The Body in the Lighthouse (5 page)

This was one of the things Pix had mentioned, and Faith had been amused at the prospect of Romeo and Juliet in bright orange oil pants and hip boots. The swimming pool fund-raising had been going on for years. There were swimming lessons at the lily pond every summer, but only a few children took them. In the winter, there was more free time, but no place to go either to practice or to learn. The nearest available indoor pool was over an hour away. Most adults couldn't swim, and every year there were tragedies, especially among the fishermen, who regarded their life jackets as an impediment. Faith had also heard the fatalistic view that when your number was up, it was up, so why bother? The Fairchilds had supported all the fund-raising efforts for the planned indoor pool, and now Faith got her checkbook out to buy tickets or be a patron—whatever Jill wanted. Surprisingly, Jill waved Faith's checkbook away.

“We don't need money. I mean, of course we do, but that's not how you can help the most right now. Pix is gone for almost the rest of the month and the woman who took her place has had to leave to take care of her mother, who lives in Paris.”

Faith correctly assumed Jill meant the decid
edly non-Gallic Paris, Maine. The state had a penchant for keeping foreign travel close to home. Norway, China, Lebanon, Poland, and other distant destinations were all well within its borders. This had occasioned one of Ben's imponderables: “What do they call people who live in China, Maine? Chinese? People who live on Sanpere are called Sanpere Islanders. So what are these people called?” Faith made a note to ask someone, but not Jill, who was in the full flow of conversation about the play.

“Since you have some time on your hands, you can step in.” Jill said these last words as if offering Faith not simply an opportunity but a very special gift. “You don't have to learn any lines; they didn't have roles, just production work.”

“But I don't know anything about the theater. I've never been involved in putting on a play,” she protested, watching the treasured time on her hands slip between her fingers like grains of sand.

“None of us did at first. Roland Hayes reworked the play and is the director. He retired from the high school English Department in June and is great, a pro. You can't imagine the performances he's getting from everyone. Because of work schedules, it's hard to rehearse all at once, so we're doing it piecemeal; that's why someone who can be there consistently is so important. With the shop and the wedding, I haven't been able to do much.”

Making a last-ditch effort, Faith said, “It's been
years since I read any Shakespeare. I think
Romeo and Juliet
was in ninth-grade English.”

Jill wasn't buying. “Think of the pool. Think of everyone on the island learning to swim. Come on, Faith. You know the drill. Balcony/tomb: love/death.”

There was no escape.

 

“So nice of you to help out with the play,” Ursula commented.

She and Faith were sitting on the porch after supper, watching Tom teach Ben to row while Amy sat in the bow like a miniature figurehead. The Pines had a large lawn that gave way to a rocky beach and pier. Ursula's father had replaced the original dock with this larger one to serve all the houses. The Rowes kept a variety of craft moored offshore, among them the small wooden dory Tom had picked for the lesson.

Faith had not mentioned a word of her capitulation—or Capuletion, she thought punnily to herself—to anyone. Jill had left the supermarket when she had and presumably went straight home to prepare the feast for her fiancé. Ursula seemed to be able to read the ether, and Faith was not at all surprised by the remark. But she did have to know.

“Who told you I was going to do this?”

“Jill was stopped at that blueberry stand near the causeway just as Serena was driving me home. I thought I'd pick up some berries, too.”

“And besides, you and Serena had to hear all
about Jill going down to Portland,” Faith said, teasing her.

“Of course we would be interested, but she didn't have much to say about it. She was mostly talking about you and how providential it was that you bumped into each other—literally, I take it. You'll have fun.”

Faith doubted this. The Miller/Rowe family's ideas of fun and hers differed markedly. When they were home in Aleford and Pix said, “Let's go have some fun today,” she meant grab a PB & J, then head for Mount Misery, her favorite walk in nearby Lincoln. Faith, on the other hand, thought more in terms of lunch at Figs and a leisurely troll through the antique shops on Charles Street, finishing up at Savenor's Market for something tasty to cook for dinner. She was especially partial to Ron Savenor's crown roasts, and Ron himself, who had a smile like that of his father, Jack, wasn't bad, either.

