laughter lighting her eyes and shook her head.
“Then tonight after he admires how stunning you look and, if he has an ounce of sense, kisses your hand—and you remember to offer it to him!—after he does all that sappy stuff, ask him what he meant when he said ‘farted’ that first day.”
Leah frowned. I do not know how to sign ‘farted’. She spelled the word out in the air.
Brooke jumped off the bed, went to Leah’s desk on the wall to the right of the window, took one of the index cards Leah kept handy for notes or reminders, and wrote out: Dear Paul—The first time you sat down at my lunch table and talked to me, you said “farted.” What did you mean by that? Love, Leah. She folded the card in half and handed it to Leah. “Give it to him tonight, or I won’t dance with you.”
Leah opened the note and shook her head. You drive a hard bargain, she signed, moving her hands up and down in opposing rhythm, as in a seesaw or the scales of justice.
“That’s what sisters are supposed to do.”
Leah nodded. She refolded the note, pushed back the covers, and climbed out of bed, declining Brooke’s offer of a steadying hand.
Shawnituck Island
Over the coming year, Brooke methodically set out to fulfill her long held dream of an extended stay on Shawnituck Island, that exotic (in Brooke’s mind, at least) and forgotten corner of the state stuck some miles out into the ocean and tied to the mainland by only a small ferry that ran a couple of round trips a day, weather permitting, from the island’s tiny and picturesque harbor (Brooke had saved all the postcards of the harbor and other island highlights—a quaint nineteenth century lighthouse being another—Aunt Greta had sent her over the years) to a dock dredged out of the coastal marshes of the state’s shoreline. Her renewed focus on this wish derived in part from her boring summer spent at home following her freshman year, when she worked at an ice-cream shop, dated a handful of loser guys, and in general wished she was anywhere but living at home.
Though she wouldn’t admit it, part of her glumness that summer arose from jealousy of Leah’s strong relationship with Paul, a heretofore platonic friendship that seemed to be deepening into something more. Brooke liked Paul—a little stiff and cerebral for her tastes, but perfect for Leah—and was happy for her sister; but on a more selfish level, she resented the fact that he dominated much of Leah’s free time. She also couldn’t help but note that for the first time ever Leah had a boyfriend (a friend that happens to be a boy, Leah would always correct) while she was stuck with dead-end dorks, stranded “high and dry in the male companionship department” (that was for Momma and Father’s consumption, with her complaints to Leah somewhat more verbally graphic). She did make a few day trips to visit her townie buddies, Billy and Joe outside of Center. But she could never concoct an excuse for an overnight stay that would satisfy Momma and thus had to return home from those trips the same day—more or less sober, more or less by midnight curfew.
So Brooke became determined not to repeat the drudgery next summer, and decided a fulfillment of her Shawnituck fantasy was the perfect solution. She began by quietly lobbying Aunt Greta in an exchange of letters that fall, saying she needed to do a better job of earning summertime income “to assist my parents in paying for my college education” and wondering if there might be summertime employment opportunities for “a hard-working and versatile young woman” on Shawnituck Island. Aunt Greta responded with enthusiasm, seeing in Brooke a familiar rebellious streak and wanting to help her emerge into adulthood from the restrictions imposed by her uptight sister. “There are many summer jobs available to an attractive and conscientious young woman” she wrote while offering to let Brooke stay in the guestroom of her small cottage on the edge of the island’s village. “How early in the summer can I come?” Brooke wrote. “How long can I stay?” “As early as you can get here” and “As long as you want” were Aunt Greta’s open-ended replies.
Brooke’s plans took a large leap forward at the annual Rodwell family reunion at Momma’s parents’ house the day after Christmas. Brooke and Aunt Greta (Brooke had dropped the “y” from their childhood Aunty Greta title a few years ago, though Leah still thought and signed and wrote Aunty Greta in her mind and communications) went off by themselves for much of the day, sitting on the bright but chilly back porch and hatching all manner of plans as Greta filled her niece in on island geography and mannerisms. In Leah’s frequent glances out the kitchen window she saw an unfamiliar Brooke—raptly attentive, hanging on Aunty Greta’s every word as if it were a verbal map to a new and wondrous world. And, looking out from another angle, the dining room window this time, Leah also saw a new side of her aunt—eyes flashing as always but merrily this time, with sparkles in the corners. Momma observed all this too, though more discreetly than the bald stares of Leah. She’d seen the allegiance unfolding for years now, secretly known and dreaded it since early in Brooke’s childhood when she began displaying a familiar sassiness and single-minded outlook. Well, she’d held that union at bay long as she could—Brooke was twenty and an adult and could go stay with Greta, or jump off the end of the earth for that matter, whether she gave permission or not: might as well maintain some illusion of control, and dignity, by not fighting the inevitable.
