Shiver Hitch Page 3

  Someone had generously peppered the ramp with rock salt, making the low-tide descent at the steep angle less frightening. The float was so narrow that a slip at the bottom or misstep would likely result in an unintentional polar bear plunge. I gripped the hand railings at either side of the ramp as I made my way down, recalling all of the sobering statistics of hypothermia I had learned so many years ago. Even the relatively warm waters of South Florida could disable a healthy person who is partially submerged in frighteningly few hours. And northern waters in the winter cut survival time to minutes. I shivered at the thought, and accepted Cal’s hand when offered to help me step over Sea Pigeon’s wash rail and onto her deck.

  I stepped into the boat’s tiny wheelhouse, moving far to the port side. Cal pulled open a hatch in the deck, exposing the engine and allowing a small bit of relatively warm air to rise into the otherwise icy structure. Crouching low to reach, Cal pulled a dipstick from the yellow Caterpillar engine, wiped it on a paper towel, dunked it back into the base, then pulled and inspected it again. Satisfied, he pushed the dipstick into place, flipped a battery switch into the “on” position, and closed the hatch. At the helm, Cal twisted the key in the ignition and pushed a black rubber button to start the engine. The starter clicked once or twice before catching, then the diesel cranked right up, sending a plume of white exhaust that billowed around the transom before dissipating into the sea smoke that whirled across the surface of the harbor and beyond. Cal unplugged an extension cord that I assumed had powered some source of heat for the engine compartment, coiled it neatly and tossed it onto the float, where the other end was still connected to an electrical box secured to an upright length of pressure-treated six-by-six on the float. Cal cast off a line at midship while I stepped to the transom. When I got a nod from Cal, I unwrapped the stern line from a cleat, freeing Sea Pigeon from the float. And away we went, through lily pads of ice that bobbed in our wake.

  I had admired the beauty of “sea smoke,” fog that forms on the surface of the water when the air moving over it is colder than the water itself, many times from the distance of my apartment’s picture window. This was my first experience from within it. Cal called this Artic sea smoke “vapor,” which I suppose it is, technically. Miami never had fog of any type. The sea smoke was interesting to me in that it was so different from the dungeonlike fog I had learned of this past summer. This morning, the sea smoke was wispy, and spiraled in columns that appeared to tiptoe on the surface like steam over a hot cup of coffee. It was alive, and nothing like the dense, motionless “pea soup” fog that smothered Green Haven for days on end in June. I braced a leg as Cal rounded a channel marker and headed into the bay.

  The absence of lobster pot buoys was remarkable in comparison to their in-your-face presence during the shedder season. The last time I had been aboard Sea Pigeon, Cal had his hands full navigating the obstacle course the lobster buoys marked. But that had been September—high season for the inshore fishermen whose dooryards were now bursting at their seams with traps and gear waiting patiently for spring so they could go out and play. A few local Green Haven guys had federal permits that allowed them to fish federal waters, which meant they could chase the lobsters offshore in the winter months. Everyone else sat and waited. Winter was opportunity to repair traps, paint buoys, splice line, support the high school’s basketball and chess teams, drink, and make babies. There was a reason for the café’s birthday special that ran the month of November—or so I had been told.

  The bay was calm, and the drone of the diesel comforting. We passed close by a small nut of an island whose shoreline was ringed with thick slabs of pale-colored ice; chunks of white chocolate bark resting haphazardly on jagged ledges. The top of a seaweed-covered outcropping barely above water supported a community of seals. Their backs arched, pushing bellies into ledge and pointing noses and tails toward the sky, giving them the appearance of giant, black, crayon-drawn smiles. As we approached, the seals relaxed their meditative poses and slithered single file into the sea and disappeared. Like inky kernels of corn bursting in hot oil, the seals’ heads popped through the surface randomly, catching corners of my periphery. My eyes darted in an attempt to keep up.

