Our Homesick Songs Read online

  Bottom right.

  She felt around, came up with the feather. It’s nice, she said.

  Thanks.

  And so are you, she said. Just tonight. Just nice for tonight. She tucked the feather behind his ear, leaned in, all the way this time, and kissed him. Harder than before. He let her. And he let his arms do what they wanted and pull her down heavy and warm over him. As he did the wind pushed through the rain, took the feather from his ear and blew it off, away, down the coast, into the night.

  •  •  •

  Aidan was out on-boat the next night. It was calm when they set off. Calmer than usual for that time of year. Calmer than is right, said Dwyer, untying the mooring knots.

  Yeah? said Aidan.

  Yeah, said Dwyer.

  It’s a really beautiful sunset, though, said Aidan.

  It is, said Dwyer.

  •  •  •

  Aidan was singing when the wind picked up and changed, started blowing the wrong way,

  Windy weather, boys

  starting low, just barely brushing his hair,

  Stormy weather, boys

  growing stronger, pushing the clouds in, rocking his starboard side up and back and up and back, and through the backward wind he could hear, for the first time, someone else singing, a woman, a girl through the wind growing stronger,

  •  •  •

  When the wind blows

  a mermaid, he thought, oh wow, oh God, and the wind pushed and pushed up and back and up so that Aidan needed to anchor himself and all the movable things to the side to weight against it, and still it came harder and harder and pushed

  We’re all together, boys

  and he tried to position the bow to the storm but it pushed back and he tried and it pushed back and the rain came now not gradual like the wind but all at once and was like ice, was like a blanket, so everything was blurred and even though they couldn’t hear him and he couldn’t hear them only wind and rain and the singing and the singing he could still see the others upwind of him shouting and waving to each other and maybe to him and he could see their lights moving violent and jagged

  Blow ye winds westerly

  and he counted them one two three four and then three and then four and then three and then they were gone and he couldn’t find

  Blow ye winds, blow

  the anchor he needed to anchor he needed to stand to get it but the wind the blanket rain he knew where it was it was just

  •  •  •

  Steady she

  and then lightning and he saw and then he didn’t and he stood and it pushed he slipped or the anchor or the wind pushed and knocked him knocked his weight the wrong way the wrong side and the wind pushed and

  Steady she

  the rain was a blanket no not rain the water all the cold all the water around him kicking and he’s kicking and it’s kicking and find something to hold, remember, always, find something to hold, and the lights no more lights not a light not one not one.

  It was still clear and calm when Martha tiptoed out, a beautiful night, so she didn’t bother putting on her father’s heavy jacket, just the rubber boots with her dressing gown. She untwisted her net from between the rocks and sang along with the mermaid as the wind picked up and grew strange.

  It was a backward wind, so the more it picked up, the harder it was to hear the mermaid’s singing; Martha sang louder to try to encourage it, to try to give it something to latch on to. Maybe it would recognize her voice. Know where to find her.

  When the wind blows we’re all together

  The wind grew and grew and whistled and howled as it passed through the cracks in the rocks around her. It was getting colder, but she didn’t want to walk back up to her house to get a coat; if she let go of the tiny bit of song she could still hear she might not find it again. Instead, she wrapped herself into her net to keep warm, with just the end free to work on. And she kept singing.

  Windy weather boys, stormy weather, boys

  By the time the rain came, all at once like from a bucket, her fingers were too cold to work the needle properly and she had to stop. The wind whipped her wet hair into her mouth and she had to keep spitting it out to sing.

  Back in the village, Young William, who wasn’t too young, thirty-five or so now, but who was younger than Old William, his father, woke with the first clap of thunder. He sat up and checked the window.

  Is it bad? asked his wife, her eyes still closed.

  It seems bad, he said, pulling on his seal-skin socks. The wind’s back to front and strong. And there’s lightning. The water’s up. Up and moving.

  OK, said his wife, opening her eyes and pushing back the quilt. OK, let’s go.

