of black-backs rose in the air above us, dropping an enormous plop of white and green slimy mess on my head. Sam laughed while I cried. I approach with caution. A gull pulls out of her nest, runs right at me, her wings unfolding and flapping like a red flag to the flock. There are gray and there are black and white moments. I just washed my hair last night. This is a black and white moment. I back off, turn, and stumble over a small boy. “What’re you doing?” he asks. From his small stature I guess he’s too young to know much of anything. “I’m collecting gull eggs,” I say, pulling the basket to my chest. “Who are you?” “Why?” Searching the sea behind him for answers, pointing at the gulls dipping into the waves. “They eat the fish. The fishermen pay me. To control the population.” “What fish?” “Herring. That’s why they’re called herring gulls.” He’s wearing a pair of un-scuffed Buster Brown shoes, a white button-down shirt, gray flannel pants, and a jacket. And from the sound of his accent I’d say he’s from away. “You’re going to dirty those,” I say. He shrugs and smears the toe of his shoe against a rock. “I don’t care.” “What’s your name?” “Trevor.” “How old are you?” “Nine.” “Where are you from?” “Boston.” It surprises me his accent doesn’t give that away. “What’re you doing here?” He gestures to the red house looming on an outcrop of rock at the end of the island. “My dad just bought that house. We’re staying there for the summer.” The locals call it the red house because of the brilliant red paint job. Though it’s actually owned by the Hemburly family. Or it was. Old lady Hemburly died a few years ago and her nephew inherited it but he lives in Texas and rarely comes back to Maine. Built a century ago when sheep grazed, the land is now flanked by fir and spruce. There’s a ribbon of stone wall embedded in the forest of trees. I haven’t been in the house since I was a little girl and I recall that the inside of the house was run down. So was Mrs. Hemburly. And I remember the views in the main parlor where she sat in an old velvet chair with views of the ocean on one end of the room, and Sheepscot Bay at the other. I set my basket of eggs down and put out my hand. “Well, nice to meet you. My name is Galene.” He puts his small hand in mine. It’s smooth and warm like the eggs. “What kind of name is Galene?” If he weren’t so young, his bluntness would be annoying. However, it’s not the first time someone has asked me that. My father named me after the Greek goddess. “It means calm seas.” “Oh.” He scratches his head and we both hear someone call, “Trevor!” In the distance, a young man stands on a boulder, cupping his mouth to the breeze. “That’s my brother James. I need to go now. Nice to meet you, Galene.” “Nice to meet you too, Trevor.” He pivots, runs toward his brother, and when he reaches him, points back in my direction. I pick up my basket and head back home. When I reach the road, a Cadillac comes out of the driveway of the red house. Trevor and his brother James are in the back seat. James’ dark eyes assess me under the rim of a tweed cap. I trip on a small rock and he turns away just as I find my balance. Trevor puts his face to the back window, flapping his hand. I wave back before James grabs him by the collar and pulls him into his seat. *** It’s a short walk past the red house to mine at the end of the road. Our Labrador, Candy, flops on the ground, languidly guarding the hen coop. “Too late,” I tell her. Her ears prick up, but she doesn’t even bother lifting her head as a fly buzzes around her nose. Green tufts of grass and dandelion greens peek out from under the melting remnants of a late spring snow along the side of the barn. The air smells like warm earth and salt. It’s the kind of day to open the windows. I pick some dandelion greens for breakfast and put them in my basket. My brother Sam comes out of the barn, sits on a bench, sliding his boots on over thick wool socks. “Where’ve you been?” “I had to collect gull eggs. You left the coop open last night.” “I know,” he says. “Candy was barking, so I ran out just in time to stop a coon from carrying off with one of the hens.” “The eggs are gone, or crushed. It was a mess.” Sam grunts but won’t acknowledge his mistake. “Go feed Dad. He’s been asking for you. And then I need you to come with me today. Louis can’t make it.” “Is that why you’re going out so late?” “Don’t be fresh.” He sweeps an oil stained hand through his unruly hair. I was about to ask him why his sternman wasn’t showing up, but he wouldn’t let me. “Go on now. Dad’s waiting.” Dad’s sitting by the wood-burning stove with a blanket draped over his laps. He’s staring out the window, what he sees, I’m not sure. Blue sky? White clouds? Or just watery images? “It’ll rain later,” he