Touch Blue (5 page)

A
t the end of two weeks, Aaron’s getting his sea legs on the boat. Though he’s still grabbing the dash or the rail every time Dad guns the engine, at least he’s not throwing up anymore. After that first lobstering trip, I didn’t think Aaron would ever want to leave land again, but I think he likes to be with Dad. Maybe it’s because Dad doesn’t talk as much as Mom and Libby and me. Or maybe it’s that Aaron’s a boy, and he hasn’t had a dad before. I’m not sure of the exact reason, but Mom’s noticed it, too. She even asked me to switch my seat at the supper table next to Dad, so Aaron can sit there.

I know
I’m
not the reason Aaron’s coming on the boat. He hardly says a word to me. In the fourteen days he’s been with us, I’ve suggested all kinds of fun things to Aaron. He’s not a reader. He only likes to swim in a
lake
. He’s not excited to meet the other kids
on the island and doesn’t want to play Monopoly with Libby and me. He said, “No, thanks,” when I asked him if he wanted to try jumping off the ferry float into the ocean, and when I ask him what
he
wants to do, he says, “Nothing.”

Nothing with
me
, he means.

So it’s a surprise one afternoon to look up from scraping old paint off my skiff and see him walking toward me. I thought he was supposed to be having a meeting in our kitchen with Natalie, but he asks, “Want some help?”

I pause a few seconds in case he says, “Just kidding.” But he looks serious, and anybody’d be a fool to turn down help scraping paint.

“Okay. There’s another scraper in the shed. You’ll see it in a box of stuff on the shelf inside the door.”

The replacement wood Dad and I put on the skiff stands out new and raw-looking beside the ragged white paint of the old boards. Underneath the white’s a layer of red paint and one of gray.

Aaron comes back with another scraper.

Paint flakes fall to my sneakers and onto the grass. “It’s just an old wooden skiff,” I say. “It’s heavy as heck on land, but it won’t feel that way in the water.”

He nods. “Where’d you get it?”

Watching him start scraping, his hair swinging with each stroke, I feel a grin sneaking up on me. “It used to be my cousin Tom’s. He got a new one, so I bought this one with some of my lobstering money from last year. It’s not much to look at right now, but it’s gonna be beautiful when it’s done. I’m gonna paint it white, or maybe light gray like the fog. Dad makes me save most of my lobstering money for college, but I’m also saving up for an outboard motor so I won’t have to row everywhere.”

I’m talking way too much. I bite my bottom lip to keep it from saying anything else.

“Cool.”

I think he really means it. There’s no stopping that grin now. But I keep the “Yay!” to myself. “One of Dad’s rules about kids and boats is Never go on the deep water alone. So maybe we can go together after it’s launched and I can afford a motor for it.”

He doesn’t answer, just keeps scraping.

“I’m lucky Tom never named her, because now I get to. Sometimes I think it’d be good to have a funny name for it:
Pier Pressure
,
Go Fish
, or
Shore Thing
. Other days, I think it’d be fun to give it a pretty name, like
Wanderer
. I just have to make sure the name doesn’t have thirteen letters, because that’s bad luck for a boat.”

The sound of our scrapers falls into rhythm together. I bite back the urge to keep chattering. The moment feels as fragile as a bubble — one prod too many and it’s likely to break.

“Ouch!” Drawing his hand back, Aaron scratches at a tiny paint needle in his finger. Putting his finger across his mouth, he bites the sliver out.

“You want to hold the scraper like this.” But before I can show him, he turns his head.

“I know how to do it.”

He’s still holding it wrong, but I don’t say so. I wish I could ask him about his life before he came here and what else his mother’s letter says. I want to ask if he likes us yet. Or if not, is there any chance he ever will?

But in “Your First Days at Home with Your Foster Child,” it says, “Keep your questions to easy ones at first, like his favorite sports, TV shows, toys, ice cream, etc.”

I sigh. “What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream?”

He scrapes in long strokes, without looking at me. “I’m not hungry.”