Leah’s take on all this was similar to Momma’s, yet also different. She was used to Brooke making unorthodox choices then pursuing them relentlessly till achieved or exhausted (the choice, not Brooke—Brooke never tired while chasing a dream, far as Leah could tell). Shawnituck Island represented such a choice dating back nearly a decade now. But the methodical rationale, using adult logic and arguments and persuasiveness, exhibited a level of foresight and patience new to her sister, at least when it came to her dreams and desires. Leah understood, both intellectually and intuitively, that these were signs that Brooke was growing up, had taken on both independence and maturity in her two years away at college. What she was less sure about was where the impulsive Brooke had gone, and what might happen if that side of Brooke—the wild gleam in her eyes that hung on Aunty Greta’s every word mouthed out there on the frigid porch—reasserted itself within this more mature and calculating sister.
The wind off the gray and choppy water was brutal, blowing bits of sand and seaweed and what Leah would swear were ice pellets, though it was mid-May and air temps were in the low forties, across the narrow beach that bordered the ferry slip and up onto the open-air dock where they clung to the wooden rail and watched the emergence of the low-slung ferry out of the haze though there was an enclosed and heated waiting room a few feet behind them with a picture window affording the same view.
Brooke turned to Leah from a foot away, the shoulders of their bright windbreakers touching. Her face and lips and words were reshaped by the fierce wind. “Aunt Greta says you can see Shawnituck from here on a clear day!” she shouted.
Leah forced herself to look to the east, struggled to peer into the gray haze. She couldn’t imagine anything living out there, thought her sister descending into chaos. But she forced a grin, or what she hoped was a grin, onto her face and looked back at Brooke and offered a nod—of assurance, wonder, regret, whatever.
Brooke remained undaunted. Her eyes lifted and she raised her arm in a wave toward the approaching boat. She turned to Leah. “Hear that?” Then realized her mistake and gave her sister a hug, pressing her damp cheek against Leah’s still colder one. “Of course not,” she said on pulling back. “It was a blast from the ferry’s foghorn! Brrrr-rrrrmph!” she shouted out into the wind.
Despite everything, Leah had to laugh. All her misgivings combined with the deep sadness at losing Brooke for the summer were nothing before Brooke’s vitality and love of life. What was a gale force wind and an ocean of voracious dark water against that irrepressible spirit? Leah shaped the words in her head then signed them with frozen fingers. Watch out world!
Brooke didn’t see Leah’s statement. She was already sliding toward the gate at the entrance to the gangplank, intent on being the firs
t to board once the arrivals had exited.
May 12
Dear Leah—
Every eaten conch? Surfed in a wet suit? Driven on the beach with the water thrown up higher than the truck cab? Spotted condoms at the high-water line (ewwwww!) labelled with the Happytime Cruise Lines logo (that makes it a little more interesting)? No? Then hitch a ride on that rickety ferry and come on out to Shawnituck—we’ve got a show for you!
I did arrive safely on Saturday but over a half hour late as the captain had to tack back and forth to avoid the worst of the currents and some hidden shoals that might’ve grounded us. A friendly crew member (you remember the guy guarding the gate who smiled at me as I boarded—that’s the one, Mitchell Donahue is his name, born out here and my age exactly, working toward his master seaman’s certification) gave me a tour of the boat and let me peak in the bridge where the captain was not so quietly cursing the weather and staring more at the depth gauge than at the windshield which was so coated with spray and salt you couldn’t see much anyway. “Damn bureaucrats!” he cussed. “Shoulda canned it for today!” After Mitchell closed the