stops. Heâs near enough now to see Joseph OâConnellâs shock of white hair. The old man is standing on the porch steps, scratching his ruddy face and puffing on his pipe. The chalky smoke from his tobacco curls in tendrils over the roof.
Behind him, Squeaky Loomis is seated on an old wooden soapbox, near a card table where he and Joseph usually play yukor. They do this to pass the time in grizzly to fair weather, telling stories, sharing bits of news. Joseph is a man of tradition, and the fact that men gather here to talk for hours, just as they did in the twenties, when this was the original Farmers Co-op, is thanks to him. On cold mornings, men still wake before sunrise to crowd around the potbellied stove. Embraces are still common. Grant has seen many, for this is one of the few places on earth where men will tell their secrets.
On the morning of his twelfth birthday, Grantâs father brought him to OâConnellâs to have coffee with the men before they put out the docks. It had been a frozen morning, butGrant was thrilled, feeling the trill of happiness for the first time in years. The distance and rejection he felt from his father had left him with a terrible stutter that all but choked his voice. He hadnât felt comfortable anywhere on earth. But sipping that bitter black coffee had strengthened him. It meant that his father considered him a worthy human being, capable of being in this place, with these men, who seemed as much a part of this land as the trees, the memory keepers of a secret history. Grant had loved every minute of it, listening, taking it all in. They didnât care that he could hardly manage a hello. Because he was with his father, they had accepted him unconditionally as one of them. Grant sat in front of the lit stove that morning listening to Joseph talk about his missionary work in Kenya, about the Wataita people, and about the spirits of the Seneca ancestors here in Canandaigua that whispered across the lake. Years later, when Grant had come back with Susanna, there was a new ghost storyâthat of little Luke Ellis, who had drowned in the lake twelve years earlier. Squeaky Loomis claimed to have seen his ghost hovering in the branches of Leila Ellisâs huge lilac bush when he was ambling by on his early-morning walk. He had reported that he was suddenly met by Clarisse Mellon, who lived next door and had seen Luke several times, she whispered, usually just before a rainstorm.
Joseph OâConnell is making his way down the steps, waving his cane. âFor Peteâs sake, boy, where have you been?â Joseph bellows. The old man is like a grandfather, a bit of a folk hero, mainly due to his belief in the goodness of the human spirit, which heâd remind anyone of in the event they forgot. Grant doesnât even need to inhale the scent of the cherry tobacco to know that Josephâs pipe is filled with it.
When Joseph embraces him, Grantâs body becomes a sponge,absorbing all the warmth it can. Why an embrace should make him feel sad, heâs not sure. Heâs worried he wonât know when to let go, or that he wonât be able to.
Joseph gives Grant a customary pat on the back, a huggerâs traffic signal. âSorry,â Grant whispers, letting go so Joseph can breathe again. Seeing Joseph again is completely disarming and Grant canât believe the relief he feels.
âNo apologies. Just glad youâre here,â Joseph says, swatting at the flies with his cane. âNow come up and say hello. Folks have missed you.â
âWindowâs broken,â Grant explains to no one in particular as he follows Joseph up the steps. He finds himself staring at a spider web stretched under the porch light. Itâs marked with the first of its victims: A mayflyâs forked tail twitches slightly, caught in the threads.
âSo, the silence getting to you, finally?â Squeaky asks as he pulls his fishing hat down