The Rattled Bones(73)

Sam sits back on his ankles, shakes his head. “I think this is definitely our private thing.”

I like the idea of a shared private thing with Sam. I lean toward the center of our excavation site, brush away the dirt, speck by impossibly tiny speck.

It’s Sam who discovers the bowl of a pipe. He brushes it free from generations of silt, holds it up with his gloved hand. “The islanders were scorned as degenerates because of their use of tea and tobacco.”

“What weren’t they judged for?”

“Too right.”

I think of the old man and that beautiful chair he brought to my gram, my dad. Was he from the island? Was he too ashamed of his past to name the place he was from? I want to believe my family helped his family, the island people. Or at least let them be free.

We dig all day. My back aches from bending over the earth, carving out its secrets. We find only buttons, more battered pottery.

The moon joins us before I’m prepared to meet it.

“We should be heading back.”

I nod, reluctant. “I have to haul tomorrow.”

“We can come in the afternoon.”

It’s a small consolation.

*

At home, Gram’s left a note that she’s at Brenda Sherfey’s for their monthly Garden Club dinner. It’s late, but I’m glad to find the house quiet. My clothes are filthy, and I don’t have the answers for the questions Gram would likely ask about why I’ve been gone past dark. Why I didn’t radio in.

I go to my bay window. I trace my fingers over the scratched marks.

IM HERE

DONT GO!

FIND ME

I pull scissors from my desk and use their sharpened point to carve my promise under her message. I WILL FIND YOU AGNES.

It no longer matters that we’re separated by decades.

It matters only that I unearth her story.

I shower and make tea that would have marked me as degenerate in Malaga’s time. I go to the lawn, wanting to be on Malaga’s shores.

I watch the quiet island, knowing Gram’s parents would have witnessed the persecution of Malaga residents. My great-grandparents were part of a community that wiped out another community. Gram has to know something about the island people. Or how she got her name. Her mother must have shared some piece of this story. Maybe Gram needs help calling it up.

But even as I decide to approach Gram again, I’m afraid of all the possible answers. What if her father carried his rage and prejudice to the island? What if his boat was the one that carried the abducted islanders to the mainland? What if my great-grandfather was one of the men to commit eight innocent people to the state insane asylum? Someone had to sign those orders of commitment.

But no articles name those people.

No articles speak of the shame of their actions.

The storm that’s been threatening all day finally cracks open the sky. The rain runs in sheets hard enough to raise the sea. I let the cold pellets pick at my skin, form small river pathways down the length of my hair. The rain swells the grass. I stare through the veil of water, consumed by lonely Malaga. I blink away the drops that collect along my lashes. Rain would’ve been a gift to islanders, fresh water in a sea of undrinkable water. The pottery we found would have held this precious resource. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my body to go back to the place where a young boy called Aggie’s name.

But it’s Gram I hear calling. “Rilla!”

Her voice is distorted. The rain slicks against her words. “Come in before there’s lightning!” I can’t see Gram in the doorway because the rain falls in torrents now, filling the sea with its rush. I don’t want to pull away. I want the ocean to overflow and have it carry me to this yesterday place, when Malaga was home to dozens of people. It feels like a long time and no time at all before I head inside, grab a dish towel to wring out my hair. I’m surprised Gram isn’t in the kitchen, prepared to warm me.

“Gram?” There’s no answer to my call. I light a burner, let the whoosh of gas bring flame. I grind a lemon peel, knowing Gram has retired to her attic, her place of repair.

The kettle screams, and I pull it from the heat. I pour the hot water into the mug, the scent of sharp citrus rising on steam.

“Rilla!” Gram’s voice curdles the air in the kitchen. “Rilla!”

I race up the stairs. “Gram?” The air in the hall is dense with oil, the waxy air of paint.

“Rilla!” Gram’s cry again. Her voice is hoarse, as if she’s struggling to make sound. Adrenaline rushes through me, filling my ears with its dull weight.

“Gram! I’m coming!” I push into her room, but she’s not there.

Behind me, the attic door slams.

“Gram!” I throw myself against the attic door, twisting the locked doorknob. “Gram! Let me in!” I pound on the door with an open palm. Thunder booms outside. “Open the door!” The door gusts open, its panel smacking me in the face. My back slams against the opposite wall.

The door shuts again.

Opens.

It swings wildly, a tornado of movement, pushingpulling, pushingpulling.

“Gram! Where are you?” The door stops in midswing, as if halted by someone.

But there’s no one.

I take a step toward the attic stairway. I place my foot on the short, narrow tread. A crackle of lightning beams its white light. I wait the length of a breath for what? To test the stair’s strength? To listen for Gram?