Katherine Page - The Body in the Kelp

“Eric is stenciling a frieze around the walls," Jill explained. "Kind of a cross between William Morris and Peter Max."

“Sounds interesting," Faith said.

“Take a peek before you go," Eric urged.

Faith looked at Pix.

“One peek," Pix said, and they started to walk toward the house."Did you grow up in an old house?" Faith asked Eric.

“Anything but. It was a trailer that my father set on concrete blocks and later enclosed in siding. Then when my parents split up, I lived with my mother in an apartment in Houston. But by then I was a teenager and on my way out.”

And up, Faith thought. No wonder he loved the Prescott house so much. It was still the Prescott place, and even when Eric was ninety, it would be known as such. She wondered what he thought of that.

“And where did you live?" Faith turned to Jill. "I know you grew up here, but which part of the island?"

“I'll show you sometime. A relative of mine still lives there. It's a tiny old farmhouse on the shore near the causeway. It faces the Reach. I'll always miss living there. It seemed perfect when I was growing up. This house"—she gestured toward Harbor View, draped in fog and looming larger than life with nothing visible nearby for comparison—"this was like a mansion to us, although the Prescotts weren't snobbish. We just never had much occasion to come here.”

Not exactly on the trick-or-treat circuit. Somehow Faith couldn't see the Matilda she'd heard about dropping Hershey bars into small outstretched hands.

They walked into the dining room and Eric switched on the lights. He had done a great deal in a short time. The walls were painted a warm coral, and across the top stylized Morris leaves and berries in gold joined turquoise geometries. Words in deep green, some in gothic script, some in block letters, ran across the bottom.

“What does it say?" Faith asked. She stood and looked up at the wall and read aloud. " `Here too in Maine things bend to the wind forever.' That's very beautiful."

“It's Robert Lowell's ‘Soft Wood,' a favorite of Roger's and mine. It seemed to suit the house and Matilda too. It was written for Harriet Winslow, Lowell's older cousin who lived in Castine, not too far from here.”

Faith was deciphering other lines. She liked the sound of "illimitable salt" and decided to look for the poem in the little Sanpere library.

Eric had purchased an Eastlake dining-room set from a dealer in Northeast Harbor, and it looked perfect against the color of the walls. She walked slowly around the room, reading the poem, then stopped abruptly. Over the lintel, by accident or design, two lines stood alone: "This is the season/ when our friends may and will die daily.”

The phone rang. Eric excused himself. He was back quickly, ashen faced and the words spilled out. "That was Louise. Bill Fox has killed himself.”

For the first time in her life, Faith passed out.

9

Whenever Faith recalled that juxtaposition of reading Low-ell's lines and Bill Fox's death, she thought she understood what the phrase "a clashing of the spheres" meant. It was as if two universes had collided, the written and the real—with Faith caught in the middle, one foot resting unsteadily in each.

She didn't believe in portents, but for an instant it seemed the words had killed him, stabbing him with the sharp strokes of painted prophecy.

But he hadn't used a knife. He would not have been allowed that. What he had been permitted was paper, a pencil, and a lamp. Young Officer Gibson, who was on duty, saw no reason to deny his request. Gibson had heard the guy wrote books and figured he probably wanted to work or write to somebody.

Bill did write—a long, incoherent letter addressed to the Fraziers in which he confessed to the crime: "My princess is dead and the guilt is mine." Then he stripped off the end of the lamp cord, wrapped one wire around each leg, plugged the other end into the wall outlet, and electrocuted himself. It was a swift death. They found him, lifeless on the floor, when they came to bring his dinner.

If it had not been that way, it would have been another.

The fog was even thicker on Monday morning than it had been the night before. Faith looked out the window, and only the fact that she had two importunate children to care for kept her from crawling back into bed and pulling the covers over her head for a long, long time. She felt numb as she dressed, fed, and even smiled at Zoë and Ben. It was an outof-body experience.

Pix had called. She was on her way to the Fraziers' and Samantha was in her room. Bill had been her idol. She had a complete set of his books, all personally inscribed. She had told her mother there was no way she would ever believe he was a murderer.

Faith was inclined to agree. An ambiguous suicide note written in the throes of intense grief did not exactly amount to an ironclad confession. But if not Bill, who? Andy, her favorite choice for a suspect, was apparently being ruled out. He had been on the boat raided by the antismuggling task force. But the boat was wandering around the islands close to Sanpere. How hard would it have been for him to put ashore? Andy had stated to the police that Bird never intended to marry Bill, that she was in fact at their cabin because she was coming back to Andy—had never really left. He reportedly regarded Bill as a demented old man. But it was his word against Bill's, and now Bill wasn't around to speak for himself. Nor was Bird. Or Roger. Faith felt an instant of panic. Death shrouded the community like the fog lying thickly in the cove.

Bill's mother and brother were flying to the island to take Bill home. He would be buried next to his father in the family plot in a small cemetery near their North Carolina farm. He'd been from away. Like Bird and like Roger. Could there be a connection there?

Faith slogged through the morning and planned on a nap when the children took theirs. She had tucked them in— marveling at the quirkiness of fate that for once had smiled, sending Zoë and Ben to sleep at almost precisely the same moment—and stretched out on her own bed. She was drifting off to sleep when she heard a car drive up.

She ran to the front hall window and looked out. It was too foggy to see the plates, but she could see the driver as he approached the house—a large man about sixty with thickwhite hair. He was alone. He stood on the porch uncertainly, then knocked and called out, "Isanybody home?”

Faith went downstairs and opened the door. As soon as she saw his face, any fears she had quickly vanished. It was a kind face and a tired-looking one. It was also slightly familiar. She knew immediately who he was, and a wave of contradictory emotions swept over her.

“Mrs. Fairchild? I am George Warner, Bird's father. I've come for my granddaughter.”

So, Faith realized, Andy had known Bird's real name and where she came from. "Please come in and sit down. Zoë is taking a nap. We can wake her, but perhaps you'd like to have a cup of coffee and wait. She won't sleep much longer."

“Oh, I don't want to wake her, and a cup of coffee would be wonderful. I drove straight from the airport to the police and then couldn't wait to see her."

“That you can do right away. She won't wake up, and neither will Ben—that's my little boy. They're in his room.”

She led him up the stairs and stood to one side as he looked down at the tiny child asleep in the cradle. He turned to leave and there were tears streaming down his face. Inthe hallway he said to her, choking on the words, "She looks just like her mother."

“Please, come down and sit in the kitchen while I make some coffee. And I'm sure you must be hungry too." Faith always assumed people were hungry. Especially in times of crisis.