door to the bridge I said, “But then I wouldn’t have got to Shawnituck on schedule.” He whispered with just a touch of real concern, “Better late than never” but laughed afterwards. So I said, “I’ll swim if I have to.” And he said, “Just might’n.”
But I stayed dry and soon enough the low sand bar that is Shawnituck Island came into view with the village’s buildings at one end and a long line of beach stretching north for miles without a house or car or person anywhere in sight. Now that’s my kind of beach!
We entered a small harbor past a stone breakwater and there was Aunt Greta in a black rain slicker and lobsterman’s hat and boots waiting on the ferry dock. I braved the elements and ran out to the front of the boat to wave to her only to have the front of the boat turn into the back of the boat as the grumpy Captain turned the ferry around in the close confines of the harbor so that the cars were all facing the right way. Guess it’s easier to turn the ferry around than have all the cars back off the boat, right? But it meant old Brooke made landfall at Shawnituck backwards! (Don’t tell anybody.) I eventually weaved my way to the other end of the boat over the slippery deck and past the tightly packed cars. Greta was still there (she asked me to shed the “Aunt” soon as I touched island soil) in her harsh weather gear, walking along the dock and signaling to the Captain in gestures that might have had meaning or might have been for show, I couldn’t tell.
In any case, neither her instructions nor the Captain managed to crash us as the boat bumped against the truck tires lining the dock and the Captain threw the engine in reverse to bring us to a stop. The hydraulic ramp was lowered to the deck and Mitchell unhooked the chain and stepped aside with a wave of his free arm that felt like a red carpet welcome and trumpet fanfare as I was the first to disembark. (Truth is, there were only five other pedestrians, all from one family; and they were still in the small lounge bundling up the baby.) I ran over to Greta and gave her a big hug that was a little awkward and slippery around her rain gear but enthusiastic on both side nonetheless. We were startled by a car’s blaring horn as we were maybe a little close to the exit ramp. Greta pulled me off to the side then gave that car’s driver a piece of her mind, but between the car engine and the boat engine and the wind and the rain I don’t think he heard. I did though, and let me just say I’ve never heard such words come out of Momma’s mouth! She looked at me afterwards and said, “Damn tourists!” but with a wink and a smile that would soon become familiar. Greta is the more expressive sister in that family, but I guess we already knew that.
She tossed my backpack over her shoulder like a longshoreman (or woman) on leave and we headed into town along the “sidewalk” that was really just the soft sand along the boards buried in the sand that served as a road. She said the town was debating whether to pave the village’s main road, with the residents split about fifty-fifty. Greta says it will just mean more tourists and “riff-raff” and is against it. I don’t care about the paved road but a more solid walkway would be nice. That wet sand kept sucking off my clogs till I finally left them off and walked barefoot though then my feet froze. Oh well, you told me island life would be harsh, just didn’t know I’d discover it so quickly! A half-dozen islanders, all in four-wheel-drive pickups, stopped to ask if we wanted a ride but Greta always declined. She said she needed the fresh air, but I think it was just her independent streak showing. Or maybe she was giving her niece a lesson in toughing it. Whatever the reason, I was half-froze by the time we turned into a narrow path between two tall hedges and came upon her cottage in a small clearing.
Maybe it was my bias of the moment, but I swear that cottage looked like something from a fairy tale—small and weathered gray with white trim, well-worn but well kept up, and somehow bright and cheerful despite the day, or because of it. We stepped into the shelter of the screened entry porch and stripped off all our wet outerwear and Greta gave me a towel for my hair and face. She grumbled “You’ll soon learn to dress more appropriately” but no sooner got out the words then she was helping me dry my hair and lightly brushed my cheek as she gazed at me with the tenderest (is that a word?) of looks. Maybe I’m imaging things, but I felt like she was recalling through my drowned rat appearance her first days out here all those years ago, remembering what it was like to be ill-prepared for island weather.
