Gasps chorus around us.
“Holy shit.”
“I fuckin’ told you, Bo!”
The one in the stairwell spreads his arms, chuckling as he blocks me.
“That’s some damn good camo, brother. I need something, though, before you get to pass.”
He holds a slip of paper out, and the men gather around.
“Homer Carnegie on our boat, we’re gonna need some autographs…”
I fake a grin and take the paper. Six thousand miles from Boston, and I’m fucking outed.
* * *
Finley
I clutch the bottle to my chest and cross myself. Then I shut my eyes, bring my arm back, and throw it hard over the cliff’s edge. With my eyes shut, I picture its trajectory as it plummets toward the ocean. I inhale, feeling dizzy as birds caw above my head, and far below me, waves break on the rocks.
Vloeiende Trane, these cliffs are called; it means “cascading tears” in Afrikaans. The highest peak is two hundred meters above the ocean’s ragged waves. Midway between the cliff-top and the sea, water pours out of the rock in three long streams that look like tears from further out.
Standing atop Vloeiende Trane, the white caps look no bigger than a fingernail, the ocean’s swirling cauldron just a gentle dappling of greens and blues.
Deceptive.
I wipe my eyes and fold my arms over my chest. I won’t throw another bottle, I promise myself as I step toward the cliffs’ edge. I search the waves for a flash of glass, for something that will give me satisfaction, but of course, I see nothing.
That’s the point, though, isn’t it? Throwing letter-stuffed bottles into the void. It’s like a prayer. That’s its magic. Still, it hurts to know no one will ever read my words. I wipe my face again and whisper, “Give me courage.”
I lick my lips and stand with my eyes closed, thinking of Mum. It’s something that I almost never do, because I can’t bear it. Today, though, I can’t seem to help myself.
When my eyes feel puffy and hot, I walk back across the stony plane that forms this small plateau and look down at the field below, its tall grass pressed flat by the wind. At the edge of the field, a cottage. Beyond that, the village valley—an expanse of lush, green grass framed by the cliffs that form the border of the island.
Three gravel roads stripe the valley where the village lies. Scattered along them are sixty-seven cottages, topped by roofs of thatch or brightly colored tin. My gaze runs over the island’s few landmarks: the yellow roof of the café, the bare dirt of the baseball field, the green roof of the clinic near the village’s east side.
The church’s small, white steeple looks thin as a toothpick from here. I squint, but I can barely make out the blue tin roof of my dear friend Anna’s house. I lift my hand to my eyes and stretch my thumb out sideways, and the village disappears—the whole world, gone.
Climbing down the plateau’s steep side into the field behind Gammy’s house takes half an hour. I move carefully without a harness, slow and steady in the warm glare of the sun, until my soles press into soft grass.
The wind-flattened field—Gammy’s backyard—is big and round, hemmed in on one side by the dirt path that leads from the lower slopes of the volcano down to the village, and on the other by the rocky cliffs that overlook the ocean.
Before she passed, we built a table from wood scraps and set it near the field’s center. I climb onto it and peer up at the sky. Early autumn now, its blue is almost violent. Today, for once, there are no clouds except some wispy tendrils behind me, wreathing the volcano’s peak.
I watch the kingbirds fly, swooping off the cliffs and out of sight, and my heart aches for Gammy. She would have righted my course. Gammy would have told me to say “no” when I was asked. Probably “hell no,” I admit. My stomach knots.
I shift my gaze to the cottage, to the stone kiln beside it and the blue sky spread above it, and the cliffs that rise out of the grass beside it. I inhale the salty air and tell myself just stop. Now is not the time for despair. Gammy would tell me to keep focused. There are options yet.
I swipe the hair out of my face and carefully re-braid it as my shoulders tingle from the sun’s heat. When my damp shirt has dried in the breeze, I get up and walk to the kiln.
There’s a small door on the front and two shelves in its slightly rounded belly, where I set my pieces. I haven’t done enough of this lately. I’m not even sure I retrieved my last load. I open the door and find indeed I didn’t. Two hunter green bowls and a thin, black vase with golden flecks wait inside. I gather them carefully into my arms and follow the stone path to the cottage’s front door.
When I first moved in with Gammy, I called this the Hobbit cottage. She didn’t know, of course—I wasn’t speaking—but it reminded me of a Hobbit’s house: the south side built into a hill; one small, round window punched into the grass; the rounded, dark wood door and beige stone facade in front; a thatched roof tilting low; chimes affixed to several spots; and a flower garden growing wild about the stoop.
The door opens with the old, familiar creak. I step into the tidy living area. I run my hand over the well-worn armchair and try to look at it through his eyes. The green and blue rug—woven by my great-grandmother—that’s spread across the cement floor. The slouching navy love seat, with its tiny, beige polka dots. The boxy TV on a tiny cedar table in one corner. The wild banana plant dominating the other. Grandma’s needlework adorns one wall. A fern hangs in a basket near the TV. The wall to my right, which divides the living room and kitchen, sports a horizontal bookcase.
It smells like rose and lemon here, and the lovely musk of aging paperbacks. I rip my eyes from the bookshelf and walk into the kitchen. Small and standard, I suppose, with a pale blue laminate countertop, a small, round table; some wall-mounted shelves; and a wooden cabinet/pantry in one corner. Wallpaper in a faded, fruit basket pattern adorns the walls.