Ferry to Cooperation Island Page 5

  “Jesus, Lloyd—it’s just a little pot!”

  “An illegal substance,” Lloyd agreed. “Used by a person in command of a commercial vessel.”

  “It’s not for me! Send me up to that lab again, I’ll pass a drug test right—”

  “So you intend to distribute?”

  James had screwed up, and he knew it—his eyes were jumping around, looking for an escape. Behind him, the other wheelhouse door was closed, so Lloyd stood back against the settee to point out through open doorway. “Get off my ferry, right now.” Then he’d savored the view of his ex-captain’s white shirt and khaki pants stomping up the gangway and disappearing into the spring crowds of Newport.

  It hadn’t been fair to avenge the sins of a father by taking down the son, Lloyd acknowledged now, hurrying past the tiny captain’s cottage. But fair wasn’t what had gotten Lloyd this far. And besides, he was sick and tired of feeling like a bumbling idiot just because Captain James knew the difference between a piston ring and a—pistachio.

  With no open-water experience, that girl captain was sure to make a mistake soon enough. Preferably something really stupid, so Lloyd could finally cash in on the insurance—after he was safely back in Newport again, of course.

  He turned off the macadam onto the ferry landing, leather soles slipping on the hard-packed dirt; all the gravel had washed down to where the wooden dock began. The ferry was waiting at the dock, but there was still an hour before it would head back to Newport. Lloyd stepped up onto the empty deck of the island’s only coffee shop—just as Mayor Frank let the screen door slam behind him.

  “Lloyd! Haven’t seen you all spring. Buy you a coffee? Few things I want to catch up on.”

  Lloyd shrugged. “Sure thing.” He sat down to wait at the big table. Oldster-rambling—maybe he’d learn something.

  Mayor Frank returned carrying a single paper cup, which he set down in front of Lloyd. “Sorry, Patty says she’s all out of mugs. And milk. Busy morning.” He settled in at the head of the table with a grimace. “Damn knee of mine, must be rain coming. . .” which led to five minutes of opining on the spring weather, and how forecasts were right about as often as he won the lottery.

  “But what I wanted to talk about,” Frank said at last, “is that run-in with James. Did he really attack you?” Mayor Frank was like cable news; a great source of information, as long as you were looking for drama rather than just boring old facts.

  Sighing loudly, Lloyd rubbed at his eyes. “I hate to do it,” he said at last, “but I might have to file drug charges.”

  Frank gasped. “He’d never work again!”

  “I know. But to be honest, that man’s temper scares the hell out of me.” Lloyd leaned in, dropping his voice almost to a whisper. “I’d really appreciate it if you could keep him out here, at least until this whole thing blows over. . .” Stuck out here on this cursed island might just be torture enough to avenge Grandfather Will.

  “Of course!” Frank whispered back. “Unless you think. . . should he be locked up?” Blue eyes were magnified to twice their normal size by thick glasses.

  “I doubt he’s a threat to anyone else,” Lloyd replied, honestly. “Our families have. . . history.”

  “You mean your grandfather’s accident? I don’t think James even knows about—”

  “But I do. And it wasn’t an accident. I could shut down this ferry in a minute, if James—”

  “You can’t just shut it down! People depend on it.”

  “I can shut it down any time I like.” Lloyd sipped the coffee— bitter and black, it was the perfect accompaniment to his latest brain-storm—and let the threat hang between them. Watched those blue eyes widen, then narrow, then glance over at the Homer.

  “I’ll do my best, Lloyd,” Frank replied at last, white hair blowing away from wrinkled forehead. “But you know James—he don’t take kindly to being told what to do.” He lowered his voice again. “Was he really dealing drugs?”

  “Zero tolerance—gotta set a proper example for the rest of the staff.”

  “Oh, you won’t have any problems with that nice new lady captain,” Mayor Frank said. “She reminds me of my late wife, you know. That dimple in her right cheek when she smiles. . .”

  Lloyd glanced at his phone and pressed back from the table. “Thanks for the coffee. I’ve gotta do a safety inspection before we leave the dock.”

