The Darkhouse Read online

  “The whole thing.” He smiles an odd and unnatural smile.

  A bad feeling lights up in the pit of my stomach. I don’t say a word as Marlie nods and drinks the rest.

  After Jonah leaves for the afternoon run Marlie asks me if we can explore outside. She says the day is so beautiful, it might be nice to take advantage. I agree, and we get dressed in our coats and boots.

  Only now do I notice how really warm it is out. I usually love the smell of spring coming, mossy and fresh, making me want to inhale forever.

  Marlie asks if she can use our wheelbarrow, and I take her to where it leans against Jonah’s lab. I consider telling her about the voles in their enclosures living their ordered lives just on the other side of the walls, but then I wonder if Marlie would consider it cruel. For the first time, it occurs to me that maybe it is. So I say nothing and just follow as she takes hold of the wheelbarrow and pushes it down the path to the Rock Pit.

  “What are we doing?” I ask.

  “I have this random idea,” she says, gaining confidence. “Is it bad if I move a few rocks from the Rock Pit to the lighthouse clearing?”

  “I don’t think so. I mean, I think it’s okay.”

  She smiles again and pushes on. At the Pit, she begins to inspect rocks. She picks one, a round ball-ish rock, and rolls it to the edge of the path. She looks around again, finds another one, and rolls it into the path too. I ask if she wants help, and she says I should roll the rocks into the wheelbarrow, so I tip the wheelbarrow and push them in, one by one. They’re heavy, but the round shape makes them easy to propel. Marlie arrives with another rock and then another, and I heave those into the wheelbarrow too. Breathing heavily but energized by the warm day, we push the wheelbarrow up the path toward the house and then down the path toward the lighthouse.

  Near the lighthouse, Marlie stops and examines the clearing. She walks around, standing first here and then there, inspecting the ground and the views. I don’t interrupt because I can see purpose in her movements. While she muses, I make my way to the cliff edge where Jonah climbed up yesterday.

  Curiosity compels me to hold on to the lighthouse and lean over the edge. Right under the lip of the rock is an anchor Jonah must have set up for quick and easy descents: a short sling hooked off two bolts, with two carabiners knotted in the center. A thick electrical cable is clamped beside it, running from the lighthouse, then down to the large clump of weed and then through it. A few climbing bolts are lodged in the rock alongside the cable.

  From this angle, I can’t see the square opening that Jonah crawled from, but I know it’s there. Far below the weed, waves crash up the base of the cliffs, and they are reminders of danger.

  “Gemma, not so close to the edge!” Marlie’s call startles me and pulls me back. “You scared me,” she says, her hand clasping her stomach. She motions me over, and I push the wheelbarrow to her so we can tip it and roll the four rocks onto the grass. Working carefully, she rolls one to mark each compass point: south, west, north, east.

  The window in the cliffside reminds me of an old mole hole I found a long time ago on the far side of the lighthouse and turned into a secret-keeper. I covered the hole with a square of moss and marked it with three speckled stones from Mrs. Dalhousie’s garden. Hidden inside is a small metal jewelry box Mr. O’Reardon gave me when I was ten. It holds three childhood treasures: a silver bird earring I got from a tourist who I thought was my mother, a key I found in the grass by Jonah’s lab, and a ring Doris gave me that came inside a clear plastic ball. All things that, at the time, I didn’t want Jonah to see or was afraid he’d forbid me from keeping.

  “There,” Marlie says, wiping her hands. “A sitting circle.”

  “Just for sitting?” I say, already appreciating the logic of having a dry seat to admire the coastal view or enjoy the breeze or watch the comings and goings of the Spirit far away down the coast.

  “I thought it might be nice to have a meditation circle here.” Marlie laughs. “Something I could leave behind that would make you think of me when you see it.”

  I feel myself soften. “I won’t forget you, Marlie.”

  “Ah,” she says, teasing, “don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

  She indicates a rock, and we each sit on one. She pulls a strand of dead grass from the ground beside her and lets it flutter in the air.

  I think of things to say. Like Jonah, I’m not at all familiar or comfortable with small talk. “When you were in the diner,” I finally decide to ask, “everyone said you were a writer — are you?”

