Michael Chabon - Summerland

“The Little Tribe,” said Gran Billy Ann. She was sprawled in her chair, the red plaid one, her feet up in a pair of big black orthopaedic shoes, vibrating away. “How about that! I remember Pap had stories about them. One time when he was a boy they stole a silver pin right out of his sister’s hair. Over at Hotel Beach that was. Before it was a hotel there. But I never heard of this Ragged Rock thing.” Gran Billy Ann lit a cigarette. She was not supposed to smoke. She was not supposed to drink, either, but she was drinking a can of Olympia beer. That kind of thing was all right if you were one of the three oldest women on Clam Island. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Ragged Rock,” Aunt Beatrice said. “Ragged Rock. I don’t remember Pap having anything to say on that score.”

“I saw one of them, once,” said Aunt Shambleau, in a low voice, almost to herself. “It was in the summertime. A beautiful little man. Naked as a fish. He was lying on his back in the sun.”

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