  “And thank you, for keeping our ferry passengers safe! Come back soon.”

  His ferry was tied up well, and he could find no fault with the way the aluminum gangway—a fancy upgrade the locals had paid for, after the wooden one rotted away to nothing—had been secured. Lloyd made his way aft to the passenger area, suddenly hungry for peace and quiet. Along with room to gloat.

  Instead Billy came down the gangway, carrying two gas cans, whistling. He stashed the cans behind the wheelhouse before ambling aft to the passenger area. As soon as he spotted Lloyd, the whistling stopped. “Hey boss! Heading back already?”

  “Time is money,” Lloyd replied. “Speaking of which. . . I hear you’re gonna be a father soon. A lot of responsibility—and expense.”

  “Yes sir.” Billy cocked his head to the right.

  Lloyd leaned down until his lips were close to Billy’s left ear. “Keep your eyes open, and I’ll add a little something to your pay each week.”

  “Sir?” He could hear Billy swallow.

  “New captain isn’t from around here. And, besides, she’s. . .”

  “Female.”

  “Exactly. Noticed anything yet?”

  Billy’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Only her second day.”

  “Well, I’m hardly expecting perfection.” Lloyd pulled a twenty out of his wallet, stuffed it into the kid’s breast pocket. “Ferry runs late, you might earn even more. Now the—”

  Rubber treads squeaked down the gangway. The deckhand stepped back onto the side deck and strode forward. “Hey, Mrs. Captain! How was lunch?”

  Lloyd turned to gaze out over the harbor, letting his lips stretch wide. After paying off that landscaper kid up at the Inn and now Billy, his wallet was empty. But quite soon, he’d have something to hold over Parker, or his new captain—maybe even both.

  James

  “JOE, YOU HOME?” James called into the Sachem’s cottage.

  “Where else would I be.” His friend’s handshake was still firm. “So sorry for the troubles I brought you.”

  “Not your fault,” James managed, even as the words stuck in his throat. It had been his own damned stupidity that led him to toss the baggie of pot on the Homer’s counter, wanting it out of his pockets and as far away as possible—which put it in plain sight.

  What he still didn’t understand was Lloyd’s over-reaction—even after analyzing it all in way too much detail, over supper with Anna last night. She’d made a fantastic meal, served on her deck overlooking the ocean. Quite a woman.

  Joe closed the door on the foggy afternoon and led James back across the room, all shuffling gait and bedroom slippers, until he reached his red wingback chair and crumpled into it. The house was way too warm, and it smelled of woodsmoke and lamp oil and pot. Without his weekly supply of weed, what would keep Joe pain-free now? He’d stopped chemo last summer. Mémé, his mother, fed him kale twice a day, and last week Joe had joked about his own “plain stubborn refusal to die.” Meanwhile, Doc Emerald just shook his head, telling anyone who would listen that Joe was six months past his sell-by date.

  Instead of staring at his shrunken friend, James gazed out the south window. Thick swirls of mist hid everything beyond the dune grasses, but in his mind he looked right down the middle of West Harbor. Unlike his own personal fog, he could see what lay beyond this actual one.

  “Sorry I didn’t make it over here yesterday,” he told Joe. “Lots of time, now, but. . .” I’m kind of lost, he wanted to add.

  “We don’t always appreciate our habits until they are taken from us.” Joe pulled a faded wool blanket up aroun
d his shoulders. “Speaking of which, would you make coffee?”

  Those shoulders used to be even broader than James’s. Now, they barely bumped up the blanket. And the once glossy head of hair had grown back in uneven gray clumps, not nearly long or thick enough for the braid he’d worn before.

  “Not sure I know how,” James muttered.

  “You’ll manage.“ Joe leaned his head back and closed his eyes, so James headed to the kitchen.

  “Preparing food and drink is a sign of respect,” Joe had explained to James thirty years ago, as he insisted they sit down on a log in the woods before sharing the wild raspberries he’d picked. Twenty years ago, he’d said exactly the same thing when opening the beers James had “borrowed” from his father’s stash.

  He must really be hurting to pass off the coffee-making ritual.

