Thread on Arrival Page 2

  Dave frowned a bit. “That boy should be in school. I wonder where he’s from, and how he hooked up with Ike.” Dave turned to Ruth. “You know Ike’s story. Does he have any relatives?”

  She shook her head. “All gone now. He was an only child. He was slow, and for years his mother kept him close to home so he wouldn’t be teased by other kids in town. I don’t ever remember him having friends his own age, except Jim. They lived close to each other and spent a lot of time together as boys. But Jim’s disabled now, of course. Ike’s father died maybe ten or twelve years ago, and his mother a year or two later. He’s always collected bottles, but until his parents died it was almost a hobby with him. It gave him something to do. Now the bottles are his job. He needs the money. After his folks died, Ike stayed on in the home where he’d always lived, but six winters back a nor’easter tore up an old tree in their yard and it fell through his roof. Ike stayed there a couple of years after that, using an old wood stove, but the house just fell down around him. The Chamber of Commerce convinced the town to condemn it. It wasn’t safe for anyone to live in, and I’ll admit it was an eyesore. Ed Campbell had just become head of the Chamber then. He thought Ike was an eyesore too. Ed wanted to move Ike to a home up near Augusta, but Ike refused. Instead, he moved into the garage at the back of the lot where his house had been. So far’s I know, he’s been living there ever since. Doesn’t bother anyone. Has a toilet and sink in there his father put in next to his workbench, and a space heater for cold days. Folks at the Y let him shower there when he feels the need.”

  “Is he on welfare?” I asked.

  “Don’t know. But I remember talking with his mother, years ago, about his getting Social Security disability payments.”

  “I’m going to find out who that boy is,” said Dave. “He may need help. Angie, come with me. If there are two of us, he may not feel threatened. Ike knows who I am.”

  I squeezed Patrick’s hand as he nodded agreement, then followed Dave as he wove through the crowd. Reverend Tom’s voice rose over the attendees, welcoming people to the Blessing of the Fleet and then beginning to read the names on the memorial.

  “Davy Thompson, twelve years old, died at sea, May 14, 1697.”

  Chapter Two

  Friendships a name to few confirmed

  The offspring of a noble mind

  A generous warmth which fills the breast

  And better felt than e’er exprest

  —Anna Braddock, Evesham Township, Pennsylvania, stitched when she was four- teen years old. The verse is circled by flowered vines above the Westtown School building, a horse and rider, sheep, ducks, other birds, and assorted plants.

  “Ike,” said Dave, putting a hand on the man’s arm. “Good to see you.”

  Ike pulled his arm back but nodded. “Good pickings today. Always is at the Blessing.”

  Reverend Tom’s voice continued. “Brothers Ethan and Aaron Thompson, ages sixteen and eighteen, died at sea, March 4, 1746.”

  “Who’s your friend?”

  Ike turned toward the boy, who was trying to blend into the crowd. Up close I could see the fear in his eyes as he looked quickly from Ike to Dave to me. “Leo’s my friend.”

  “Leo,” said Dave, stretching out his hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Dave Percy. I teach over at Haven Harbor High.”

  “I ain’t going to school,” said Leo, backing up farther and not taking Dave’s hand. “I’m old enough not to.”

  Dave smiled. “Seventeen, then?”

  Leo hesitated, and then nodded. Seventeen was the age Maine set for being old enough to drop out of school. Leo looked younger than that, but he was scrawny and nervous. He could be seventeen.

  “No school,” Leo said, looking from Ike to Dave and back again. “No school.”

  “I understand,” said Dave calmly. “But if you should change your mind, or if you need help for any reason, come and see me. I live in the yellow house on Union Street. Ike knows where it is. Where’re you from?”

  Leo shook his head, pushed his way back into the crowd, and disappeared.

  “Boy’s wicked shy,” said Ike.

  “Is he staying with you, Ike?”

  “Helps me with the bottles.” Ike put his hand on his lower back. “Back’s been bothering me something awful these days. Leo’s young. Back doesn’t hurt.”

  “He must be a help then,” Dave nodded. “But if the boy needs anything, you let me know.”

  “He don’t need nothing,” said Ike. “I look out for him.”

  “I’m glad, Ike. You’re a good man.”

  “I am,” Ike agreed.

  Reverend Tom’s voice continued. “Abraham Winslow, age twenty-seven, lost at sea, August 31, 1847.”

  “Shh!” said Ike, listening. “Honor the dead.”

  Dave nodded as Reverend Tom continued reading, and Ike pushed his shopping cart away from us, through the crowd, in the same direction Leo had fled.

  “Why do you think Leo is here? Where did he come from?” I said to Dave quietly, as we headed back to where Patrick and the others were listening to the reading of the names.

  “No way to know.” Dave shrugged. “He sounded like a Mainer. And if he’s helping Ike, he’s a good kid. Could’ve run away from home, or his family might’ve thrown him out. It happens. He looked afraid. I’d guess, for whatever reason, he doesn’t want to be found.”

  “You offered to help him, though.”

  Dave half grinned. “Least I could do. The kid’s been in trouble of some sort, I’m pretty sure. He probably won’t come to see me. But, on the other hand, someday he might. Ike’s a kind man, but he’s not equipped to help a frightened seventeen-year-old boy.”

  “And you are?”

  Dave hesitated and looked directly into my eyes just before we reached the others. “I’ve been a frightened seventeen-year-old boy.”

  Before I could ask him any questions, we got back to where the others were standing.

  “You’ve missed some of the names,” Patrick whispered to me. There were tears in his eyes, which were focused on Reverend Tom. “What a special service this is.”