I might’ve been ill-prepared for the elements but the cottage wasn’t. It was dry and cozy, warmed by a gas heater at one end of the main room. There was only that large room, which included small kitchen, breakfast table, a mismatched couch and chair and a small TV with rabbit-ear antenna on an upended lobster trap. There were two bedrooms off the main room with a tiny bathroom in between. Greta led me to my room, the one in the back. Her room was in the front, with a second door out onto the porch—“To greet the morning or sneak out into the night” she said with a strange smile. I nodded as if I understood. Come to think of it, maybe I do—though it’s been awhile.
And so I’d finally arrived.
At dinner that night—conch stew and the best spoonbread I’ve ever tasted—Greta asked “Is it what you expected?” I answered “Different.” “Different better or different worse?” She was smiling the whole time, not really worried, just playing with me or maybe that thing I’d felt earlier—playing she was me. So I smiled back and said, “Both more real and more fantastic and all of it better than I could’ve hoped.” She laughed and said “And you’ve only just begun.” I don’t know if she was referencing the Karen Carpenter song or if she has ever heard the Carpenters, but her words were true enough. I had only just begun my adventure yet it had already surpassed my greatest hopes. Shawnituck is simultaneously grittily real, as my sodden and sand-crusted clogs would attest, and dreamily fantastic, as evidenced by Greta’s fairytale cottage in the clearing, as warm and secure and welcoming as a perfect idea of home. I slept like a baby that night.
By the next morning the weather had “faired off” as they say out here, with a brilliant blue sky, bright sun, and warm temps, though being surrounded by cool water meant there was a steady breeze that was a little chilly in the shade. After a big breakfast—Greta’s rule is “Big breakfast, big supper, snack at lunch”—of bacon, eggs, island fries (no grits out here!), toast, and coffee (can you believe I actually drank coffee?—another of Greta’s rules: “Coffee at every meal!”—though I diluted it with lots of milk and sugar), she took me on a walking tour of the village. We went to the general store—named Abner’s after some early settler nobody knows the origins or fate of (he’s sometimes labelled pirate, sometimes king’s exiled sibling)—the post office, the Coast Guard Station, the fish house. Greta pointed out the numerous seasonal gift shops and ice cream stands still boarded up this early in the season. She introduced me to all the residents we met along the way, conversing with them in an island dialect I found hard to follow. I’d recognize a word now and then, but was lost the rest of the time. So I just smiled and nodded and pretended I understood, and prayed that in the process I wasn’t agreeing to any tasks I couldn’t fulfill!
We went by the one year-round motel and restaurant, run for who knows how many generations by the Garrison family. She introduced me to this generations’ matriarch, Mildred Garrison but known to everyone on the island as Polly and now, in her elder standing, as Mrs. Polly. She is, to use Greta’s words, “a stately and solid woman of imperious gaze” who lets nothing in her domain (which is, apparently, the whole island) sneak past her. She seems to me someone who could carry her own in the Governor’s Mansion or corporate boardroom, but fate had placed her on Shawnituck and she was making the best of it. Greta mentioned that I’d be out here all summer and was looking for employment. Mrs. Polly asked if I’d ever worked in “food service.” I nodded, leaving out the small fact that my food service experience was a few months scooping ice cream into waffle cones and paper cups. She looked me up and down like I was a specimen from another planet (maybe I am, if your life’s planet is Shawnituck) before saying tersely “We need to add a weekend waitre
ss. You might serve.” I didn’t ask if she meant her or God. Maybe to her, they’re one and the same. I tried to smile and meet her eyes as I nodded thanks. She turned to Greta and said, “Child of few words.” Greta was about to offer an opposing view when she cut her off and said, “In my estimation, that is a prized trait.” She looked again at me and commanded, “White shirt, black skirt to the knee, black shoes, Friday at four.” I nodded again. Though I understood her words (she’s one of the few island natives I can understand clearly), I was less sure of what I’d agreed to than if she’d spoke that island dialect. She dismissed us with a wave.
Outside I must’ve looked at Greta with some version of the trembling I felt in my stomach. Greta laughed and said, “Don’t worry. She’s just being Polly—got a heart of gold under that stony stare. Everyone else in the family is a dear. Plus, the tips here are better than the wages anywhere else on the island.” I said, “Need to get a shirt and skirt.” Greta said, “Still got mine from my first summer here.” She looked me up and