  Every able-bodied person aged 18–50 in Big Running took turns being Volunteer Sea Rescue Scouts when they weren’t out working themselves. If the sea turned to storm, it was their job to be sure all boats were safe and all bodies accounted for. As much as they could. As much as could be expected. Tonight was Young William and his wife Charlotte’s turn. They put the bright yellow VSRS vests on over their coats, checked that their official VSRS flashlights had working batteries and headed down to the water, careful not to wake Old William as they passed him sleeping downstairs in his chair. If we wake him he’ll want to come, said Young William.

  He is not coming, said Charlotte.

  No, no, he’s not, that’s what I’m saying.

  OK.

  OK?

  OK.

  The official flashlights were huge and heavy, with a face the size of a family pie. If it was OK to take the rescue boat out, they were to use them to scan the water for debris and bodies. If it was too rough, they were to stand on the coast and flash them long-short-long-short, long-long-short-long, over and over until either they got a response and it calmed down enough to take the boat out, or it got so bad that they needed to go take shelter at home. They had both been volunteer scouts for years, since before they were married, but this was the first time either of them had actually gone out on a call. It was exciting.

  Be careful of the lichen, said Charlotte. In the dark and the rain, with the heavy lights, their footing was clumsy and rough. As well as a VSRS, when Charlotte wasn’t working packing fish, she was the town’s self-appointed rare lichen preservation officer. It’s having a tough year, she said, be gentle.

  OK, said Young William. I am, I am. They had to shout to hear each other through the storm. He reached across and took her hand. They were almost at the water, the sound of it striking the rocks as loud as the thunder, just coming down to the point where they’d have to decide whether to go out on-boat or stay onshore, when Charlotte said, Listen.

  WHAT? shouted William.

  LISTEN, shouted Charlotte.

  They stopped moving and listened. Wind. Thunder. Rain. Water. And then,

  Steady she

  singing.

  Steady she

  What? said William, and he swung his flashlight around to point toward it.

  At first she didn’t even look human, all draped and roped in a landed dory, a net-trapped sea-ghost. Young William pulled back, away, and Charlotte stepped closer. Hello? she called, and then louder, HELLO?

  The singing stopped and the figure turned abruptly around, tangling.

  William exhaled. Oh, oh, he said. It’s—

  A person, said Charlotte.

  Martha, said William. It’s Martha Murphy.

  They shouted, MARTHA! STAY THERE! WE WILL COME GET YOU! MARTHA! CAN YOU HEAR US? and waved and picked their way slowly down until they got to her.

  My God, girl, said Charlotte, what are you doing out on a night like this?

  Martha tried to answer, but as soon as she had stopped singing her mouth had let the cold in and everything started shivering and she couldn’t control her lips to form words.

  William set his flashlight down on a low, flat stone, careful of the lichen, and set about trying to get her untangled from her own net. The bri
ght, round light illuminated them like a spotlight, like they were onstage. Martha’s whole body shook as he peeled the rope around and off, around and off; anytime she tried to help it made things worse.

  Well hell, that’s a mighty tangle, said Young William. This yours?

  Martha nodded.

  This? he said, pulling up a handful of net. Bunched, tangled. Martha shrank. This, he said. Yours?

  She nodded again.

  You knot it yourself? He pulled up more, up close to his face, his orange-like-sunset beard.

  She nodded.

  Wow, he said. Oh wow. All on your own?

  She nodded.

  I’ll tell you what, Martha Murphy, he said, this is some of the finest net I’ve seen. Just fine, really fine. His eyes were the washed-out blue of morning. With the orange hair they gave him a young look, true to his name, truer than the truth.

  Really? said Martha, finding her words again.

  Yeah, said Young William. I’ll tell you what, I’ll buy this off you, if you don’t mind, fair price.

  It’s not done yet.

  When it is. Won’t be long now. I’m on-boat next week, how ’bout if I come get it the week after that? What do you say, Martha Murphy?

  Well, said Martha. She had never thought about selling her knots. About profit from sadness.