“That’s okay. I don’t actually have any ice cream.” I feel completely stupid now, but having started this … “I’m just asking what you like.”

“Oh.” He pauses, and then starts scraping again, a little slower than before. “Cookie dough.”

“My favorite is chocolate chip. Cookie dough would be somewhere in my top ten, though.” I start scraping again.

“Come in now, Aaron,” I hear Mom call. “Natalie is ready to see you.” I look over to see Mom and Natalie on the porch. Why do they have to interrupt us
now
? I was finally getting somewhere with Aaron.

“Aaron!” Natalie calls. “How are you doing? Are you working on a boat? Wow! That’s awesome.”

He puts down the paint scraper and walks away from me. Almost to the house, he glances back over his shoulder. “Chocolate chip would be around number five for me.”

As the kitchen door closes, I take my lucky things from my usual right-side pocket and put them into my left one. That little wrongness will nag at me, so I won’t forget to write “cookie dough ice cream” on Mom’s shopping list when I go inside.

I scrape extra hard on the spot where he got the splinter so it won’t ever happen again. As I work, I can’t help wondering what he’s telling Natalie. Is he complaining about Eben being mean to him or getting seasick or Libby knocking on his door every night to
see if he wants to play Monopoly? Is he telling Natalie how he still isn’t comfortable opening the refrigerator or cupboards when he’s hungry — how he pretends he doesn’t want anything to eat until it’s practically forced on him and then eats it all? Or how embarrassed he’ll be going to school with kindergartners this fall? Or how much he hates the seagulls swooping around him on the boat?

Natalie’s been here a long time — long enough to hear a whole long list of bad things from him.

I feel kind of cheated that Anne of Green Gables liked her island home right from the get-go and Aaron needs to be won over to his. I thought he’d feel more like Anne did, like it was a fun adventure to move here — not a punishment, a too-far-away-from-everything place where he has to give up what he loves best.

After Natalie leaves, I hear trumpet music coming from our house. It’s a slow, sad song, the notes held long as sighs. He makes that trumpet sound both beautiful and hurt.

I put the scrapers back in the shed. I wish Aaron could find his place here, so he’d feel like a real islander and he’d start liking it more.

As I’m closing the shed door, I see Doris Varney bring her knitting basket out to the porch rocker. I
notice she does that whenever Aaron starts practicing. “It’s so nice to have a musician in the neighborhood!” she calls to me. “I wish everyone could be enjoying this fine music with us. Don’t you? It’d be the talk of the island!”

And I have an idea.

“Hi, Mrs. Varney.” I brush the paint dust off my clothes as I’m walking. “Isn’t it great how Aaron plays the trumpet?”

“Oh, yes! I feel very lucky to hear such fine music from my front porch,” Mrs. Varney replies, pulling out her knitting needles. “It’s like having my own personal concert.”

I let Mrs. Varney knit several rows on the blue mitten in her lap while Aaron finishes the song.

“It’s a shame the whole island hasn’t had a chance to hear Aaron,” I say. “I bet everyone would really enjoy it. Don’t you think so, Mrs. Varney?”

“Oh, yes. The boy plays like an angel!”

“And the trumpet is especially good for patriotic songs,” I say. “Exciting, marching music, like we might hear at Memorial Day or the
Fourth of July picnic
.”

I feel a little guilty doing this. I know Aaron said he didn’t like to play for people, but he did once play in a jazz band. So he does play for people
sometimes
. If
Aaron could play his trumpet for everyone, they’d be amazed and tell him how wonderful it sounds and how great it is that he’s here. Then Aaron’d see that he didn’t have to give up being a musician — even if we don’t have a jazz band.

“There’s nothing like a trumpet for patriotic songs,” Mrs. Varney agrees. “And for ‘Taps,’ too! That’s always so moving. That song was played at my father’s funeral. Did you know that? He was in World War II. It’s been a while since I’ve heard that song played, but it always brings tears to my eyes. It reminds us of all those people who’ve sacrificed their lives for our freedoms, and — Where is my cell phone? I’m sure I put it in here.”