Feeling like Scarlett, Faith firmly pushed the thought of the play to the “I'll think about that tomorrow” part of her brain and concentrated instead on the beauty of the scene before her. They'd eaten early—she'd succumbed to beef, too, and had marinated a flank steak, which Tom grilled on the barbecue. She'd bought some imported corn—the sign said
FROM RHODE ISLAND
, not exactly her notion of the Corn Belt. Since it wasn't fresh, she'd scraped the kernels from the cob and made corn pudding, a rich, delectable southern version, steamed in the oven (see recipe
in “CORN PUDDING”). Now the sky was still bright with the end-of-day, long, flat light that made everything look like a stage set. It was her favorite time. A time that offers endless possibilities, Janus-like facing day and night. The lighthouse stood in sharp relief, the simple unpainted solid stone column capped by its powerful lens, with only a small catwalk around the outside of the room to interrupt the lines of its square blocks—blocks of the same granite that were scattered helter-skelter at the base, without a single straight edge.

Her family was close to shore and she could see Ben concentrating hard. She never wanted to forget this minute, or the other minutes like them. Minutes when it was possible to block out everything except the people and place in front of one's eyes. Minutes when the world seemed safe.

“He might do better standing up,” Ursula observed. “I still row that way sometimes. It might be easier for him.”

Pix had tried to teach Faith to row once, but after retrieving an oar for the fourth time, she gave up. Faith had remained seated throughout. Ben seemed Olympic material in comparison.

“Aren't there more boats than usual?” she asked, eager to add anything remotely nautical to the conversation.

“Mackerel are running in the Reach, and a lot of local people leave their skiffs tied to our dock. They know they don't need to ask. Kenny Sanford and Lyle both brought theirs over yesterday.”

“I wouldn't have thought they'd have time to fish,” Faith remarked, slightly dismayed at the possible incursion into their work schedule.

“There's always time to fish. We should be out there now ourselves. Gert said you can practically scoop them out of the water with your bare hands. Mackerel is one of my favorites.”

It was one of Faith's favorites, too—lightly floured, then browned to a crisp in plenty of butter. Or smoked. Or filleted. Or served with scrambled eggs. Or…The phone rang, and both women gave a start at the unaccustomed sound.

“It may be Pix. She said she'd call tonight. I'll get it.” Ursula went into the living room, where one of the house's two ancient black dial phones resided. The other was by Ursula's bed.

Faith continued to watch the little boat. Ben learning to row. It seemed he had just learned to walk.

Ursula was back almost immediately. It couldn't have been Pix.

She sat down. Looking at Ursula, Faith was alarmed. This was not the woman who had led the Aleford Historical Society contingent in last April's six-mile Patriots' Day Parade with her usual vigorous stride. She was visibly pale and shaken.

“What is it? What's wrong?”

“That was Serena. Seth's doing that big house off the old quarry road. He went back to take some pictures for the owners after he'd had his supper. The window of the little office he put up
was smashed in, the door wide open, and someone had poured kerosene all over everything. He saw the flames right away. Fortunately, he had a fire extinguisher in his truck and was able to save most of it.”

“Thank goodness for that. What if he hadn't come back!” Faith breathed a sigh of relief. Seth had become a friend during the time he'd worked for them.

Ursula's voice shook. “There was also a dummy hanging from a noose tied to a tree in front of the house. It had a sign around its neck that said
DEATH TO THOSE WHO RAPE THE EARTH
—and a knife stuck in its chest, stuck right where a heart would be.”

“Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on the crashing rocks thy seasick weary bark! Here's to my love! O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.” Romeo, known to friends and family as Ted Hamilton, threw himself on the floor and then sat up expectantly, toppling the empty vial of poison, a Moxie bottle, in the process.

“Excellent, excellent, except it's ‘dashing,' not ‘crashing.' ‘Dashing rocks,'” called a voice from the back of the auditorium.