  Well? said Young William.

  OK, said Martha.

  Yes?

  Martha nodded.

  Good, said Young William. Perfect. He went back to unwrapping and untangling the net from around her. Good, he said again. His hands pulling the twine away and off were strong and sure and hard-skinned like her father’s. Every now and then his beard would brush her neck. Martha didn’t feel the cold anymore. She closed her eyes and fell into something like sleep.

  •  •  •

  They decided, because Charlotte would have a harder time carrying Martha, that she would take the rescue boat out and William would take the girl back to theirs to dry off and warm up and sleep. Are you sure? asked William. You could just stay onshore and do the light signal . . .

  The storm’s pulling off. I’ll be OK.

  You’re sure?

  I’m sure.

  Because if anything happens, Charlotte, I’ll—

  I’m sure, Young William.

  OK, OK. Be careful. OK. He kissed her quickly. Rainwater dripped down everything.

  Once she was gone, William folded the net and tucked it away between the stones, picked up shivering, sleeping Martha Murphy, and carried her back to their cottage, careful of any lichen he could see, especially the most delicate golden-orange patches.

  •  •  •

  Because the rescue boat had a motor and no fishing kit, it was much faster than the cod boats out on the water. Charlotte stood a chance of catching up with them, so long as she kept true north. She positioned herself so she could see both the Big and Little Running lighthouses and used those to navigate. Out and out and out, north and north, as the storm pushed in front of her, away.

  And out and north for miles and miles until, finally, Charlotte noticed an upside-down bucket flicker past her, momentarily bright against the dark water. She cut the motor and shone her light all around, to the north, the south, the west, and there, to the east, onto something else, something other than water. She drove to it, a piece of broken board. She did the same again, motor cut, look north, south, east, and found more, a floating nest of them, and from there a crooked, bobbing trail that led her, one broken bit of wood at a time, finally, to a capsized vessel, and, behind it, a boy clutching its side. The slow circles of his treading legs made whirlpools in the water up and out around him. Alive, whispered Charlotte. He’s alive.

  His coat was ripped and caught around his neck. There was blood on his face and in his hair. He didn’t turn when she drew up to him. His eyes were wide, open, but glass. He was in sea-sleep. When your body knows it must stay above water, stay conscious enough to tread, but shuts everything else down from cold or hunger or thirst or loneliness or shock. He had tied himself to the boat with net twine and small fish were trying to eat the loose fibers off it. They scattered when Charlotte reached down with her boning knife to cut him free.

  She cut the twine from around his waist, then closed the boy’s eyes and hefted him into the boat, careful to counterweight. She took off his wet, cold clothes and spread a thick wool VSRS blanket over him. She took off her volunteer vest and wrapped it around his head and neck. You lost your hat, she whispered. Without his clothes, he was thin and pale like a child. This is no job for children, she said to no one. This is no job.

  She shone her light all around and all around again and again but couldn’t see any other boats or boys. She didn’t have time to look further, now that she had this one. She turned the boat around and pointed herself back toward the Big Running lighthouse.

  •  •  •

  Young William put Martha in the small bed in the small upstairs bedroom, where they had originally hoped, one day, to put a baby. She was soundly asleep when Charlotte arrived with the boy. William and Old William, now awake, helped her bring him in and put him in the bedroom Old William never used, that shared a wall with the never-baby’s. They coaxed warm honey-water into him, gave him new, dry blankets, and then went back downstairs to dry clothes and wait for news by the fire, falling onto each other’s shoulders and into sleep almost immediately.

  •  •  •

  And everyone slept while the sun rose.

  Martha woke first. She needed to get home, to get to her sisters before they noticed she was gone. She had on a too-big flannel nightshirt. Probably Charlotte’s. She looked under the bed and in all the drawers in the room, but the only things there were tiny, infant-sized; her own things were nowhere to be found. She stepped out into the hall. There was another door beside hers; it wasn’t quite caught closed. She pushed it in a bit and peeked through. There was a boy inside. Sleeping. He looked terrible. She pulled the door back almost closed and went downstairs.