As she hunts through her basket, I back away, smiling.

My work is done.

T
he next day, Dad, Aaron, and I’ve been fishing on the
Tess Libby
for about three hours when Mrs. Coombs’s voice blasts over the boat’s VHF: “
TESS LIBBY!
ARE YOU ON, JACOB?”

Mrs. Coombs never seems to understand that the radio’s microphone means people’ll hear her fine. She thinks she has to yell loud enough for people on the far side of the bay to listen in without even turning on their radios.

“JACOB BROOKS! I HAVE A QUESTION FOR YOU!”

The radio fizzles with static and then Uncle Ned’s voice says, “Jacob, for pity’s sake, answer her before we all go deaf.”

“NED BROOKS! YOU KEEP YOUR NOSE OUT OF THIS! I’M TALKING TO YOUR BROTHER!”

“Shirley, this is Jacob.” Dad turns the volume knob down. “What can I do for you?”

“Doris Varney said that boy of yours plays the trumpet. Is that true?”

“Ayuh,” Dad says.

“I’m in charge of the entertainment for the Fourth of July picnic,” Mrs. Coombs says. “The Ladies’ Aid Society wants him to play us some stirring patriotic tunes while Reverend Beal cooks up the chicken barbeque.”

Aaron stares at the VHF, as shocked as if it had burst into flames.

“You may as well say yes,” I tell him, smiling. “Because Mrs. Coombs isn’t really
asking.
She’s just telling you to be there.”

“‘You’re a Grand Old Flag’ and ‘Rally ’Round the Flag, Boys!’” Mrs. Coombs continued. “That’s what we need, Jacob. None of this modern-day screaming nonsense like we had last year with Donnie Burgess and that electric guitar! It’s a wonder Mrs. Ellis is still with us. It was enough to give someone her age heart failure —”

I slide my hand behind my back and cross my fingers for good luck.
Say yes, Aaron.
“It would mean a lot to everyone. Wouldn’t it, Dad?”

He turns to Aaron. “What do you think?”

Aaron’s eyes flash around him, like he’s looking for a place to run. But unless he jumps overboard, he can’t go anywhere. “I don’t have any sheet music for those songs,” he says finally.

“Can you find him some music to follow?” Dad asks into the mic.

“Of course!” Mrs. Coombs says. “I have a songbook here at home that’ll do just fine. Send him over tonight after supper, Jacob. I’ll have it all marked with what I want him to play.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning as Dad hangs up the mic.

“Let’s check how your traps are doing over near Sheep Island, Tess. Watch your feet, kids.” As the boat pulls away, Dad pushes a trap off the rail, and I watch the rope attached to it unwind off the deck until it reaches the buoy tied at the end. The rope yanks the buoy into the water, marking the trap.

Across the waves lies the low, hazy hump of Sheep Island. The spot I’ve been fishing has proved okay, but I think there’s a better one. “Today I’ll move one of my traps a little ways farther into the channel between Sheep Island and Dead Man’s Island,” I tell Dad as he guns the engine.

Though both islands have been deserted for generations, Dead Man’s is pitted with cellar holes — and a few even have stone chimneys still standing.

“Why’s it called Dead Man’s Island?” Aaron asks.

The concerned look in his eyes makes me want to tease him a little. “That’s where we Bethsaida Islanders buried the people who didn’t survive
last
year’s Fourth of July picnic. Donnie Burgess and his electric guitar were never seen again.”

Aaron’s gaze turns on me, angry.

“I’m just joking,” I add quickly.

“The story is that long ago a shipwrecked sailor washed up there,” Dad says over the engine’s roar. “There’s a plain headstone for him in the cemetery over behind those trees. They didn’t know what name to carve, so they left it blank.”

