Chapter 3 #2
It might be true. The only photo Maddie had seen of them together was of her mother Holding baby Madelyn, as someone had scrawled on the back.
But in the picture, Hannah’s head was bent, looking at her precious bundle, so the camera hadn’t captured her face.
If there were other photos—on the island or in Green Hills—neither her father nor Grandma knew where they were.
“Cameras were a luxury we couldn’t afford,” Grandma once explained.
“It was too hard for me to keep them,” her father had said. “Every time I saw one …” He’d returned to the newspaper he was reading, his sentence trailing into oblivion.
There was no reason for Maddie to disbelieve either of them.
But now, out of the blue, as she sat on a folding chair in the headquarters of the Wampanoag Tribe of Gay Head (Aquinnah), above the singing and the drumming, she almost heard her mother’s soft voice: “My little pumpkin.” Suddenly, Maddie remembered that Hannah had often called her that.
All these years, she hadn’t recalled it until now.
In addition to the groundswell inside her, a film of moisture now coated her eyes.
Do not cry, she admonished herself, biting her lip. Not here. Not now.
But, longing to hear the voice again, she closed her eyes.
And forced herself not to whisper: “Mommy.” The word was, after all, how she still thought of her mother.
Having been so young when Hannah died, Maddie hadn’t grown past the “Mommy” stage into the “Mom” or the “Mother” ones.
Four decades later, it remained the same.
“Hey!” Rafe gave his mom a playful elbow in her side. “Are you sleeping, or what?”
Quickly, she opened her eyes and rallied a smile. “I’m listening,” she claimed. “Everything is fabulous.”
“Yeah,” he said above the noise. “Too bad Grandpa didn’t stay. He would have loved this.”
She nodded in reply, but she honestly didn’t know how Stephen Clarke would have felt.
Maybe his stomach would have been roiling.
They’d both lost so much—he, his wife, and Maddie, her mother—though she’d also lost the connection to her roots, these roots.
Scanning the room, the flashing colors, the enraptured faces singing in rhythmic chants, the audience absorbed, pensive, happy, she let herself meld into the wonders of her community, her people, her now.
In this place, in this world, her loss slowly eased.
After the festivities, Maddie was determined to become one with the group, the way Rafe was doing.
She began by helping to clean up. Weaving around the tables, stacking a large tray with plates and utensils, she said hello and nice-to-meet you to everyone she encountered, young and old, some of whom she recognized from Grandma’s summer celebration.
It was much easier to socialize there than at the “must attend” faculty events at Green Hills College.
She moved to a table where two elderly men were musing over olden days, one a clear-eyed, patient Wampanoag; the other, a weathered, grumpy, fair-skinned man—perhaps a non-tribal guest.
“Too bad about Arnie’s bait shop in Menemsha,” the Wampanoag man said to his companion.
“Decades of hard work down the drain,” grumpy guy answered. “Where’s everybody going to get their stuff?”
“Wholesalers, I expect.”
“Or stop fishin’. Ain’t there nobody to take it over?”
“Changing times, my friend.”
Both men shook their heads.
“I hope no one scoops up the place for a T-shirt shop,” said the Wampanoag man. “There are already too many of those down-island.”
Grumpy guy scratched his beard and harrumphed. “Might depend on what the town can get for the lease. Most likely, they’ll get more from a washashore.”
Maddie continued collecting the used dinnerware, trying not to reveal that she was eavesdropping.
“Not necessarily. I expect they’ll be fussy about who gets in there.”
“But when times change, stuff like this changes, too. If that happens, it’ll screw up the whole harbor.” Grumpy guy pronounced harbor as if it had an “ah” at the end. Then he harrumphed again.
As Maddie moved to the table next to the men, grumpy guy then said, “Hey, you. Girl. You’re not from here, are you? You wanna take over a bait shop?”
She smiled. “No, thank you.” She continued on her mission, musing about what she’d heard.
She’d seen the sign ARNIE’S BAIT it was down the road from Mr. Fuller’s ice cream shack.
As a kid, she’d always sprinted past by the gray-shingled bait shop, afraid that worms would crawl outside and “get” her.
