down then added, “Might need to take the hem up a tad, otherwise ought to fit.” Lighthouse Inn and Restaurant, here I come.
Speaking of lighthouse, that’s where Greta took me next. It’s a brick cylinder of modest height painted in a spiral of alternating red and white, leading everyone around here and up and down the coast to call it the Candycane Lighthouse. It has a cute little light-tender’s cottage on the neatly maintained grounds and a low white picket fence around the entire property. A handwritten sign at the gate read “Visits by Appointment Only,” but Greta paid it no heed and opened the gate and strode across the long boardwalk to the cottage. She opened the side door and said in a normal voice, “Andy?” There was no response, but a few seconds later we heard a clanging from the lighthouse itself. She led me along the boardwalk to the door to the lighthouse.
Inside was a hollow cylinder with a packed dirt floor and a metal stairway bolted to the curved brick walls and spiraling up to a hatchway in the wood floor high above. Greta shouted, “Don’t drop a wrench on us. We’re coming up!” A white-whiskered face with horn-rimmed glasses and a navy blue knit cap peeked down from the hatch. “Figured it was you when I heard the gate creak,” the face said in a squeaky, hoarse voice. “Then thank you very much for coming out to greet us!” Greta said as she mounted the stairs that rattled and creaked under her weight. “The Lighthouse Commission doesn’t pay me to promenade about town escorting village women,” the man muttered before returning to whatever task was producing those clanging sounds. A few seconds later Greta was at the hatch and said, “Set those tools aside, Andy, and take a break. We won’t report you to the Commission,” before disappearing onto the upper platform. I followed a little ways behind, not real confident of the creaky stairs and not wanting to concentrate our combined weight in one spot. When I reached the hatch I swear I saw Andy pull away from Greta and blush. Greta said, “Don’t fret, you old coot! It’s just Brooke, my niece. No secrets from her.”
By then I was standing on the platform with them. It was a round room, of course, with windows from waist height to the ceiling and this huge light bulb inside a ring of mirrors and beveled glass in the middle of the room. The man was standing above some ancient looking tools spread out on the rough wood floor. “Andy,” Greta said, “This is Brooke, my sister Maggie’s oldest daughter. Brooke, this is Andrew Oldham, Shawnituck native and, for the last ten years, resident light tender.” We shook hands. His hand was stronger, and younger, than his bearded face and shallow voice that said, “I’ve heard much about you. Welcome to our island.” The way he said “island” and standing there with a three-hundred-sixty-degree view of this tiny village surrounded by all this blue water, implied this island was a world unto itself. I could see the mainland to the west, a low brown line between the darker and lighter blues, and wondered who had left that place less than twenty-four hours earlier, and who would return, if she returned.
You see, Leah, that’s the thing about Shawnituck, for me anyway—and obviously for Greta. It takes hold of you and won’t let go. As you might’ve guessed by now, Andy is the guy she followed out here over twenty years ago. He’s still married to that native gal (whose name Greta won’t speak) but has been living alone in the light keeper’s house for the last ten years. He has some rare degenerative disease that’s aging him faster than normal, but still manages to fulfill his duties to the island and the Lighthouse Commission. That the residents have made room for his unofficial relationship with Greta tells you a lot about this island, for better or worse depending on your viewpoint.
For me so far, it all falls under “better.” People are free to live their lives as they see fit, and everyone else just makes room. Have I said yet that I must’ve landed in Heaven? And that’s before mentioning the guys—all rough and tumbled, weathered, free-spirited souls (and not much resident competition—most of the girls are either off at school or working mainland jobs or already married off to mainlanders).
After we got back from the lighthouse and had our midday “snack”—thick slabs of hoop cheese between two pieces of white bread slathered in mayonnaise (as I said, Heaven)—Greta said, “Now you run on and discover the rest of the island on your own while I take my afternoon nap then do my painting. The bike is on the porch, the towels in the linen closet, the tanning lotion in the medicine cabinet. Supper is at six sharp.”