says, sensing my presence as I place the basket on our old wooden kitchen table. He can predict the weather. I’d say it was because he’s losing his sight, or maybe the arthritis flaring, seeping into his bones. But there’s more to it. As long as I can remember, even back when I was a little girl and my mother was still alive, my dad spoke about the weather with inevitability. He feels the air and knows which direction the wind will shift; knows to batten the window hatches when a Nor’easter no one else predicted is working its way up the coast. His uncanny sense of weather made him one of the most enduring and prosperous lobstermen in our town. Until he had given it over to my brother. Sam didn’t have Dad’s intuition about where to place the pots for the best catch, how to navigate tricky waters, and his timing was all wrong. I think he’s not up to it. My Dad blames it on the alcohol. Sam goes to the tavern with his friends almost every night and, as Dad says, five dollars spent is five dollars not made. I throw a slab of butter in the iron skillet and it sizzles. “Sam asked me to go out with him today. Will you be all right?” Dad shrugs. “Ayuh.” I crack a gull egg over a bowl, add milk, whisk it into a froth, and add the dandelion greens. There’s enough bread in the box for the two of us. I hope Sam ate already. “Wasn’t planning on going today. Sasha might call,” I say as I slather the toast with the rest of the butter, cook the eggs, and scoop them onto a plate. The smell alerts Dad to get out of his chair. He walks across the floor of the living room with a measured gait, both out of caution and because of his arthritis, and takes a seat at the kitchen table. “Eat more, Galene,” he says, scraping some of his eggs onto my plate, which makes me feel guilty. “A family bought the red house,” I say. “From away?” he asks. His gnarled hands reach for his coffee mug. Arthritic knuckles bulge, years of lobstering written all over them: scars from rope cuts; knife wounds; age spots from the sun. “Boston,” I say. “Figures. The house is in such state I don’t know whether anyone from town could afford to fix it proper.” He wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Gull eggs?” I set my fork down. He knew. Of course, he’d know the difference in taste, while I couldn’t tell. “I stole them from the nesting birds up on the ridge.” What I don’t reveal is that Sam left the coop open. Although I want to. He grunts and scoops a forkful in his mouth. “Only get to taste them in the spring. Always like the taste. Did they get you?” He was the one who taught me how to collect the eggs years ago. “Almost.” His eyes graze past me, a fond memory lurking somewhere. There’s a fire in the stove, and wood close at hand. I telephone the neighbor, Mrs. Peterson and ask her to check in on Dad at lunch. “We should be back by evening,” I say. I leave a plate of pickles and ham in the cupboard. “Louis isn’t good for your brother,” she says. “I have to go now.” I don’t want to listen to Ida Peterson lecture me about my brother’s lobster business. There’s nothing I can do about it, anyway. Dad and Sam had always been a team until Dad’s sight went. He tried to hide it from us, but we noticed small things. The way he’d grasp at the side of chairs as he made his way across a room, fumbling in the cupboards for the tea, his hands wandering over containers of porcelain until they landed on the hard metal tin box. “Here, Dad, let me help you,” I’d say. And he’d brush me off with an impatience that struck me as odd. “He’s losing his sight,” my brother told me one day six years ago after they got back from lobstering. “How do you know for sure?” I said. “Because he almost killed me today.” My brother was not one for melodramatics. “What happened?” “The fog rolled in and we were passing the lighthouse and he didn’t spot Davey’s shoal until we were almost on top of it.” “Is that the whole of it? Maybe it was the vapors? Anyone can lose their sense of direction in the vapors.” Sam shook his head. “No, Galene. Admit it. We’ve known for some time. He almost tripped on the stool walking into the kitchen. He says it’s the malaria. He says it’s the lingering effects.” How could malaria still plague my dad years after he fought in the Pacific? Sam insisted it was too dangerous for Dad to keep lobstering. At sixteen, he quit high school to take over the business. I was too young to help, so he recruited a local boy named Louis. But I’m seventeen now, old enough, and Sam trusts me to bait the traps when Louis was busy or sleeping off a night at the bar. I don’t like it though. It’s hard and my hands end up red and raw from working the lines, even with rubber gloves as protection. The sound of the truck horn startles me. “Come on!” Sam shouts.