  She takes a deep breath and exhales it, then she starts to laugh. “No,” she says. She doesn’t look at me but keeps laughing. “It felt good, though, I won’t lie, when people didn’t label me plain old Marlie, booze-slinger at Joe’s Dive, loser with nothing going for her. But transformed me into —” and she raises a finger “— Marlie Luellen, writer, tragic waste of potential.”

  I laugh too, and we laugh a little until it peters out. I say, “I’m sorry about your mom being sick.”

  “Oh. Well.” She sighs. “I pretend every day is just a normal day.” She hesitates then shrugs. “Most days, that seems to work.” She touches my arm for a brief second. “I’m sorry about your mom running away when you were a baby.” I look down, and she says, “I never knew my dad, either.”

  “Really?”

  She nods.

  “Coincidence,” I say.

  “What?”

  “That we both have parents we don’t know.”

  “Oh, right. Yes.”

  “Jonah says coincidence keeps the universe alive.”

  “Does it?”

  “Like the sun and moon, for instance. They’re such different sizes, but they look about the same in our sky.”

  “I never thought about that before.”

  “That’s coincidence. The sun is four hundred times the size of the moon, but the moon is four hundred times closer.”

  “Wow,” she says. “You and your father know the most interesting things.” She looks at me. “I guess you’re pretty close.”

  I think about it, but don’t have an answer.

  “You’re lucky,” she says and smiles wistfully, maybe thinking of the father she never knew.

  I say, “Who didn’t love you?”

  Marlie’s smile slips away. “What?” A warm breeze gusts in and lifts threads of her hair like marionette strings.

  “The person who didn’t love you.”

  “Oh.” Her smile is gone. “That was a mistake.” She speaks so softly her words barely touch the air. “And I guess you only see your mistakes after you make them.”

  I almost hear Aidie’s voice: Marlie will be your friend and she will help you.

  In the distance, the Spirit gives off a white glimmer as it navigates the strait toward Keele’s Landing. I note the arc of the sun and realize it’s almost 4:00 p.m.

  Before I can ask about the mistake, something slams into me with so much force it knocks me over. Marlie lets out a scream, but I’m already giggling because Biscuit is licking my ears. My laughter reassures Marlie and she smiles as Biscuit and I tackle each other. After a few minutes, Biscuit gives up and rolls over so that I can scratch his belly. I do, and his smell wafts into my nose. Someone whistles, but Biscuit ignores it, too enthralled by my scratching.

  “Must be Mr. O’Reardon up for a visit,” I say to Marlie. “Even though the islanders never come by.”

  “They don’t?”

  “They say it’s too far.”

  “That’s funny,” she says.

  I picture the rest of the country, the way it appears on maps, and remember how vast the distances are between other places.

  Biscuit noses the ground not far from the sitting circle and starts to snuffle and scratch at a hollow. “Look at him go,” Marlie says. “Must be something in there.”

  “Probably some old carcass.” I go to him and pat his behind. “Let’s go, boy.” But Biscuit is intent on his diggin
g. Huge gobs of red mud shoot out at us. “Stop it, Biscuit,” I order. But Biscuit is stubborn: a dog with a bone. Marlie steps back, out of the way. “Biscuit, stop.” He ignores me, and his digging becomes more insistent. The little well of dirt becomes a bowl. I scold him again, “Biscuit!”

  Now Marlie tries to persuade him, “C’mon, boy!” She snaps her fingers at him. “C’mon, get away from there. C’mon, boy. Let’s go.” She bends over and starts to push at his flank. I shout at Biscuit again, but Marlie angles between us, pushing at him. Biscuit begins to growl — I can’t tell if it’s at her or from the stress. He doesn’t look at her, but his lips curl back and the growl twitches through his body and shivers all the way up, right into Marlie’s pushing hands. It isn’t until I see his twitching muscles that I realize Marlie could be in real danger. Biscuit doesn’t know her, he’s a big animal with sharp teeth, and he’s stubborn about something that’s on his property — which is the whole of the wilderness. His claws dig deeper into the ground and still Marlie keeps shoving him. I watch them closely, shaken into silence.

