wanted to say, and how
best to say it. He couldn't seem to find words that would be gentle.
The
fireplace blazed, keeping out the winter chill. Outside, a slow cold rain, the
remnant of the storm of the previous day, settled in and showed no intention of
leaving.
Sanborn
dipped his spoon and ate the soup slowly and deliberately, delaying the unhappy
conversation. Emma settled into her own chair, unfolded her napkin, and placed
it into her lap. She glanced up at him, and glanced away again.
They
ate in silence for long minutes. At last, he said, "The storm has just
about blown itself out now. I should be back on the water fishing in the
morning after I make my rounds."
"How
is Percy doing?"
"He's
about healed. He came back onto the boat on Monday."
"That's
good. I'm so sorry he lost the fingers."
"He
is lucky. The infection took swiftly, and he could have lost the whole
arm."
"I
don't call that 'luck.' Oh, John, it's not worth it. Do you think the sheriff
might increase upon your wages, as he said?"
No,
it's not worth it, he thought. "It's as I've told you, I'm a
caretaker at best here. If the fishermen profit, the tax coffers fill. If not,
the sheriff guards his budget jealously and allocates it across the county
according to the jurisdictions' collections. The fish are scarce this year;
therefore so are salary increases. And if the fish were plentiful, these
scoundrels wouldn't report it."
"It's
not like Massachusetts."
"We're
not in Massachusetts."
"I
didn't mean—"
"I
know what you meant. The roof leaks. The parlor window is broken. The fuel oil
is low. I'll take care of them and then it'll be something else we cannot
afford."
"Oh,
John, it's not that way at all. I don't miss Boston. I love our home
here."
It
pleases me that you love it so, he thought. He wished he felt the same.
Two years here, and he still felt like a stranger. His stipend as a part-time
deputy-sheriff barely covered anything, and despite his working alongside them
on the fishing boats in order to make a living wage, the locals roundly
despised him as a Yankee interloper.
He
thought of his letter of introduction and inquiry to the Chief of Police in Boston.
Emma had no knowledge of it. The response would be due any day now, and most
likely would contain an offer of employment. And he had decided to take it.
Alone. A new start was what he needed, unencumbered.
A
new life.
He
pushed his soup away and rose from the table. Without a word he moved into the
parlor and took a seat at the piano. He rubbed his hands, stretched his
fingers, and began playing Moonlight Sonata . The music pushed down his
anger, if just for a little while.
He
imagined his future, and the island's future. The town teetered on the brink of
dissolution, the victim of a dying fishing ground, troubled by four straight
years of red tide, and a hurricane that had swept aside miles of oyster beds.
Fishing held little allure for him even in the best of times, and these were
far from the best of times.
He
was respected in town by a few as a man of culture and fortitude, but never as
an authority figure nor as a working man. He dwelt outside that circle, and
would remain outside until he left or died.
Leaving
seemed the easier of the two.
Leaving
alone.
He
glanced up. Emma stood in the parlor doorway. He wasn't sure, but he thought
her eyes glistened. He looked back to the piano keys. Perhaps this was the time
to tell her.
A
sharp rap came at the front door. Emma hurried to answer it. Sanborn remained
seated, glad for the interruption.
A
moment later, Emma returned, followed by Percy McVee .
He was dripping wet. He removed his hat and held it against his chest. His left
hand, missing two fingers, was hidden in a heavy leather glove. Sanborn was
grateful that he couldn't see it.
"Deputy
John, there's a ship on the Gulf, run aground in the flats. Some men have
already put out boats for a look."
"Are
they behaving themselves?"
"They
got a look in their eyes I don't