Кристина Клайн - A Piece of the World

The morning of the harvest, after Papa has left the house, I dress in the dark, layering sweaters and trousers over my long underwear and pulling on two pairs of socks. I meet Al in the downstairs hall and we head out into the mist, blowing our breath at each other, and make our way toward Vinal’s Pond to watch the horses harnessed to plows trek back and forth on the thick ice, deepening the grooves. Snow falls softly, like flour through a sifter, accumulating in drifts.

We spot Papa in the distance, leading Blackie and the plow. He sees us too. “Stay off the ice!” he shouts. When Al and I reach the edge, we stand silently watching the men do their work. Blackie prances skittishly, tossing his head. He’s a nervous horse; I’ve spent hours in the paddock devising routines to calm him. He’s wearing the choke rope I fashioned around his neck several days ago to control him when he gets spooked.

One of the men has broken his float hook in a block of ice, and everyone is distracted, offering suggestions, when I notice that Blackie is sliding in slow motion toward the lip of the ice. All at once there’s a high-pitched whinny. His eyes roll in terror as he plunges into the breath-stopping cold, flailing and churning in the water. The plow teeters on the edge. Without thinking, I run toward Papa across the ice.

“Damn it, get back!” Papa yells.

“Grab the choke rope,” I call, motioning to my own neck. “Cut off his breath!”

Papa gestures to some of the men, and they join arms, elbow to elbow, Papa in the middle and several holding his belt. He leans far out over the horse’s head and grasps the rope, pulling it tight. After a moment, Blackie quiets. Papa manages to pull him up onto the slab by his harness, forelegs first, then belly, and finally his powerful thick haunches. For a moment the horse stands as if frozen, front and back legs apart like a statue. Then he dips his head and shakes his mane, spraying water.

At the supper table that night Papa tells Mamey and Mother that I am the orneriest and most stubborn child he has, and the only reason he didn’t wring my neck for running onto the ice is that my quick thinking probably saved Blackie’s life. A drowned horse, we all know, would’ve been a big loss.

“I wonder where she gets that from,” Mother says.

IN THE EVENINGS, once or twice a month, local farmers come by the house to drink whiskey and play cards around the dining table. Papa is different from the others, with his quiet ways and his Swedish accent, but the fact that they’re all farmers and fishermen is enough of a bond. After Mother and Mamey have gone to bed, Al and I sit on the stairs, just out of sight, and listen to their stories.

The more Richard Wooten drinks, the more he rambles. “There’s treasure in that Mystery Tunnel, by God, there is. One of these days, I swear, I’ll get my hands on it.”

Al and I are fascinated by the legend of Mystery Tunnel. According to local lore a two-hundred-foot tunnel was carved out of rock near Bird Point by early settlers as a place to hide from passing pirates and Abenaki Indians.

“I came this close. This close,” Richard says. His voice softens, and I have to lean close to the banister to hear. “Pitch black. Not a star in the sky. I sneak down there with a lantern. I’m digging for who knows how long, hours, it’s gotta be.”

“How many times have you told this story, a hundred?” someone scoffs.

Richard ignores him. “And then I see it: the glint of treasure.”

“You do not.”

“I do, with my own eyes! And then . . .”

The men grumble and laugh. “Aw, c’mon!” “Now he’s just makin’ it up.”

“Spit it out, Richard,” Papa says.

“It disappears. Like—that.” I hear the snap of his fingers. “Just as I was reaching for it. It was there and then it was gone.”

“Rough luck,” one of them shouts. “To treasure!”

“To treasure!”

The next evening Al and I slip out of the house with a candle nub and make our way down to Bird Point. The lip of the tunnel is dark and mysterious; our flickering candle keeps sputtering out. It’s eerily silent as we creep along. About fifty feet in, fallen rocks block the path. I feel a strange relief—we probably would’ve dared ourselves to continue. Would we have found the buried treasure? Or would we have disappeared in the depths of the tunnel, never to be found?

Al and I take our adventures where we can find them. Several weeks later he wakes me up in the middle of the night, a finger to his lips, and whispers, “Follow me.” I pull on a housedress over my nightgown and my old leather shoes over my socks and leave the snug cocoon of my bed. As soon as we’re outside I see a glowing orange ball several hundred yards out in the harbor, its reflection splashed across the water. Then I realize what it is: a ship on fire.

“Been burning for hours,” Al says. “A lime coaster. Headed to Thomaston, no doubt.”

“Should we wake Papa?”

“Nah.”

“Maybe he could help.”

“A dory came ashore with a group of men a while ago. Nothing anybody can do now.”

For more than an hour we sit in the grass. The freighter blazes in the dark, its destruction a thing of beauty. I gaze at Al, his face illuminated in the glow. I think about his favorite book, Treasure Island, about a boy who runs away to sea in search of buried treasure. Mrs. Crowley, seeing how often Al thumbed through the pages of the copy on her shelf, gave it to him when school let out for the summer. “For our seafaring Alvaro,” she wrote on the inside cover in her neat handwriting. “May you embark on many adventures.”

Months later, the ribs of that lime coaster are visible when the tide is low. Papa and Al row out to the wreck and strip the hull of its oak planking, and after stacking and weighting them to make them straight, they use them to rebuild the icehouse floor.

EVERY WEEKDAY AL and I walk together to the Wing School Number 4 in Cushing, a mile and a half away. With my unsteady gait it takes a long time to get there. I try to focus on my steps, but I tumble so often that my knees and elbows are constantly bruised and scraped, despite the cotton padding. The sides of my feet are tough and callused.

Al complains the whole way. “Jeez, the cows are faster than you. I could’ve been there and back by now.”

“Go ahead, then,” I tell him, but he never does.

It helps if I swing my body forward, using my arms for balance, though even that doesn’t always work. When I fall, Al sighs and says, “Come on, now we’re really going to be late.” But when he pulls me up, he puts all his weight into it.

Sometimes we walk with two neighbor girls, Anne and Mary Connors, but only when their mother insists on it. They cluck their tongues and kick at sticks when I trip and fall behind. “Oh Lord, again?” Mary mutters, and the two of them whisper together so Al and I can’t hear.

At school I wait until the cloakroom is empty before taking off my knee pads and armbands and stashing them in my lunch pail. The other kids can be mean. Leslie Brown trips me as I walk up the aisle to get a book, and I crash into Gertrude Gibbons’s desk. “Watch it, clumsy,” Gertrude says under her breath.

There are things I could say. Few of us at the Wing School Number 4 have picture-perfect lives. Gertrude Gibbons’s mother ran off to Portland with a man who worked at the paper mill in Augusta, and never looked back. Leslie’s stepfather beats him with a belt. The Connors girls have no father; he didn’t go away, he was never here. It’s a small town, and we know more about one another than any of us might wish.

One afternoon Al and I are sitting outdoors with our lunch pails under the shade of an elm in the schoolyard when Leslie and another boy begin to circle and taunt. “What’s wrong with you? You’re not normal, you know that?”