  Then, as if we’ve sent a distress signal to the whole of the island, another whistle, sharper this time, sounds through the woods. Mr. O’Reardon, calling from the house. This time Biscuit heeds it. He stops digging, his snout comes up out of the mud, and his whole body relaxes. Mr. O’Reardon whistles again, and now Biscuit charges toward it. Marlie and I brush dirt off our pants and, without looking at each other, head back up the path.

  When we get to the top of the path, my heart stops. It isn’t Mr. O’Reardon at all, but Scotty. He brightens when he sees us, and his face becomes a wash of gold. He doesn’t wear a coat and his chest and arms are proud under his plaid shirt.

  I can’t speak, can’t even smile. A bond was forged between us on the boat — Scotty caring enough to look out for me, me accepting his help. The most painful happiness I’ve ever known.

  “Hello!” Scotty calls to us.

  Marlie goes to shake his hand and introduce herself. The sight of their hands holding each other, even for a short moment, makes my heart falter.

  “I’m glad to finally meet you,” Scotty says. He smacks Biscuit on the side. “And I guess you’ve met this vile mutt already.” His eyes don’t leave Marlie’s face, which I notice again is very beautiful. “So, Marlie — Peg and Doris tell me you’ve come to the island to write a book. We’ll have to read it when you’re done.”

  Marlie glances at me and lets out a laugh that I’m supposed to share.

  “I hope I’m not intruding,” Scotty says, lifting the vinyl cover on his truck bed and reaching for a crate, “but Doris made me bring up her signature dip and a few bottles of her homemade wine.”

  “Homemade wine,” Marlie repeats. “Aren’t you sweet.”

  “Sweet?” Scotty puts his hand to his chest. “Aw, man, jab to the heart.” His face beams with a grin. Dimples appear on both cheeks. “Well, I’m sure it won’t compare to your city cocktails, but Doris means well. We can’t be turning our noses up.”

  “I’m not turning my nose up.” Marlie laughs. “I love homemade wine.”

  “Well, good.” Scotty leads the way to the house. “Makes two of us.”

  Scotty sounds different when he talks to Marlie. And then I recognize it: even though he hides it well, he still speaks to me like I’m a child.

  I’m overcome with a sudden urge to reach into the crate and smash Doris’s homemade wine to the ground. Instead I run ahead of Scotty and open the door.

  Still laughing, Marlie comes up from behind. She stands close enough to him that her coat brushes his arm.

  I don’t know why, but then I hate her.

  Scotty holds the crate steady as Marlie takes out a platter of dip and a box of crackers and the bottles of wine and sets everything on the kitchen table. Every time Marlie nears the crate and bends over it, the top of her head almost touches Scotty’s. I hang back, unable to speak.

  When the box is empty, Scotty puts it aside and starts to open drawers, pushing around utensils, looking for something.

  “Gemma and I were going to make chicken for dinner,” Marlie says, putting a cracker in Doris’s dip. “You’re welcome to stay, Scotty.” She looks at me and says, “I mean, if you think it’s okay, Gemma, and that Jonah won’t mind?”

  I nod and shrug and shake my head: Scotty is welcome, it might be okay, Jonah will probably mind.

  Scotty gives up on our drawers and pulls a Swiss Army knife from his pocket. “Well, we’ll see what Jonah says when he gets back.” He finds an attachment and uses it to open one of the bottles of wine.

  Marlie sticks the dipped cracker in her mouth. She closes her eyes while she tastes it. “Oh my God, this is really good.”

  “I know,” Scotty says, also grabbing a cracker, dipping it, and sticking it in his mouth. Also chewing and smiling. Only staring at Marlie. “Told you.”

  The thing about Scotty is that he’s comfortable with everyone.

  He opens a cupboard and finds three glasses. He pours wine into two, then turns to find me in the doorway and waggles the third glass at me. “What do you want to drink, kiddo? Milk, juice, pop?” I open my mouth but nothing comes out. I shake my head. He passes a glass of wine to Marlie. Smiling, she takes it, but I notice that when she brings it to her lips, she hesitates. Another thought seems to come to her mind as she observes the swirling redness in the glass. “You reconsidering?” Scotty says, laughing. “Go on, it won’t bite.” And Marlie’s face clears and she takes a long sip.