“Damn, I always get that wrong. ‘Crashing' sounds better. Do you suppose Shakespeare meant to write ‘crashing' and put down ‘dashing' instead? ‘Crashing' makes more sense.” Ted rubbed his elbow. He'd come down hard, and there wasn't a lot of padding on his lanky frame.

“We cannot know what the Bard had in mind. True, logic was not always his strong point, but
we'll stick to the text. Why don't you take a break while I hear Juliet? By then, the Nurse should have arrived and we can go through those scenes.”

Faith left the flats she was painting and came out onstage to make sure the props were in place. Props, hearing lines, and painting scenery were her assignments so far. All was well at the moment, but things had been a bit dicey at first. Arriving shortly after 9:00
A.M
., she had introduced herself to the first person she saw backstage, an ample lady clad in a voluminous smock. Whether she was younger or older than Faith was hard to tell. And Faith learned that she, the new recruit, was expected to help make costumes and was forced to explain that her needlework skills barely covered sewing on buttons. She wouldn't know a bodice from a bodkin. Most of the costumes were being supplied out of the actors' own wardrobes, since the play was being done in modern dress. Someone, however, had recently had the bright idea of dressing the Chorus as a harbor seal and this called for needle and thread. Eventually, Faith convinced the woman of her total lack of talent, was reassigned to scenery, and introduced to the director, Roland Hayes.

While Faith had been abasing herself, he'd come around from the front of the stage, which was in the new elementary school, site also of Island Day Camp.

“You must be perfectly frank, Mrs. Fairchild. I know how people get hornswoggled into things
here. If this is not something you want to do, just say so. I'll understand,” he'd said.

Aside from the sentiment expressed and never having heard
hornswoggled
used in everyday speech, Faith was immediately captivated by Roland. He looked too young to have retired, despite a mane of gray hair pulled into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck. Medium height, muscular, he had clear blue eyes that shone when he smiled, as he had been since approaching Faith. But it was his voice that had pushed any thoughts of bailing completely from her mind. It was deep—but not too deep—smooth as velvet, the words flowing without hesitation and wrapping themselves around the hearer like a cloak. He was the one who should be onstage.

“I don't mind at all. It should be fun,” she'd heard herself say. “The only problem I have is being free to pick up my kids at day camp, but since it's right here, I can stay until it ends. Oh, and today I have to go to the farmers' market at ten.”

He was mesmerizing, but food was food, and Faith was close to the point where she'd kill for fresh produce.

Neither was a problem, Roland had reassured her. She was tempted to come up with more stumbling blocks simply to hear him speak, but she figured she had the rest of the summer. If she didn't get to the market on time, nothing would be left but zucchini.

The market started at ten o'clock to give the off-island farmers and manufacturers of everything
from homemade soap to wooden benches time to get there. During July and August, people started lining up at 9:30, but nothing was sold until 10:00. Fair was fair. As she had stood in line, eyeing the containers of jewel-like red and yellow cherry tomatoes nestled next to some arugula, Faith had realized that the only natives present were among the sellers, not the buyers. It gave her an odd feeling, as if she had wandered into a farmers' market far removed from Sanpere—in Chilmark or Southampton. The weather was wrong, too. It was supposed to go over ninety during the day, and the air already felt sweltering, an uncharacteristic temperature for this part of Maine. Global warming, the work of an angry God, freak climatic incident—by the time the market opened, she'd heard all the possibilities.

After the conversation with Ursula, she'd found herself looking at the customers with new eyes. Carrying environmentally friendly tote bags or baskets, they represented a broad age range, but there was a great similarity in their tennis visors, wide-brimmed straw hats, and, most of all, leisure time. They could stand in line. They didn't have to be anywhere, except at a sailing date or a doubles match. In addition to expendable time, they had expendable income. Baskets brimmed with items. Faith herself winced at paying New York prices so many hundreds of miles away from the Big Apple and was choosing carefully. She didn't begrudge the sellers. Like the fishermen, everyone here had to get top dollar during
the short season in order to make it through the year. The story was the same up and down the coast as millions of visitors poured into Maine, “Vacationland,” “The Way Life Should Be.”