And so off I was, to discover the rest of the island and its residents on my own. But that will have to wait for another letter. This letter is long, the hour is late, and Greta just tapped on the wall to signal lights out. Maybe she’s hoping I’ll fall asleep so she can sneak off into the night. If so, fine by me. It’s nice to hold a secret on someone else for a change!
Your sister reporting from another world—and loving it!
As she loves you—
Brooke
P.S. Come to think of it, the only thing lacking out here is Leah—we’ll have to change that! Good night, Sis. Sweet dreams.
May 16
Dear Brooke,
So glad you did not have to swim to Shawnituck! Heavy as your backpack was, it would have dragged you to the bottom for sure!
I am also very happy to hear that the first days of your adventure went so well, but I never doubted they would. You and Aunty Greta (I may have more trouble dropping the “Aunty” than you did) always seemed like twins one generation removed. I saw this similarity best through Momma’s eyes. When Aunty Greta would act up at Christmas reunions, I saw in Momma’s indulgent exasperation the exact same look she so often directed at you. Now the two of you are together! Lucky for the rest of us you are isolated on an island stuck out in the ocean. I do not know what the world would do if you were released on the mainland!
Just kidding, and maybe a little jealous. I have gotten used to not having you around all the time, but it is hard hearing how much fun you and Aunty Greta are having. I will try to corral my envy and emphasize my sincere joy at how well things are going for you. For now my participation will have to be vicarious, so keep writing please. I love your detailed descriptions. They make me feel like I am right there with you. Where have you been hiding that journalistic ability all these years?
By contrast, life here is all too familiar to you and BORING!
The daily routines of get up, go to school, come home from school, do homework, go to bed have been slightly enlivened by year-end events and recognitions. I was officially inducted into the National Honor Society last Thursday (whoopee!). It was a nice occasion and I was honored and I know Momma and Father were proud to see them put the sash on me. I also appreciated the sign-language translator they included just for me, though it made me a little self-conscious at first. But then the translator (Miss Peacock—did you know she taught herself sign language out of a book?) winked at me in a way no one else could see and helped me relax. From that moment on I knew she was “talking” only to me. I am sure there were no other deaf people in the audience (and believe me, I would know!). And that will probably be the first and only time a sign-language translator is available a high school function, but it was a kind gesture.
Now my attention has turned toward the prom next Saturday. I have my gown almost ready, as Momma and I have been working on “upscaling” that yellow sleeveless one you helped me pick out. Momma scalloped the hem and showed me how to add a midriff sash in tulle that will flow down the back. We tried adding a white lace bodice fringe but I felt that looked too frilly, so we took it off. We’ll put some lily of the valley in my hair for a white accent and leave the gown all of one color. I’ve enjoyed working with Momma on the dress. Though she will not admit it, I think she is starting to feel the sadness of seeing her youngest child graduate from high school. I feel sad too, not for me but for her. That is why working on the gown and preparing for the prom have taken on special meaning.
Paul has been acting a little strange also, especially affectionate and attentive. Every time we have a free minute, he wants to practice slow dancing. He says so he “wil
l be an adequate partner for the town’s star dancer.” He will not let me forget all the accolades we got for the Waltz, and the ribbing he took for “being afraid to dance with his date.” I have long since wearied of his self-deprecation, but lately I am sensing a different motive in our slow-dancing practice. He hums the tune into my ear and taps out the beat with his fingers on the small of my back. With this stimulation and the swaying of his body and the brush of his legs against mine, I sort of think I can “hear” the song, not the words of course but the feel. But more than the feel of the song, it is the feelings of Paul that have me both excited and confused. We have been close friends for more than a year and a half and for most of that time the emphasis was on friendship. As I have told you many times, it was not that we were not attracted to each other; but we both worried what might happen to our friendship if we became romantic. We both know of many friendships that ended soon after they became romantic, with lots of hurt feelings and no chance of putting the friendship back together.
But as we near graduation, and with me headed off to Davidson and Paul to Princeton, I think he is feeling a little