I’ve heard that story plenty — Amy and I even told it to Libby a few times. Though when we told it, the islanders did lots more screaming and fainting at the horror of finding the dead body than when Dad tells it.

“Why didn’t the man’s family ever claim him?” Aaron asks. “Or at least tell people his name?”

“I don’t imagine they ever knew what happened to him,” Dad says.

Looking toward the island, I wonder if that sailor
did
have people at home waiting. Hoping day after day, month after month, that he’d show up on their doorstep, older and tired, with an amazing story to tell.

People say it’s better to know the truth, but what if the ending’s a bad one? Is it still better to know? Or is it kinder to keep that string of hope dangling? To believe that maybe if you just wait long enough, everything could still end the way you want.

“What was the island called before the sailor came?” Aaron asks.

“Good question.” Dad checks his boat instruments. “It probably had another name before then, but I guess everyone started calling it Dead Man’s, and that’s what stuck.”

On the nearby rocky edge of tiny Sheep Island, a group of seals sun themselves. Their huge round bodies are stretched out, warm and drowsy. They raise their heads, curious, as we go by. A few more seals swim in the water between the island and our boat, the sun flashing off their wet fur.

“It doesn’t make sense to name a whole island for a guy who didn’t belong there,” Aaron says. “I’m sure he didn’t even
want
to be there.”

“No, but it’s where he stayed.” Dad slows the boat
near my first buoy. He leans out to snag the buoy with the gaff, a long pole with a hook on the end.

As Dad starts the hauler, I head for the rail, but Aaron doesn’t move. “My grandmother drowned, too,” he says.

Below me, waves slosh against the hull and I half-expect them to rise up in white-capped fury and pull us down to the depths. Anyone who knows anything about the ocean knows you never, ever say the
D
word on a boat.

Though my first trap hasn’t even broken the surface, Dad stops the hauler from pulling the trap up through the water. “Natalie said she had cancer?”

Aaron nods. “Fluid filled her lungs at the end. I didn’t know a person could drown in a room full of air.”

“I didn’t know that either,” Dad says quietly.

Every time I’ve allowed myself to imagine that unnamed sailor’s last seconds, there was always a dark, cold ocean folding around him, and maybe a horrible patch of watery light way up overhead — never once had I thought of someone drowning from the
inside
.

Stripping off his rubber gloves, Dad drops each one on the deck. He puts his arm around Aaron and turns him into his shoulder. I expect Aaron to duck
out from under Dad’s arm or back away, but he leans his forehead, just enough to touch, against Dad’s shoulder. Behind them, I feel alone and “extra,” though I’m close enough to see every breath they take. I feel guilty for having an easier life than Aaron. For me, losing everything only means my home. I can’t even imagine finding myself all alone, too.

“I’m sorry,” Dad says. “You’ve been through more than any child should have to.”

I step closer. I feel a little bad about Dad taking one hand off Aaron for me, but I need Dad right now, too.

In the water near our boat, a seal lifts his head up, locking eyes with mine. “Look, Aaron,” I say.

He raises his head off Dad’s shoulder just as the seal tucks into a dive, smooth as a wave.

“Wow,” Aaron says.

“Don’t let those big eyes fool you,” Dad teases. “They’re a bunch of thieves. Seals stick their heads into lobster traps and eat up the bait or the lobsters, sometimes ruining the trap in the process. So we fishermen have nothing good to say about them.”

“
I’m
a fisherman,” I say, “and I think they’re beautiful.”

“They have to eat, too,” Aaron says quietly.

I nod. “That’s right. They just want their supper.”

“Will you still feel that way if one of those robbers has eaten your lobsters?” Dad asks me, picking up his gloves.

“Yes!” But when my trap is hauled, it’s empty. Even the bait bag is gone. I shrug. “Anyone can have one bad-luck day.”

“Or a good-luck day, if you’re a seal,” Aaron says.

It’s so surprising to hear him joke that for a second I can’t believe he really said it. “Yes, it’s a
very
lucky day for a seal,” I say.

And even Dad smiles.