  “Hello James.“ Mémé, Joe’s mom, closed the book she’d been reading. “I’ll go home now, do my chores. . . you forget to shave?” Without waiting for his answer, she slipped away from the kitchen table and out the front door.

  James scratched at his grizzled chin. He was fresh out of razor blades, and he sure wasn’t going to ask that new girl to buy him some ashore.

  “Home” for Mémé meant right next door. When Joe graduated from law school, she’d turned over the big house to her eldest and moved into the least run-down of the tribe’s empty cottages—no doubt sending up a few prayers to her native gods that he’d bring his own family back here one day. James had helped Joe knock out walls and knock in skylights, and consulted on how many solar panels were really needed. The house was no longer a string of tiny dark rooms perfect for hide and seek. And once Joe’s sham of a marriage ended and cancer arrived instead, Mémé gave up on grandchildren ever filling the extra bedrooms.

  James did the best he could to mimic Joe’s coffee routine, grinding fresh beans into the bottom of a glass coffee press and then dampening the grounds to let the dangerous oils escape. He’d learned a lot about healthy eating since last summer, when Joe came home to die.

  At least they’d managed to celebrate his fortieth. Little Mavis—he still caught himself calling her that—even made Joe’s spring favorite, rhubarb pie. Afterward, she’d walked James to the door and reached up for a hug. Feeling that compact body shaking with unshed tears, James was sure they were both wondering the same thing: How will we manage without our brother? Joe had been born a week ahead of him; even after ten months of trying, James couldn’t imagine the world without his best friend.

  When he returned to the sitting room, he set down one of the mugs next to Joe and carried the other over to the visitor’s chair, where he found a white stack of freshly pressed Brenton Ferry Company shirts.

  “Mavis?”

  Joe nodded.

  “Your baby sister gets more done in a day than anyone else I know.” James moved his laundry over to the dining table.

  “Doesn’t waste time on words.” Joe pulled his blanket even tighter. “I did tell her it was surely a waste, washing and ironing shirts you were just going to burn.”

  “I’ll be back in uniform any day now—that girl won’t last.” James settled into the armchair across from Joe. “Shoulda seen her first dock approach! Totally ass-backwards.”

  Joe didn’t respond, except by pressing his lips together. Another spasm? The dark eyes remained steady.

  “How’s the pain? Sorry I couldn’t get more weed. Maybe—”

  “You always did treat boats better than people,” Joe said. “You could help her learn the ropes, instead of—”

  “Help her! She stole my job!”

  “Lloyd Wainwright fired you, for things that happened long before you were born. Got nothing to do with her. And it’s also not her fault she’s a—girl. . .” A cough cut off the rest.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “While I’m speaking plainly, you apologize to Barb yet?” The brown eyes bored into James.

  “She should apologize to me for calling me a drug dealer!”

  “You’ve been bringing me pot since last August. You never told her?”

  “Of course not. Her brother died of an overdose, remember? Over the winter she heard you were smoking weed and threw one of her famous hissy fits, wouldn’t talk to me for two days except to say I should take it away from you—to keep the island clean. So when she found out I was the supplier. . .” James stared out the window at the fog, remembering the homey aroma of birthday dinner contaminated by the stink of Barb’s disgust.

  “How’s the pain?” he repeated, when he could look at Joe again.

  “Death’s fingers are reaching into my gut,” Joe replied, matter-of-factly. “Still in this world, but starting to see the next one.”

  James swallowed. “How’s it look?”

  “Not bad, actually. But you know what they say about the honeymoon synd—” he coughed sharply, reached for his water jar, took a quick swallow. “Until you get there, they only show you the best parts.”

  James reached for a smile. “Marketing folks—they’re everywhere.”

  “Let’s not waste time discussing the next world—I’ll see it soon enough. There are things that still need doing in this one.”

  “Like what?”

  “I need—” another slurp of water “—to explain a few things.”

  “Right now?” James asked, his throat dry. The coffee was still too hot to drink.

  Joe nodded. “Procrastin—” he coughed out the rest of the word “—is no longer a habit I can afford.” His right hand came out from under the blanket to point at a small wooden desk across the room. “Folder, middle drawer.”