Groups. She'd recalled Ursula's categories. Or were they tiers? These were notions she hadn't confronted other summers. Where did she fit? Yes, she was contributing to the Sanpere economy, but why had it made her feel so uneasy to be at the market with her basket and, yes, straw hat? She'd looked around at her fellow shoppers—parasites or catalysts?

And what about the Keep Sanpere Sanpere people. Were there any KSS members here? The island abounded in bumper stickers from the rude to the fuzzy:
SUPPORT LOGGING OR TRY USING PLASTIC TOILET PAPER
to
THINK LOVERLY THOUGHTS
. She hadn't seen any KSS ones yet.

She'd greeted her friend Bob from Sunset Acres Farm and bought some of his chicken—admittedly, the best she'd ever had outside of Bresse in France—and an assortment of his goat cheeses. He was as much showman as salesman, and the steady patter he'd kept up with his customers had echoed throughout the parking lot, “Yes, deah, I've got eggs today. They're so fresh, you may have to slap them.” Faith could easily picture him in a shiny black suit, string tie, and top hat in another time, selling cures for all that ails you. Buying from him was unambiguous.

She'd gotten into her car, realizing with a start that it was one of the oldest ones there. Lexuses,
Mercedes, BMWs—when had they become part of the scenery? A man got into a Miata next to her. He was loaded down and gave a friendly wave. She waved back. He was outfitted by L.L. Bean, down to his Tevas. If a summer person or year-rounder from away really wanted to blend in and look like the natives, he or she would have to give up Bean's, even the outlet store, and shop at Wal-Mart. They'd have to wear T-shirts that had Harley-Davidson emblems on the front or camp logos from all over the state above one breast. The supplier was located in Granville, and the August sale of overruns and seconds for a dollar a shirt outfitted the entire island. It was not unusual to see a fisherman in oil pants, boots, and a Camp Minnehaha sweatshirt with the pine trees upside down. Or they'd have to don the dark green Dickies work pants and shirts favored by island workmen, softened from hundreds of washings and bearing oil stains even Tide couldn't get out. The pants would have to be belted tightly below a large belly, smartly at the equator, or perilously near the armpits.

As she'd driven to the Pines to put everything away, she'd wondered if the police had any information about last night's fire at Seth's building site, and the gruesome warning in the tree. The new house was being built deep in the woods, the site on a high bluff looking out to sea, with a view of the Camden Hills. No one would have been around the isolated spot to witness any unusual activity. Maybe Ursula had talked to Serena
again. In any case, if there was news, Ursula would hear it. There had been a lot of talk at the market, but not about the fire. Weather, comparison shopping, more weather, and general rejoicing over the news that Jill was carrying the daily
Times
at the Blueberry Patch, albeit not until late afternoon—that was the buzz. Not the fire.

But that had all been several hours ago, and Faith's total attention was now on the stage.

“O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop to help me after?” Juliet declaimed, perhaps a little too dramatically. She turned the Moxie bottle, which Faith had made sure was close at hand, upside down and dropped it. She paused for effect, recited the rest of her lines, and reached for the happy dagger—a Buck knife, a duplicate of those in pockets, drawers, and sheds all over Sanpere. Plunging it close to her breast, she moaned and expired.

“Nice, nice, Becky, but take it down a notch. Let me see it again without the moan. Remember, Juliet hears people coming and wants to kill herself before they can stop her. There's no time for moaning and groaning.”

“But Mr. Hayes, wouldn't it have hurt? I mean, she has to make some kind of noise. You can't tell me someone would stab themselves and not say a word. I know she says, ‘let me die,' but she'd say something like ‘ouch,' too.”

Roland's voice rolled sonorously over the heads of the people scattered in the auditorium waiting to rehearse or just watching.