  When Cal pushed the throttle up slightly, I turned and looked forward, over the bow. And there she was—majestic and mysterious—Acadia Island. The sun was now directly over the top of the highest of four peaks that linked midway to the shore, melding into a dark green mass that stopped abruptly at the base layer of stark, gray granite. The closer we got, the more shape the granite took. Sheer cliffs and rugged ledges imposed a formidable first impression, I thought. Hard and cold, like its inhabitants in my mother’s stories.

  A sharp turn to port led us to the opening of an inner harbor where things looked less menacing, peaceful even. A lush coating of snow blanketed large areas broken only by houses that appeared to have been placed on top of the white cover. Estates with boathouses and barns, outbuildings and garages were all buttoned up with no signs of activity. When Cal pulled the throttle back to an idle, I asked, “Where do the people live?”

  After a thoughtful drag on a cigarette, Cal said, “Anyone here this time of year would be in the low-rent district. Bet they can’t even smell the ocean.” Of course that made sense, I thought as a dock came into view from behind a point of land. “There’s the town landing,” Cal said as he motioned with his head. “And that’s where you’ll board the ferry to come back off.” Cal swung Sea Pigeon around a winter stick that marked a mooring, which I had learned replaced the usual ball for flotation in the winter months when the moorings were not used by seasonal boaters. Apparently ice had the ability to latch on to a mooring ball and drag it off. Shifting plates of ice headed offshore to deeper water often deposited the shanghaied moorings along the way, often over their heads and never to be seen again. The plastic winter sticks that were weighted on one end so that they remained vertical in the water did not allow ice to grab them, but rather it slid off leaving the mooring in place and marked where it could be rigged with the ball after ice season. Several winter sticks and two mooring balls with skiffs tethered to them indicated that there were two boats fishing from Acadia Island this winter. “Probably scalloping,” Cal answered my unasked question about the moorings holding skiffs.

  Cal threw the boat into reverse, and then quickly out of gear as we nudged the float gently and came to a stop. I stepped over the rail and onto the float. “Thanks for the ride. And I’ll see you at the café in the morning. Bring me a bill.”

  “You sure you don’t need me to wait?” Cal asked.

  “No, I want to have the day to be thorough,” I replied, knowing that I would have time to be thorough as well as nosy if I could gather any courage to poke around on personal business.

  “Yup.” Cal handed a grease-stained paper bag to me. I knew the bag contained the muffins I had assumed were for his wife. “Don’t expect to find lunch.” I hadn’t given any thought to food, so was most appreciative of Cal’s thoughtfulness. I stood and watched as Sea Pigeon chugged away from the float, out of the harbor, and beyond my line of vision. As I hustled up the ramp to the dock, I heard Cal push the throttle up to a full cruise, and knew he’d be back in Green Haven in about forty minutes.

  At the top of the ramp, the roadway from the dock to the parking area was inclined and narrow. The one-lane passageway had been plowed many times, creating what could be mistaken as a snowboarder’s half pipe. The snow was banked so high on either side of the dock, it eclipsed my view other than straight ahead or back. Ahead was the parking lot for which I was bound, and behind was the end of the dock from where I had come. There was a healthy layer of crystal clear ice coating every surface, causing me to squint in the sun’s reflection. If it hadn’t been sanded, I would have had trouble walking. I exited the semi snow tube and found myself in an open lot from where I could see the road that Mr. Dubois had mentioned in his instructions. I recalled his directions: turn right, half a mile on the right, y
ellow cape.

  I enjoyed the short walk. I passed a few homes that were obviously summer residences, as their driveways had not been cleared of snow, and there were no footprints to be found. The first and only sign of life was at the yellow cape. An older-model red Jeep Cherokee sat in a plowed drive, and smoke puffed from the home’s chimney. I made my way to the front door and knocked. “Come in,” yelled a woman’s voice from within the house. I let myself in, closing the door behind me. The house was toasty warm and fresh-baked goods smelled heavenly. The interior was rustic, but very clean and had a prominence of a woman’s touch with things like curtains and braided rugs. As I wiped my boots on a welcome mat, a chubby bleached blonde appeared in the adjacent doorway. She had a phone pressed to her ear. She greeted me with wide eyes under arched brows, shrugged, and motioned me to follow her, which I did. She led me to the kitchen and pointed to a chair at the table. Placing my camera bag (which now also held my lunch) on the floor, I unzipped my coat and sat while she talked to what became obvious was a message machine on the other end.