  Scotty urging Marlie to drink reminds me of Jonah urging a glass of health food water on her. Everyone trying to feed her like she’s some chick dropped from its nest.

  “Not bad,” she says, swallowing. “Not bad.”

  Scotty pumps his arm in mock victory. “That’s two for the home team.”

  “Oh, the home team has way more than two points.” Laughing, Marlie turns to the fridge. “Come on, Gemma, let’s get dinner started.”

  I push myself away from the sureness of the doorway. Marlie takes chicken pieces from the fridge. She finds the box of flaked cereal she asked Jonah to buy, and I get a bowl from the cupboard. Scotty sits at the kitchen table with his glass of wine. “I hope this doesn’t embarrass our Gems here, but I hope you know how important she is to us.”

  I keep my face turned to the counter, trying to concentrate on following Marlie’s recipe by crumbling cereal for the chicken.

  “Of course I do,” Marlie says, slicing the meat into long strips. She gives my arm a jokey nudge. “It’s very apparent.”

  “The islanders don’t want their girl to be blinded by city lights. Lured away. You know?”

  That much is clear to me: the islanders don’t want to lose their only child. Everything in my life has been colored by that wish.

  “You gotta take good care of her.”

  “Of course.”

  They both look at me at once. Before I can say a word, Jonah arrives home.

  Again, we eat gathered around the living room table. Biscuit falls into a deep sleep in front of the fire. Scotty is comfortable and funny and tells us stories about touring the Maritimes with the Parks crew. I notice he doesn’t mention his wife, and no one asks him about her either.

  Jonah doesn’t act like himself, pretending instead to be a man who enjoys people gathered in his house, a good-natured man who always drinks glasses of wine and makes small talk. He sits close to Marlie, like he wants to be near her. He pays attention to everything she does and has a response for everything she says.

  The feeling that something is wrong touches down on me again. Like a cyclone dropping, warm air meeting cold, whirling and twisting, it ripples and fans through me.

  We eat chicken and peas and carrots and a salad, the adults opening more bottles of wine and pouring it into their glasses and soon laughing at things that aren’t funny. I notice that Marlie pays equal attention to both men, and they respond to her attention like they’re competing for it. A game — o
r trick — I’ll never be able to learn.

  I bring my empty plate to the kitchen. An open bottle of wine sits on the table. I check to make sure everyone is preoccupied in the living room, then take a mug from the cupboard and dribble some wine into it. I put the mug to my lips and a tiny bit splashes up. Sometimes, outside Peg’s diner, people drink beer. Once I snuck a taste of that too, but this is different. I like the beer better, the coldness of it. I drink a bit more of the wine. It’s very warm and sour.

  Feeling bolder already, I pour more into the mug and take it with me into the living room and drink from it. Right in front of all of them.

  Marlie jumps to her feet and says very loudly, “Hey, music! Can we maybe use your shortwave radio, Jonah?” She stumbles a bit, but rights herself.

  Jonah opens his hands in a friendly way and I go to the kitchen to get the radio, bringing it to the coffee table and turning it on. It’s set to the weather report because Jonah checks the sea and weather every morning.

  Marlie kneels in front of the radio and winds the knob in circles. Bits of sound, music and voices, jabber here and gone and swoop around the room like agitated birds. Biscuit starts up, sure he’s meant to protect us, but then flops down again, too lazy to care.

  Marlie stops at a station with very aggressive music. “Oh my God, I love this song!” She turns the sound louder and starts to jump around like a kid, punching her arms and pumping her head and pretending to kiss the air. Scotty and Jonah watch her and also pump their heads.

  I drink more wine from the mug, a few sips at a time. More and then more, getting warm and warmer.

  The music makes my body hum and hurt at the same time. It spurs my body to wriggle and move about. I start to dance too, but not the way I learned from the islanders with hand clapping and foot stomping. Like Marlie, pumping and wiggling and twisting. Maybe Scotty is looking me up and down. Maybe I’m the only woman in the room. The best woman.

  My whole body feels warm. Like sap burbling up from a tree and sliding down itself.