Juggling the heavy tray that she felt was indicative of a successful event, Maddie was appalled to know that the bait shop—and its worms that she’d never seen—would be among her few, clear memories of the island.
But her mouth curved into another smile as she walked toward the kitchen, knowing that her mother would be pleased that Maddie was growing at ease among their people.
After deducing that the memories Cranberry Day evoked had been too emotional for Grandma, Maddie decided to leave her alone.
It had been a long day; they all were tired.
With Rafe settled on the sofa, Maddie, too, went to bed.
She slept straight through the night, then woke up with no time to waste: Rafe needed to catch the eight-fifteen boat in order to make his afternoon classes.
“What a cool trip this was,” he said once they were in the car, traveling down State Road toward Vineyard Haven.
Maddie sipped on the coffee he’d handed her as they’d walked out the door; she still wasn’t fully awake. Thank goodness Rafe was driving.
“I wouldn’t have traded the last three days for anything,” he added. “We should have the picture of us that Joe took blown up and framed.” Then he gestured to the outfit she had on.
Maddie’s gaze moved down: in her need to dress fast, she’d jumped into the hand-beaded skirt and the white top she’d worn the night before. The only difference was that she’d tossed on a jacket. “Well, this is embarrassing.”
He laughed. “No! It’s cool, Mom. You had lots of compliments last night. And Grandma loved every minute of it.”
Maddie sipped the coffee again. “I think the whole day was too much for her. She might sleep for days.”
“Yeah,” he said happily. “But she’s amazing.”
He was, of course, right. Nancy Clieg was amazing; there was no need for Maddie to worry about her.
So she grinned and nodded along with Rafe, the two of them looking like bobbleheads crafted by the same artist.
“Speaking of Grandma,” he said, “did she tell you the results of our poll about which baskets to make?”
“No. She was too eager to climb into her bed.”
“The tribe recommended three sizes—small, medium, large. They think more people will buy them if they use them for different purposes. And they thought we should offer a variety of wood slats. At least in the beginning. Then later we can focus our work down to the ones that sell the most.”
“Brilliant,” Maddie said. “Do you agree?”
“I’m excited. Mostly because it’s fun to see Grandma so happy.”
Maddie was glad Rafe hadn’t noticed that Grandma had been on the verge of an emotional meltdown.
They made it to the boat as the walk-on passengers were boarding.
“Thanks, Mom,” Rafe said, snatching his backpack, opening the car door, then leaning over and planting a fast kiss on her cheek. “For absolutely everything. I can’t wait ’til Christmas. When I’ll learn to make baskets. And hear more of Joe’s stories, cuz I really, really want to drum.”
“Great. Now shoo, before they wheel the ramp away.”
She moved into the driver’s seat as Rafe laughed and raced across the pavement toward his passage to the mainland, which was often called “America,” which Maddie now felt was an insult.
If America implied a workable community with responsible, respectable, and respectful people who cared for and about one another, who shared what they had, and who treated Mother Earth as a root of life, then up-island—not the mainland—should be considered the stronghold of America.
With a long sigh, she wondered where in heaven’s name that mental monologue came from. Then she remembered she’d had a dream before she’d woken up. It was about Arnie’s Bait & Tackle. But instead of an old fisherman behind the register, her father had stood there, chatting with customers.
“Very funny,” she said aloud.
Then she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, waiting to watch the big boat back out of its berth because it’s what one often did.
And then a spark of intuition sparked: Could I take over the bait and tackle?
Could she turn it into something else—anything but a place that sold T-shirts or …
worms? Maybe she could sell her grandmother’s—and Rafe’s—handwoven baskets.
Maybe even the herbal teas Grandma made.
And what about … books? Books about the island, its past, its present, its people.
Books with photographs and memoirs. She could also sell fiction and nonfiction, whatever was perfect for beach reading.
And maybe, just maybe, Maddie could get her father to be with them after all …
standing behind the counter where he’d been in her dream.
Clearly, Maddie had either been given a gift of inspiration, or she’d been struck by lightning on her head.