  “My name is Joan Proctor, and I am trying to reach Mr. Kohl. Will you please have him call two, zero, seven, three, three, five, five, five, three, seven? Thank you.” She pushed a button on the phone, exhaled a frustrated sigh, and turned to me. “Hi there. Can I help you?” she asked pleasantly with a thick Down East accent.

  “Hi, Mrs. Proctor. I’m Jane from the insurance company, here to take pictures of the house that had the fire.” This was met with a look of surprise. I was embarrassed that she seemed to not be expecting me. “My boss said that you or your husband might drive me to the site and back to catch the ferry when I’m done taking a look.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry. It’s just, well, I was…” she stuttered, clearly taken off guard. “Well, ummm, it’s just that I assumed a man would be here. No offense. Not that I wanted a man over a woman. I know that women can do anything, it’s just that, well, you know.”

  “Yes,” I lied, “I can imagine your surprise. I’ll have to advise my boss to give people a heads-up in the future.” Maybe my mother was right about this place, I thought. What a jerk. “Are you able to take me to the Kohls’, Mrs. Proctor?”

  “Oh, I am so sorry. I must sound like an idiot. Call me Joan. I just assumed that you were one of those Jehovah Witnesses. They come out here every few months trying to convert us. And with so few folks around in the winter, I’m tempted to convert just for the company!”

  My opinion of Mrs. Proctor lightened.

  “Of course, I will be happy to chauffer you around our island,” she smiled. “But first I have to make a couple more calls. And I’ll try not to rattle on about nothing. My husband, his name is Clark, well, he warns everyone about me. He’s still at the Kohls’ house, I guess. Says it’s a goner. What a shame. Just good that nobody got hurt.” She took a breath and slid an open notebook closer to herself. “We haven’t been able to reach the Kohls to tell them of the disaster at their house. They will be so upset!”

  She began dialing again, reading the number from a notebook on the table. “My biscuits!” She grabbed a pot holder with her right hand, and opened the oven door with her left while clutching the phone under her chin. She placed the hot baking sheet filled with golden brown biscuits on top of the range and joined me at the table. She left another message, identical to the first, and mashed the hang-up button on the phone with some force. “I’m almost out of numbers,” she fretted. “These people are nonexistent unless they want something from us. If Mrs. K needed beds changed or a meal prepared, I had better jump to the phone on the first ring,” she complained. “Mr. Kohl woke us up one night to fix a squeaky screen door. Can you believe that? Who the hell uses the screen door after eight o’clock? City folks!” She dialed again, listened optimistically, frowned and hung up. “But when the call is going in the other direction, nobody’s home! Let’s have a biscuit. Best you’ve ever had, guaranteed. My mother’s recipe with Bakewell Cream.” She placed a biscuit on a plate and put it down in front of me, and did the same with one for herself. Not one to refuse food, I cut the biscuit in half, and covered it with butter that she pushed my way after slicing and slathering hers. The first bite melted in my mouth. This was not merely a vehicle for sausage gravy. This was simply the best—as advertised by its creator.

  While I savored the buttery treat, I listened to Joan. She was clearly delighted to have someone to talk to. She actually mentioned that she hadn’t been “off island” since July, and that had been only for a dental appointment—annual cleaning, to be precise. She was starving for conversation (her words, not mine), and was suffering from acute cabin fever (again, her words). I listened to her leave messages. I listened to her while she told me about the Kohls and how the loss of their house was a loss of income for her and her husband as caretakers. I listened to her as she lamented changes the island had withstood, and some she worried that it would not. I listened all the way through a second biscuit, when she finally got a live voice on the other end of the phone. I listened to Joan as she listened. And all the while that I listened, I wondered whether including my family name when I introduced myself would have brought any reaction. With all the information spewing from Joan so quickly, it was likely that she could sum up the history of the Bunkers between bites of biscuit.