  James had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the eaves, and the drawer stuck halfway out. Inside was a folder with Joe’s thick scrawl on the tab: “Leaving Notes.”

  When he held it up Joe nodded, so James carried it back to his seat, stomach churning.

  “Brother Pierce is coming out for a visit tomorrow,” Joe said. “Which means he’s scheming again.”

  “Isn’t he always?”

  “He sounds more confident than usual. Or maybe I’m just less so. . .”

  James tapped the folder. “This your will?”

  “No—Lizzie’s making a few last-minute additions. She actually offered me a discount!” Joe snorted. “Because of everything I’ve done for the island, she says. But it’s really because she thinks ‘indigenous’ is the same thing as ‘indigent.’”

  He was leaving everything to Mavis, of course—and there probably wasn’t much. Only eight years of billable hours before the cancer struck, and he must’ve had some fat loans to pay off: four years of Harvard, three for law school.

  Joe waved a piece of blanket. “Open it.”

  On top were two multi-colored forms, already filled out except for the date.

  “I want my body released to Dana Farber up in Boston,” Joe said. “Maybe someone can figure out how a healthy guy who’s never smoked a single cigarette got lung cancer.” He closed his eyes. “Mavis has already agreed—you’ll have to help her talk Mémé around.”

  James slid the forms to the back of the file, uncovering a black and silver clip full of papers.

  “Since you’re not online yet, I printed everything out.” Joe’s eyes were still closed; he must’ve heard the papers shuffle. “Emails, faxes. . .”

  The first twenty pages had a computer-printed line of text at the top, a lot of white space, and then more text near the bottom. The rest were typewritten letters under a name James had never seen before: West Brenton Land Trust. All were addressed to Lloyd’s office in Newport, followed by “Re: West Brenton land ownership.”

  “The bastard never replied, of course,” Joe said. “But it’s proof of active opposition, the last five years.”

  “Wait—why would you write to Lloyd about West Brenton?” James flipped back to the top sheet, which was dated only a month ago. “And why didn’t you tell me about this before now?”

  “You were
his employee,” Joe replied evenly. “I didn’t want to put you in an awkward position. He’s been trying to take over the western half of the island.”

  “What?”

  Joe waved his hand in a loose circle—keep reading.

  Six yellowed typewritten pages, stapled together. “Agreement for Ownership of West Brenton. KNOW ALL MEN BY THESE PRESENTS.” James leafed through the document, legal language washing over him. On the last page were four signatures—the first a bold X. Below it someone had typed Antone Borba—Joe’s father. The tribe had called him Sachem, while the few whites who’d acknowledged him at all had tacked on “Tony.” Just as Joe’d become Sachem Joe. A term not always used with respect by the whites.

  The next signature was neat and even: Franklin S. Peters, Mayor. The witnesses were both fathers: his own, and Anna’s.

  “Pa couldn’t read or write,” Joe said. “Amazing, isn’t it—such vision and wisdom without any formal education.”

  “But what—”

  “Only one more—then I’ll explain.”

  The last paper was smaller, thicker, and embossed with a notary’s seal. Across the top, a flowery, old-fashioned script said “Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, Newport County Registry of Deeds.” Right below it, a typewriter had added “Legal Quit Claim.” The date was August 25, 1978, and the owner was Antone Borba.

  James held it up. “Sachem’s house?”

  “Our cottages don’t have deeds. We don’t believe in property ownership, remember?” He coughed again, and his next words scratched out like sandpaper. “That deed covers all of West Brenton—everything this side of the dividing line that runs through Clark’s Inn. Or should I say, the Skye View—”

  “So your dad owned the monument? And the harbor—and this entire village? Does that mean you—”

  “Hardly a village—only three people, soon to be two. And it’s not our family who owns it, it’s the West Brenton Land Trust. That’s what’s in the agreement. All nice and legal, but it only exists on. . .”

  Joe’s next cough loosened something in his chest, so his voice came back a little stronger. “Remember the deal that was made right after the big fire? Tribe got the west half, whites got the rest—Clark’s Inn and the school open to all?”