Saundra Mitchell - Mistwalker

“You want to hear something stupid?” she whispered back.

“Always.”

Posed at attention, she watched the walk. “I wish you could talk me out of it. Stop everything at the bonfire, and stay there forever.”

That was the last place I wanted to spend my eternity, but I kept that to myself. The wind kicked up; it made the forest shiver around us. A dark figure finally appeared on the walk. A woman in a Statey uniform approached us, her hips heavy under her gun belt. I knew what she was after, so I stood up.

“What the . . . ?” Bailey murmured.

When the deputy saw us, she moved a little faster. She put a hand on her holster too. I wanted to snort because Bailey and I, we looked real dangerous with our backpacks and school books.

“Hey, ladies,” she said. “Know where I can find Willa Dixon?”

“That’s me.”

Without too much discussion, she checked my ID, then gave me a thick envelope. Since I knew what was inside, I shoved it in my back pocket. Like an idiot, I thanked her—like I was thrilled to get served and couldn’t wait to go to court. But inside, I felt empty, kind of a relief. The struggle was gone. Maybe it was shock, or maybe I was past caring.

“It’s just court stuff,” I told Bailey as the deputy disappeared down the path again.

“You okay?”

“Fine.” Reaching past her, I picked up her pasta salad and stole a couple of bites. “You wanna go sugar Cait’s tank?”

Bailey made a funny sound, amused and resigned. Shaking her head, she leaned back on her elbows instead of reclaiming her lunch. “I don’t know. Ask me after we break up.”

With a look over my shoulder, I asked, “You wanna let the air out of Seth’s tires, then?”

“No, dummy.” She kicked my foot. “Neither do you.”

“Yeah I do. Let’s see him go driving around with Denny on four flats.”

“He’ll just put her on the handles of his ten-speed.”

The mental picture that conjured actually made me laugh. The sound surprised me; it felt strange the way it echoed in my chest. We settled back. Cool wind washed over us again, and we sighed at the same time. We had an expiration date too, but we weren’t gonna discuss it.

Instead, after a long stretch of quiet, I said, “We could steal her brakes for your tru—”

“Shut it,” Bailey said, and squeezed my hand.

After school, I swung by the house to get my worm-digging gear. I tossed my copy of the summons on the table so Mom would know I got it, then headed right back out.

That junk heap in Milbridge was still for sale. It was gonna need a lot of expensive work. Rebuilding an engine wasn’t cheap. Neither was buying a new one outright.

The fog had lifted and the tide receded. Hunched backs lined the horizon, other diggers already at work. The mud closest to the shore was already raked to bits.

I had to hike out a ways to find a fresh patch, the mire doing its damnedest to pull off my boots. The cold cut right through the rubber, sending a chilled ache through my bones.

The lighthouse seemed to hover at the edge of my sight, but I refused to raise my head. It was finally a clear day, and I didn’t want to see Grey standing on the cliffs. If he was there without any mist in the air, I couldn’t call him a hallucination. I’d have to admit he was real. Somehow, it was easier to believe I was losing my mind.

A white boat drifted in the distance, probably my dad. I couldn’t make out the details that far away. I just had a feeling.

Lots of boats were white, but this one idled near where I dropped our pots when I was out. Someone moved on its deck, then ducked inside. The boat sped a little ways, stopping again.

That had to be him, fishing alone. Slowly, he disappeared into the island’s shadow.

I rubbed the knot out of my throat, then got to raking. Icy flecks of mud spattered me, stinking with decay and dead fish. It was harder than usual. Like I didn’t have my usual strength or stamina. Sure, the mud was cold, but except for the dead of summer, it always was.

My rake cut smooth but uncovered nothing. Sandworms, some mussels, but that was about it. I picked up my gear and moved farther out. Just as I bent to work another row, a man called out. “Hey, Gingham!”

Glancing at my apron, I straightened. The guy yelling at me was thin and gangly, his chin so narrow, his blond goatee hung from it like moss. I didn’t recognize him at all. “What?”

“How about you move on? Some of us are working for a living.”

“What makes you think I’m not?”

He pointed his rake at me. “You got a lobster license, dontcha?”

“Excuse me?”

“I seen you in the papers,” he said. Casually, like most people got their picture in the Bangor Daily . Holding a worm up to the light, he inspected its pale pink body before looking at me again. “Get real territorial when it comes to your money, am I right?”

Stiffening, I muttered, “Whatever.”

The tide only stayed out so long. The guy bent over again, back to work raking, but talking, too. “It ain’t right. I can’t go hop your boat and start pulling traps. So what are you doing down here in my kitchen, huh?”

My mouth was dry, and a sour taste came up in my throat. I wanted to throw things at him. Yell until my voice blew out, because what did he know? I wasn’t going to be lobstering for a long time.

All my confidence that a jury would let me keep my license was for nothing, because I was giving it up. Cutting off my own hands. So if I wanted to dig worms or clams or ghost shrimp, what was it to him, anyway?

“Got nothing to say for yourself?” he asked, pulling another worm as long as his forearm. “Not even a how-you-do?”

“Working, same as you.”

He snorted, dropping his bounty in his bucket.

I swung my rake hard. When it cut the mud, it sang. One high note, again and again. Grey turned black, turning heavily, revealing nothing. Moving down, I tried yet another spot. Every so often, that bigmouth would yell something at me.

The other diggers moved away from him, because he was breaking an unspoken agreement. This job, it was supposed to be quiet. Nobody telling you what to do. Heads down, rakes flying, worms adding up—if bait catching had a factory, it was the mud flats, and it wasn’t for socializing. Or being a dick.

“How many you got, Gingham?” he called.

Finally fed up, somebody else yelled at him to shut up.

Lapping back in, the tide washed around my ankles. It brought fog with it, the thin, hazy kind that swirled when you stepped through it. I wanted to lay down and let the mud swallow me, the water cover me. The mist would be a pale blanket; it might even be peaceful.

My bucket was mostly empty, and suddenly, I was too tired. I splashed back to shore, heavier with every step.

A hot shower washed the mud away, but not the rest. I opened my bedroom window to let in the cold, then fell into bed. Nobody moved downstairs, my father still on the water and my mother back on night shift.

I listened for the creak from the stairs. If Levi had been coming home, I’d have heard it. One long, drawn-out creak and then my doorknob rattling. I wanted it so badly. I wished it hard, throwing it to the wind like dandelion fluff.

A beam of light swept through my window. The lighthouse had kicked on; the lighthouse of impossible geometry, where Grey lived. Where he was waiting for me. Rolling off my bed, I went to the window and stared at Jackson’s Rock.

I couldn’t remember seeing it from my house before.

Before I thought too hard about it, I put on my coat and my boots and headed for the shore again. I twisted my wet hair into a messy knot and fixed it with a pencil from my pocket. The fog wasn’t heavy; the boats coming back to the wharf were clear enough. I saw bodies moving on the pier, the cut of gulls through the air.