Маргарет Миллар - The Cannibal Heart

Jessie listened, but she couldn’t hear any music, only the rhythmic clanging of the cowbell calling her home. She put her fingers in her ears and lowered her head against the wind.

“The wind will die down soon,” Mrs. Wakefield said. “Up here on the cliff we feel it more. Come on, Jessie.”

“Is there... is there really an island?”

“Of course, darling. You can see it for yourself.”

“Sometimes not.”

“It’s always there.”

She began to move along the path with her hand resting on Jessie’s shoulder. At first Jessie didn’t like her hand there — it was too heavy, it impeded her walking. But gradually it became a comfort to her, an anchor against the wind. She lengthened her stride to match Mrs. Wakefield’s. There was a little barb of excitement caught in her throat; she was walking beside Mrs. Wakefield, stride for stride like a grown woman, and she was taking a trip to an island where no one lived.

They skirted the side of the house and headed for the stone steps a hundred yards beyond. No one saw them or challenged them, though they had a glimpse of Mr. Roma standing where James used to stand, under the magnolia tree. The cowbell was silent.

“I think my father’s home,” Jessie said. “I saw the jeep.”

“You’ll see him when we come back.” She began to talk fast, trying to keep Jessie’s attention away from the house and the jeep parked in the driveway. “Last night I had a dream. It was funny. I dreamt the sea had dried up, and where the sea had been there was a vast hole covered with dust and crushed salt. In the hole, everything, all the fish and seals and porpoises, lay gasping and half-dead. There was no water anywhere in the world. Everything had come down to the sea to drink, birds and animals and people. Even people I know were there, Luisa and you — you were there, Jessie. But of course the sea had dried up, too. There was only this great hole.”

“That’s silly,” Jessie said.

“Dreams are. Then it began to rain, and the sea filled up, and everything came to life like magic. There was no lightning or thunder, just the rain. I walked in it. I walked in the woods, and out of the dust grew beautiful flowers, and the path was a velvet ribbon of grass. Not just devil grass, the kind we have now — this was real grass with a little clover in it. And the trees — ah, you should have seen the trees, Jessie. The live oaks seemed to reach almost the sky. Every orange tree was jeweled with gold, and the leaves of the peppers hung down like moist green lace. I could see things growing quite plainly. Buds opened before my eyes, and from bare wood little green sprouts emerged...”

“The sea was all right again, though?”

“Yes, it was all right. Just the way it is now.”

“Kind of rough?”

“Yes.”

“Did you swim in it?”

“No, I woke up too soon.”

“That’s a funny dream,” Jessie said, nodding gravely. “It certainly is.”

In single file they started down the stone steps holding onto the rust-blistered iron rail guard. Just before the house dipped out of sight Jessie turned to look back at it, and a secretive little smile crossed her face. She felt quite dashing and adventurous, following Mrs. Wakefield down the steps, and seeing ahead of her in the distance the island, the shape of a giant curled up on his side asleep. She wasn’t in the least afraid even when she thought of the giant image, because they had reached the bottom of the steps now and Mrs. Wakefield had taken her hand again and was holding it very securely.

“I’m glad you’re coming with me,” Mrs. Wakefield said gaily. “It wouldn’t be any fun visiting the island all by myself.”

“What will we do when we get there?”

“Explore. Or maybe we’ll watch the porpoises first.”

“How do you know there are porpoises?”

“A fisherman told me. He tried to catch one with a jig, but the porpoises were too clever to be fooled. Then he found out later what bad luck it is to catch a porpoise, so he stopped trying. Fishermen are superstitious.”

“Why?”

“Because they live by luck. You’re not getting cold, are you?”

“No.” But she was a trifle cold, in spite of the midafternoon sun. The masses of foam blowing along the beach like soapsuds had dampened her jeans, and they were beginning to feel soggy, flapping against her legs.

“Here we are, Jessie.”

The rubber boat was where Mark had left it, half-pulled up on the big rock out of reach of the tide. Mr. Roma’s old rowboat was there, too, upside down, showing its grey slivered bottom.

Mrs. Wakefield tugged at the raft until it came bouncing down into the sand. Tautened by the sun-warmed air inside, it seemed ready to burst. But when they dragged it across the sand into the cold water it began to shrink until it was quite flabby.

“It’s leaking,” Jessie said, stepping back up on the dry sand.

“No, it’s not. It’s just the change in temperature.” Mrs. Wakefield had kicked off her shoes and was standing in the water holding the raft steady against the pressure of the breakers. “Take your shoes off and roll up your jeans. I’ll hold it while you get in.”

Jessie obeyed, slowly. The raft, which looked so enormous when it was carried on top of the car, now looked hardly big enough for two.

“Hurry up, Jessie.”

“I am. I’ve got a knot.”

“Leave it then.”

Mrs. Wakefield’s dress was soaked all the way to her waist, but she didn’t seem to mind. She was smiling, and when a wave broke over the raft, slapping its flabby yellow flanks, she let out an excited little laugh.

“Isn’t this fun, Jessie?” she cried. “Look at me, I’m drenched! Come on now, climb in, darling.”

“But it won’t stay still .”

“Of course it won’t. Imagine a boat that would stay still. No one would want such a thing. Come on now.”

“I’m coming.”

Holding up her jeans she stepped into the water. An outgoing wave sucked at her feet and left her up to her ankles in sand. She wished that there was an easier way of getting to the island, such as a bridge or a big ferryboat that didn’t bounce so sickeningly.

She wriggled over the side of the raft, and sat down, stiff with pride and fright, on the little rubber seat in the stern.

“Good girl. Now when I get in we must both paddle as hard as we can to get beyond the breakers. Can you do that?”

“I... guess so.”

“All right then. Bon voyage , Miss Banner.”

Jessie giggled, holding her hand over her mouth.

Carmelita had closed the drapes in the living room so the afternoon sun wouldn’t fade the carpet. The room was so dark in contrast to the glare outside that Mark didn’t see Evelyn until she spoke:

“Home so early?”

“Yes.”

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could see her more clearly, curled up on the davenport as limp as a rag doll, holding in her lap the half-finished sweater she was knitting for Jessie. The ball of yarn was way over by the fireplace as if it had been thrown there in a fit of rage.

He said carefully, “I didn’t get a haircut.”

“So I see.”

“As a matter of fact, I didn’t get to town at all. I turned around and came back. The wind was so heavy it was like trying to drive through a sand storm on the desert.”

He sat down in a chair opposite her, and rubbed his knuckles against the side of his jaw. He needed a shave and a shower, but he knew that Evelyn expected him to sit down and talk. She had probably been lying there for hours planning what to say to him.

“What have you been doing all afternoon?” he asked her.

“Thinking.”

“What about? Or is that the wrong question?”