Float Plan(22)

By the time we reach the settlement at New Bight, Eulalia and Keane are fast friends, and we have been invited for lunch at her house. “An hour at the Hermitage should be enough time and I’ll come fetch you,” she says. “After lunch I’ll take you back to Port Howe.”

Keane leans forward between the front seats and presses a kiss to her round brown cheek. “Eulalia, you are a gift. Thank you.”

As she drives us up the road to the base of Mount Alvernia, she tells us about Father Jerome, an architect, missionary, and Catholic priest who came to the island as a young man to build churches. He built the Hermitage and lived there alone for the rest of his life, coming down the hill only when called upon to provide food and clothing for those who asked.

The 206-foot climb is short, but steep, and trees along the rocky path provide a bit of cooling shade. Tucked beneath the branches, along the path, are small monuments carved with images of Jesus carrying his cross to crucifixion.

“They’re called the stations of the cross,” Keane explains. “During Lent, we Catholics typically celebrate the stations with prayer, song, and meditation on the Lord’s suffering.”

He falls quiet and slowly lags behind. At first I study his face for signs of pain, worried his leg can’t handle the climb. Instead I realize he’s pausing at each of the stations. When he catches me watching, he does a bashful little shrug-and-grin combo. “You can take the boy out of Ireland…”

“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s nice that you have something to believe in.”

I walk on ahead, leaving him to his meditation, and I’m winded when I reach the summit. From the top of Mount Alvernia, I can see all of Cat Island—the perpetual green of trees never touched by winter, and the bright white sand. Off to the west, the water is turquoise and powerboats leave white trails in their wake. To the east, the deep blue ocean stretches toward Africa. Down south, the Alberg sits in the bay, surrounded by the silver masts of sailboats. Our little water has gotten crowded.

Up here it’s absolutely peaceful. No traffic. No music. No noise but the rustle of the trees and the songs of the birds that inhabit them. I’m about to tell Keane that Ben would love it here, when I realize Ben would not love it. He would have loved Eulalia’s lyrical accent and drinking with the divers. He’d have loved talking to Rohan. But Ben loved being in motion, not spending time in silent contemplation. He would have filled up the silence with words. As talkative as Keane Sullivan may be, he knows how to be quiet.

“I love this place,” I say. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

“Nearly all my best discoveries have been accidental,” Keane says. “Sometimes you have to toss the map and fly by the seat of your trousers.”

We poke around the buildings, squeezing through narrow doorways and stretching ourselves out on the hard slab of wood that Father Jerome used as a bed.

“I could never be an ascetic.” Keane lies on his back, his hand folded on his chest. He has to bend his knees to fit. “As far as I’m concerned, a pint of Guinness, a fluffy duvet, and a warm body pressed up against mine now and again are basic human needs. And, to be perfectly frank, Anna, I covet your duvet.”

“Doesn’t your religion have rules against coveting your neighbor’s duvet?”

He sits up, laughing. “Wouldn’t be a sin if you’d share.”

“Okay. You can use it whenever I’m not.”

“We have a deal.”

Eulalia’s silver taxi is waiting for us at the bottom of the hill, and she drives us to a small wooden house painted the color of the sky. The grass-and-sand yard are boxed in by a peeling white picket fence, and a yellow dog lies in a hollow of shade beside the front steps. We’re met at the door by the scent of cooked fish and Eulalia’s husband, Robert, a big man with salt-and-pepper hair. She makes introductions and hustles us to her kitchen table, where bits of fried snapper swim in bowls with tomatoes, onions, and chunks of potato.

The rise and fall of Eulalia’s voice is like music as she talks about her island, about her sister who runs the bakery, and about her mother’s best friend, who climbed the hill every day as housekeeper for Father Jerome. Sitting in Eulalia’s kitchen is like being wrapped in the warmest of hugs. It makes me homesick for something I’ve never really had with my family. Something I’d hoped Ben and I would make together.

“I don’t want to leave,” I tell Eulalia when we’re climbing into her van afterward. “Will you adopt me and let me live here with you?”

She laughs. “I just sent my last boy off to college in Toronto. I don’t want no more kids, but you come visit me anytime you like. I’ll be here.”

The van lumbers back down the road we came from, toward Port Howe, and I watch the island pass by my window. Eulalia sends us off with hugs and kisses, as if we didn’t just meet her this morning. Keane tries to pay her cab fare, but she waves him off. “Christmas is coming,” she says, meaning families on holiday will make up for our free ride. We give her one last hug, as if that could ever be payment enough.





confession (11)





We find the divers in a huddle on the beach, drunk and giggling, after having gotten kicked out of the resort bar. They are their own tiny universe, but they pull us back into orbit and Rohan ferries us out to Chemineau. Sara and Keane make eyes at each other like teenagers, and I’m tired from hiking and stuffing myself with Eulalia’s fish stew. I want to go back to the Alberg, but it feels rude to ask.