The Rattled Bones(22)

Their faces are drawn in the way a hard life can wear at the softest of edges. Even childhood edges.

“These kids lived out here?”

“They did.”

Sam moves to my side as I read the names etched in eerie white ink against the aged black-and-white photo. I recognize some last names, families who still work this sea.

“The state sent census workers out here in the summer of 1931. That’s when most of these photos are from. That official visit is why we have a list of the residents’ names, ages, races.”

I tap my thumb against the grainy photo. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“What in particular?”

“How could there be so much diversity on this tiny island? Saying it’s an anomaly is an understatement.”

“Because Maine is ninety-five percent white?”

“Exactly.” I can’t take my eyes from the photo, the children with their backs to the sea.

“The island was an anomaly. It was settled by the descendants of Benjamin Darling, a black man who purchased Harbor Island in the late seventeen hundreds.”

Harbor Island sits just beyond Malaga, a sister in the sea. So many Maine maps name it Horse Island.

“Darling’s descendants moved to Malaga around 1860. Eventually some Abenaki people came to live here. Some Irish and Scottish fishermen too.”

“Ahead of its time.”

“At the wrong time.” Sam nudges his pencil at the corner of the moleskin. “It’s all in there. I’ve included copies of some newspaper articles written around the time the census workers arrived. Real yellow journalism stuff. Be prepared. And I’ve made notes about the island’s history in the margins.” He leans in, flips to a random page, nods at his scribbling. “See? There.”

Oral history has been lost due to enduring feelings of shame, embarrassment. Malaga remains a racially and culturally charged subject. Former governor publicly apologized to the Malaga descendants who’ve begun to come forward in recent years.

Then, a headline from the Bath Enterprise: NOT FIT FOR DOGS—POVERTY, IMMORTALITY AND DISEASE . . . IGNORANCE, SHIFTLESSNESS, FILTH AND HEATHENISM . . . A SHAMEFUL DISGRACE THAT SHOULD BE LOOKED AFTER AT ONCE.1

In the margin, Sam has scribbled: eugenics used to sway public sentiment.

My grip on the journal tightens. I want to accept this loan. “You’re sure? You don’t need it for your work?”

“I have every photo, every word memorized.” He taps his pencil to his temple. “I keep them with me every day.”

“Only if you’re sure.”

“I’m more than sure.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s no trouble.”

I wish my dad were here more than ever. So we could talk about Malaga with this person from away who knows so much more than I do about our own backyard.

I flip the page and there’s the old woman, sitting in her rocker, daring the camera to steal her soul. Her gardens are tall with tomatoes, sprawling with running squash vines. And flowers, too. I see the small dark heads of marigolds companion-planted to keep the bugs off the tomatoes. And a blossom so familiar. A bloom no different from the Flame I found on my boat. The coincidence rakes my spine. “This one.” I point to the full hem of the woman’s dark skirt. “This is the photo I saw.”

Sam leans over my shoulder. “The matriarch.” It’s eerie how my skin flames with cool bumps. “I like to think the islanders came to her for everything: advice, comfort, wisdom.”

“But you don’t know for sure?”

He shakes his head. “It was only eighty years ago. You’d think we’d have records for everyone on Malaga, but the islanders where solitary people, living off the grid for a reason. Census records tell us a lot, but no one’s been able to identify that woman. And the shame of what happened here has kept descendants from coming forward. Even now.”

What shame did this woman suffer?

“We might not know her name, but we know she was strong. All the islanders were.”

“Had to be.”

Sam nods. “Exactly. Think about how difficult it must have been to live out here then. Everything was harder. Fishing was harder; the winters were harder. Medicine, money, all harder to come by.”

“Maybe that stuff wasn’t important. At least not as important as their freedom—to live life on their own terms.”

“That’s the most fascinating part, Rilla. The islanders were strong-willed, enduring. Even if they looked poor to mainlanders, they chose to live their secluded life over anything the mainland could offer. Their poverty was nothing compared to their wealth of spirit. I’ve got mad respect for them.”

“So why did they leave?”

“They were forced off the island. The only reason we even have photos or any documentation at all is because of that census visit. Governor Plaisted wanted to assess the size of Malaga for development. When the newspapers started writing articles about the poverty of the Malaga community, well, that’s when things got bad. Poverty was considered a disease then, the poor afflicted with feeble brains. They were thought inferior, and the governor claimed they had no right to live on land that held so many developmental prospects.”

“So, what? Like eminent domain?”