  When Joan put the phone down, she shared that Mr. Kohl was traveling on business and unreachable, and that nobody knew the whereabouts of Mrs. Kohl. The couple always went their separate ways, and did not feel they needed to leave itineraries with anyone. “All I know is that he is out of the country, and that she is somewhere between here and Philly. She flew out of here just yesterday. Maybe she left the kettle on or the iron plugged in or something…” Footsteps overhead interrupted Joan’s surmising. She pointed at the ceiling and said, “Daughter Trudy. Home from law school. Georgetown.”

  “Oh, nice,” I said. “Do you think we can leave soon? I really have to spend some time taking pictures before the boat leaves.”

  “Of course! Let me wash these dishes real quick, and we’ll go. It’s only a ten-minute ride.” Footsteps coming down stairs grew closer. A young woman, I supposed Trudy, walked into the kitchen. She wore a T-shirt that at first glance appeared to be in Chinese characters, but actually spelled “Fuck You” in English. Her hair looked like it had just been pulled from a pillow. Static electricity fanned a few individual strands up and waving at the ceiling like sea anemone in tidal current. She was a thin version of her mother, minus the bleached hair. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” Joan said softly. “This is Jane.”

  “Hi. The biscuits smell amazing. I’m starving.” I couldn’t help but point out the total lack of a Maine accent when Joan’s was the most pronounced I had ever heard.

  “Yes,” Joan answered. “Trudy has denounced her heritage since going away to college. She has totally dropped any sign of being from Maine.”

  “Like a bad habit,” the daughter added. Trudy took one look at me with my camera bag now on my shoulder, and said, “You must be here to document the freak show.”

  Before I could respond, her mother reprimanded, “Come on, Trude. That’s not fair, or nice. There was a terrible fire last night, dear. The Kohls’ house. It’s not good. Your father and I are very upset. Jane is here for the insurance company.”

  “Oh, what a drag,” Trudy mumbled. She clearly could not have cared less. She pulled a cup from a cupboard and poured a cup of coffee. “Figures the insurance company is here before the fire is extinguished.”

  “Trudy Proctor! That is rude. Don’t mind her, Jane. She’s flippant when she’s upset.” I sensed that this was a common exchange between mother and daughter, and was not at all taken aback by it.

  “Oh yeah,” Trudy sighed and rolled her eyes. “I can assure you that I am one hundred percent distraught over this. It could truly not have happened to a better person than Midge Kohl.” She cradled the cup of coffee in both hands, and stood tapping one foot, looking as if she were impatient
about us being there, and was waiting for us to leave. It seemed to me that Trudy had something to do that she didn’t want witnessed. But it could have just as easily been her poor attitude and nothing more. My training for profiling had included many courses on behavior, and I was educated to know that people of Trudy’s age were normally conflicted. Brimming with confidence and edgy with self-doubt; I sensed emotions and identity roiling beneath the young woman’s cool exterior.

  Joan dried the dishes, bundled up for the cold, and kissed her daughter on the forehead. We climbed into the Jeep, and off we went—finally, I thought, I would accomplish my mission. The road, Joan explained, was one continuous loop that circumnavigated the island. She apologized for the rough ride, as I hung on to the “oh shit” handle over the passenger-side window.

  “This place is going to hell in a handbasket,” she said mournfully. “We thought the plant would be a good way to secure lobster prices and some good jobs. It was to be our salvation. The whole idea seems to be backfiring. Christ, they don’t even fill the craters in the road anymore,” she complained as she slowed down to carefully straddle a major pothole.

  I asked for some explanation, more out of politeness than interest. She explained that some summer residents had financed the construction of a lobster cooking and packaging plant as a way to create some year-round jobs and maintain a steady price to lobster fishermen for their product. Processing plants and value-added lobster products (the most popular of which was lobster mac and cheese, which was quite a contradiction, I thought) were popping up all over the coast of Maine, but this one was special as the only island-based plant. And the Acadia Lobster Products (ALP) brand was quickly recognized for its quality and story. “But,” Joan continued, “the story isn’t one that we are particularly proud of as it turns out.”