  Everyone was asleep there too. She found an old envelope and a pencil in the kitchen and wrote:

  I had to go. Thank you for finding me.

  You are both very kind and your net will be ready soon.

  Martha M.

  PS I have your nightshirt, and I think you have mine.

  She made it home and was just crawling into bed as Molly woke up. Just went to get water, said Martha.

  OK, said Molly. Is that a new nightshirt?

  •  •  •

  Meanwhile, across at Little Running, a quiet and slow parade of boats-tied-to-boats pulled up to shore, all there, all tied to one another in a safety line like bath toys, all except for two, Joe Dwyer’s and Aidan Connor’s. Those two had just disappeared. Just disappeared, Rupert Quinn told the first people they met, the old Spence couple out picking through what the storm had washed up. The storm came up and they just disappeared, he said. Gone, both of them, gone.

  Just disappeared, Mrs. Spence said, her voice more air than sound. She’d run as fast as she could to the Connor house, had woken Aidan’s mother up knocking. She’d be eighty-eight that spring and didn’t often run like that anymore. She steadied herself on the porch fence. Her husband, Mr. Spence, was off running to the Dwyers’.

  Come in, come in, sit down, said Mrs. Connor. Say it again, more slowly, I can barely hear you.

  But Mrs. Spence didn’t come in, didn’t move. Just disappeared, she said again. They don’t know, they don’t— her breath rattling and whistling.

  Oh my God.

  They don’t—

  Oh my God.

  Not yet—

  My God my God my God.

  She pushed past Mrs. Spence, down the steps, down the road and down the rocks, down to the water. The Dwyers were already there, pushing boats out. Come with me, said Mrs. Dwyer, his wife. Come out with me.

  The rain turned light in the air, half mist.

  •  •  �
��

  They’d pushed out past the dip of the cove, were almost to open water, when the Big Running scout boat caught them. It was driven by a man with a beard, someone’s son. He waved them down to stop, then pulled up alongside. I’m so glad I caught you, he said, cutting the motor. It’s OK. We have him; it’s OK.

  And both women closed their eyes and let the tightness, the weight, slip away from their shoulders, their arms, their lungs, their hearts.

  Your son, the man continued, he’s with us, we found him.

  Mrs. Connor exhaled.

  Mrs. Dwyer inhaled. Son? she said.

  •  •  •

  Young William took Aidan’s mother in the fast boat with him back to Big Running.

  And then I’ll come back to help you, he said to Mrs. Dwyer. I’ll come right back.

  At shore they tied up quickly, temporarily, and he pointed Mrs. Connor to his house. Right there, he said. With the white paint. With the green door circle. There was a cat on the doorstep.

  Oh, she said to the cat. Thank God thank God.

  •  •  •

  Charlotte led Mrs. Connor to her son. He’s not woken yet, she said, but the doctor says he should, says he will. Old William watched from the door. He had taken off his hat and was holding it in front of him, worrying the tattered brim.

  They didn’t wake me, he said. If they had, I would have stopped it.

  You couldn’t stop this, Dad, said Charlotte. This was a boating accident, nothing to do with you.

  They should have waked me, said Old William. I could have stopped it.

  In the bed, Aidan’s face was beginning to bruise around one eye, spreading down across the cheek and jaw. There was a white sock with a blossom of red tied around his head.

  We’ve been changing it every hour, said Charlotte. It’s clean.

  I’m so sorry for your loss, said Old William.

  He’s not dead, Dad, said Charlotte.

  If they had waked me—

  Dad.

  It’s OK, said Mrs. Connor. It’s fine. She sat down on the edge of the bed, leaned over and brushed her son’s hair away from his eyes, the bruise.

  They stayed like that for a few minutes, Mrs. Connor on the side of the bed, Charlotte and Old William stood by the door. Then, without looking up, Mrs. Connor said, Do you have his coat?