“I take your point, although ‘ouch' is not what leaps to mind. Why don't you try a moan after all, except a little less Casper, a little more Camille—piteous, not pitiful. Try this.” He moaned—a sharp cry that trailed softly and quickly to its sorrowful conclusion.

“Okay,” Becky said, tidily arranging herself on the top of one of the simple pine boxes that had been lined in a row to represent the Capulets' tomb. She was wearing jeans and a bright pink T-shirt; her pretty blond curls were encircled with a daisy wreath. Like the soda bottle, it was one of the props Faith had to keep track of—the plastic daisies indistinguishable from real ones under the lights. Becky had told Faith she'd be wearing her prom dress for the performances—“a white silk strapless”—and didn't want it to get mussed up in rehearsals, since it cost the earth to get it dry-cleaned. Plus, she had to go to Ellsworth to do it.

“Ready,” she called cheerfully, crossing her arms over her chest and closing her eyes.

Many moans later, Roland declared himself satisfied and they broke for lunch, since the Nurse still hadn't arrived. Faith went to call Tom. Things were going well. She could barely hear him over the sound of the hammering and sawing. Then she took the sandwich she'd made that morning and went outside. The auditorium was dark and she needed to see the sun.

The building was surrounded by woods that gave way to grass, sere now due to the lack of
rain. Clumps of pine and tall balsam had been left near the school itself, supplemented by more traditional “builder” shrubs. Faith sat on a bench under one of the pines and bit into the tomato sandwich she'd hastily put together after dropping her market purchases at Ursula's. The juice from the tomato had mixed with the mayonnaise, oozing into the bread, sliced thick from one of Gert's whole-wheat loaves. Unashamedly, Faith licked her fingers. Simple food. The best food? A perfectly ripe, juicy tomato, corn picked fresh and rushed into the waiting pot, steamed lobster so succulent, it didn't even need melted butter. But then there were all those complicated, labor-intensive delights: puff pastry for napoleons and beef Wellington, mortal enemies united by common flaky layers; cassoulet with duck confit and truffled sausage; osso buco, a turkey galantine, coulibiac of salmon, fresh peach ice cream, made in a hand-cranked freezer. No need to choose—life had plenty of room for them all. She drank from the thermos of iced tea she'd brought and stretched her legs out. The play might devour her free time, but it was also giving her a delicious sense of freedom. She never
had
done anything like this before, and it had been a fun morning, far removed from her usual tasks. A paintbrush, not a whisk; props, not car pools.

She glanced at her watch. She had a few minutes more, and it felt good to bask in the sun—the very hot sun. When Faith had headed outside, the woman Faith had first met, the one who'd been
allotting tasks, said, “They're frying eggs on Main Street.” Her name was Linda Forsythe, a local artist and stage manager for the show, she'd explained. She was also responsible for all the scenery. Faith had been impressed. What had been completed was well done, extremely professional. The ball at which Romeo and Juliet meet had been rewritten as a clambake, and Linda had designed an effective backdrop with a vivid sunset splashed across the granite ledges and beach. Today, they were painting the equivalent of the streets of Verona—rows of lobster shacks, hung with nets and neon-colored buoys like the ones dotting Jericho Bay. A few real traps were stacked offstage, to be added to the set later. Faith had been humming “It Was a Real Nice Clambake” to herself as she worked. She wondered if they'd considered a musical. There was “People Will Say We're in Love” and, of course, “Teen Angel” for the end. She was getting up to return to her labors, when something pink caught her eye. It was Juliet herself, streaking out of the woods, the color of her T-shirt matching her flushed cheeks. She was radiant. Faith waited a moment. Sure enough, Romeo followed, sprinting smoothly for the back door, just far enough behind so they wouldn't be seen entering together. He was grinning. So it was like that. Art imitating life, life following suit. Faith smiled to herself. Unlike Juliet, Becky wasn't thirteen. She had graduated from the high school last year and was a freshman at the U of Maine. Ted was sternman for his father
and had been out of school the same amount of time as Becky. His younger brother took Ted's place on rehearsal days. Becky was working part-time at the inn.