The Rattled Bones(23)

“The state didn’t need it. Three weeks after his visit, the governor posted a notice of eviction. In the end, the islanders didn’t own the island, even though they’d been living in the area since the Civil War. None of the nearby towns wanted to be associated with Malaga after the press began a hate campaign against the so-called squatters. When no town claimed the island, the state took it.”

This all sounds impossible. The old woman must have known this hate was rising around her. Did she read the papers? Did the network of fishermen keep islanders informed of mainland news? “How did you learn about Malaga? I mean, how are you even here? How do you know all this stuff??”

There’s a short silence that’s filled only with the lapping tide, the shouting gulls. Then, “I was twelve and living in Arizona’s southern desert when I found this old book in my parents’ shed.” Sam laughs, in a way that’s more sad than funny. “Kind of a survey on the states. I had to hold the spine just right so it wouldn’t crack and fall apart when I opened the book. It had a section on Maine and its fishermen—way back in the day, like the 1850s—and something about this coast felt like the last frontier to me. When I found that section about Maine’s islands . . . well, it kind of . . .” He trails off, lets the sea fill the quiet between us. “I guess you could say it showed me how big the world could be—you know, for me. If I let it be that big. That book’s the reason why I came to Maine for school, applied for this internship.”

“A book you read when you were twelve?”

He laughs. “Twelve-year-old boys are very impressionable.” He looks out toward the horizon though it’s clear he’s seeing something bigger than the sea. “I was . . . well, optimally impressionable at that age. I never stopped researching Maine’s maritime history, and when I came across Malaga’s story, I wanted to meet the people who never got a chance to be heard.”

I want that too. In this moment, it’s all I want. “It seems like a good thing to want.”

“Maybe, but there’s a reason why no one talks about this place.” He nods to the portfolio. “Read what’s in there and you’ll see. Sometimes it’s easier to keep secrets buried than to live with our truth.”

I don’t even realize my knuckles have drained white from gripping the moleskin until I look down. “I’ll read every word.”

“That reminds me.” Sam pops open the front pocket of his pack and pulls out a book. For a second I think it might be his old, cracked encyclopedia from the desert, but he passes me The World According to Garp. “For you. In case you want to revisit the Under Toad.” Sam’s smile is soft, like he knew full well I had no idea the Under Toad was born in a novel but he doesn’t want me to feel bad about it either.

I swallow down something that feels bigger than gratitude. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank John Irving. The man’s a master.”

“I feel bad I didn’t bring you anything.” Dad and Gram raised me to return kindness with multiplied kindness, and gift giving is no exception.

“You’re a funny one, Rilla Brae.”

“Funny how?”

“Funny because you can’t see that you’ve brought me biscuits and saved my very borrowed boat from utter destruction.”

These things are nothing. Dad called them “expected and necessary gestures of polite society.” He’d say it in a bad British accent and pretend at a pipe at his mouth.

“And you came here with your curiosity and conversation. Those are gifts I don’t even know how to pay you back for.”

Huh. I pull the books to my heart because I can’t find words to thank him for the Under Toad, for allowing my father to reach across death to find me in this way.

“I saw it at the used bookstore in town and thought of you. I would’ve bought you a fresh and clean and new copy, but . . . well, there’s zero pay in internship work.”

“Come work for me.” My offer surprises me, and doesn’t.

Sam lets out a quick laugh. “Work for you? You have treasure that needs excavating?”

“Sort of. Well, okay, no. I need a sternman for the summer. Someone to help me haul lobsters off the bottom.” I need someone to be me in the way that I helped my dad.

He laughs fully now. “I know nothing about lobstering. I almost lost my boat to the perils of the granite shore, if you recall.”

“I never said you could drive my boat.” I throw him a quick wink. “And it’s okay if you’re a newbie. I’ll teach you what you need to know. You bring a strong back and we’ll figure out the rest. We go out before the sun rises, so you’d have your afternoons free to come out here.”

“Done.”

“Done? Just like that?”

“Just like that. Hell, if I don’t jump at everything life offers me, what’s the point?”

His enthusiasm. I think that might be his real gift.

“Can you be here at six o’clock tomorrow morning?”

“Will you have biscuits?”

“Warm ones.”

“Then, Rilla Brae, you’ve got yourself a sternman. An incompetent one that hails from the dusty desert of Arizona, but a sternman nonetheless.” Sam stands and extends his hand. I stand across from him, and we shake on our promise, even if it feels like more.