  3. Gwen sat on her daughter's twin bed, staring at herself in a mirror they'd attached to the back of the door. It refracted the room's ambient light and gave the illusion of space. It also multiplied the flower decals Sophie had stuck on the walls and the Janice Joplin poster above her bed. Their realtor had called it a one-bedroom, but they all knew that was a lie. It was really a studio with a walk-in closet. But Gwen had been desperate to leave the Victorian townhome she'd shared with Jeremy down in Grammercy Park, and this place was the first thing she found. In hindsight, the signs of infidelity were everywhere--on Jeremy's fragrant coat, in Jeremy's smile--but Gwen was blind to them. For a while, her eye had not been on Jeremy at all but on the country at large. She had reported on the riots in Omaha the previous spring, when violence erupted after George Wallace announced his run for the presidency. By June, the riots had reached Newark, leaving twenty-six dead. And, somewhere in there, she had traveled to New Orleans to cover District Attorney Jim Garrison's investigation of President Kennedy's assassination. Garrison was convinced, along with a growing number of others, that Oswald did not kill Kennedy despite the Warren Commission's claims. Her eye was on these stories, not Jeremy. And she wrote in a blind heat, too, against deadlines that made conventional time irrelevant. At the Associated Press, it was always news-time somewhere. Sophie, her fifteen-year-old daughter, had gone to an anti-war march that morning, and Gwen had let her go. Recently, she had begun missing school and hanging out with the college kids up at Columbia. Gwen thought maybe it was a way to cope with the family's breakup, which Gwen had not yet fully explained, in part because Sophie had not challenged Gwen's lie that they had fought about Gwen's job. And Gwen, also to her surprise, found herself loathe to tell Sophie the truth. Not to protect Jeremy so much as to protect her daughter, which might actually amount to the same thing. Gwen made a cross-eyed face in the mirror, laughed at herself, and finally stood up. She found her sneakers, grabbed her purse, and left the apartment. On the landing, she lit a cigarette and headed down the stairs, because the elevator was impossibly slow. Sophie had been cooking their meals ever since they left Jeremy. Simple things, like Campbells chicken soup and a salad, or burgers on English muffins. Sometimes, they ordered a peperoni pizza or Chinese. But today, Gwen's conscience bit at her, and she planned to have dinner on the table when Sophie returned from the march. The day was sunny but cold. Gwen turned left on 101st Street, wanting to avoid the protesters. She stepped on something that oozed out from beneath her foot. The sanitation worker's strike had ended, but remains were everywhere, spilling out from trash cans: dirty diapers, chewed lamb chops, scattered green peas, cigarette butts. Paper plates skidded down the sidewalks carrying soggy pizza crusts that look like bloated fingers. At 74th Street, Gwen dodged several honking yellow cabs to cross Broadway. A young mother wearing a velvet equestrian hat careened past her pushing a huge blue stroller. An old woman using a grocery cart as a walker passed by, her head a pink cactus of jumbo curlers. A closer look revealed that her fuzzy pink coat was actually a bathrobe. Beneath Fairway's awning, someone who looked like Seiji Ozawa carefully chose apples from an outdoor bin. Suddenly, the famous conductor turned, and his shiny black hair swept across his shoulders as he flashed her a sweet, boyish smile. Gwen caught up with the protestors heading up Broadway half an hour later. College kids held hand-drawn signs that read, "Hell, No, We Won't Go!" and "What For? Stop the War!" Black students protested both the war and oppression: "Give money to the ghettos, not the war machine!" They were loud but not violent. She didn't see Sophie anywhere. By this point, her arms strained under the weight of two heavy grocery bags. Gwen skirted around the edge of the crowd for the final sprint home, took the stairs two at a time, and unlocked the door just as the phone began to ring. She dropped the groceries in the doorway and ran to pick up the phone. "Mom?" she heard her daughter's fretful voice. "Mom, I need you to pick me up." "Why? Where are you?" I just passed the march. I thought you were with them." There was a brief pause. Then Sophie said, "I'm in jail."
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