  I nodded and squeezed his hand. He wasn’t the only one moved by the reading of the names. Others near us had bowed their heads, and not far away I saw tears streaming down Cindy Bouchard’s face. She spoke both French and English, which was important because Madame Victoria Thibodeau didn’t speak English. Cindy wasn’t from Haven Harbor, but maybe she had family members who’d been lost at sea. Today’s reading of the list was certainly affecting her. Gus Gleason leaned over and said something to her, and she nodded and managed to smile.

  When Arwin’s father’s name was read, the last on the list, I looked over at the lobster and fishing boats idling in the harbor. Arwin was there on his Little Lady, the boat that had been his father’s; that his dad had fallen from. Today Arwin’s wife and infant son, and Rob Trask, his sternman, were with him. Arwin’s dad would be proud that his son was carrying on the Fraser family’s lobstering tradition.

  Reverend Tom then announced the official Blessing of the Fleet. His words rang over the crowd, where attention was now on the living, not the dead. When he’d finished the overall blessing, Tom turned to the harbor and gave the signal for the parade of boats to begin slowly passing the town wharf. As each went by, he and the other religious leaders said special blessings.

  I’d heard a few people in town call the Blessing of the Fleet a superstition, but I’d never heard that from anyone who worked the waters. The Blessing was a dearly held tradition. And who had the right to question a custom or belief?

  After all the boats had been blessed, Reverend Tom said a short benediction and the crowd dispersed, some heading for Harbor Haunts, the only restaurant in town open in April, and others gathering in homes and businesses to continue the celebration.

  “Will you be home tomorrow?” I asked Dave before we started heading in different directions. “I’d like to pick up those cushion covers you finished for Mrs. Rose.”

  “See you then,” he agreed. “I’ll be home all day. Papers to grade.”

  Patrick and I held hands as we headed back to my house. We’d planned a quiet evening, cooking spaghetti and watching a movie. I was looking forward to getting warmed up; the chill breezes were getting stronger.

  Mud season was over. Gardens were still empty except for early tulips and late daffodils. Bright yellow forsythia in some yards were the only sign that the long winter was over. Above us, a canopy of bare branches etched dark lines across the gray sky. Maine’s slow spring wouldn’t turn to summer for a few weeks, but birds were mating, days were longer, and the sounds of spring peepers filled the night air.

  Maine’s springs were brief. By June, summer would return.

  I could hardly wait. I’d come back to Maine last May, thinking it would be a short visit. Now I had friends, family, a house, a business, and even a special man in my life.

  I squeezed Patrick’s hand for no reason other than I was glad we were together.

  He grinned and squeezed back.

  Life was good.

  And I promised myself to start saving bottles for Ike Hamilton. Not everyone in Haven Harbor was as lucky as Patrick and me.

  Chapter Three

  Adam and Eve while Innocent

  In Paradise were Placed.

  But soon the Serpent by his wiles

  The happy pair disgraced.

  HE’s come let every Knee be bent

  All hearts new joy resume

  Let Nations sing with one Consent

  The COMFORTER is come.

  —Rachel Geiger, age twenty-one, Mrs. Leah Meguier’s School in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, 1806. Rachel was born in Mifflin County, Waynetownship, Pennsylvania, in 1785. Rachel’s sample
r is unusual because it includes scenes of Adam and Eve and the snake, and Mary nursing her son Jesus, in addition to hearts and flowers and birds.

  Later that night, after Patrick had left and I was in bed, cozily wrapped in my blue flannel nightgown with my black cat, Trixi, curled up near my feet, I thought back to what Dave had said.

  He’d been a frightened seventeen-year-old boy.

  What had Dave’s childhood been like? He’d never mentioned his parents, or anyone else in his family. He hadn’t been born in Maine, I knew. He’d been in the navy for about ten years and worked on submarines, where he learned to needlepoint, and now was a Mainely Needlepointer. He’d spent time in a VA hospital after he’d hurt his leg in an accident. He’d gotten his degree after he left the service and now taught biology. He organized activities at the high school and had watched out for a fellow veteran he’d met in the VA hospital. He had a poison garden. He was an excellent cook and kept his home neater than I kept mine. He’d been seeing Dr. Karen Mercer on and off for the past few months. I suspected he hoped someday they’d be more than friends.

  That was all I knew about the facts of Dave’s life.

  But he’d been a good friend to me since I’d returned to Haven Harbor. He’d befriended other people too, including Gram and others who stitched for Mainely Needlepoint, the business I ran now that Gram was married to Reverend Tom.

  Those facts were more important than where Dave had come from.

  I wasn’t surprised he’d offered to help Leo.

  But I still wondered about his remark. What had happened to him when he’d been Leo’s age?

  I fell asleep wondering.

  * * *

  Sunday morning meant church. When I lived in Arizona I hadn’t been a regular churchgoer, but now that Gram and Reverend Tom were married I tried to make it to our front pew most weeks. I’d planned a busy day, so I slid in next to Gram for the early service. “Do you and Patrick want to come for dinner this afternoon?” she whispered.

  I shook my head as the organ music changed. “Can’t today. I have Mainely Needlepoint work to do, and Patrick will be at his gallery all afternoon setting up a new exhibit. Maybe later in the week.”

  Gram nodded and opened her hymnal to the first psalm listed on the front wall of the church.

  After church I’ll check to see if anyone else has completed pieces of needlepoint I can pick up and then stop to get Dave’s, I thought, as our voices rose in enthusiastic, if slightly off-key, praise.

  Now that I was part of the reverend’s family, I couldn’t escape the after-service coffee hour, either.

  I glanced around the room of parishioners sipping coffee or tea and nibbling on scones, brownies, and cookies provided by the women of the church. Cindy Bouchard was standing in a corner next to Madame Thibodeau’s chair. “It’s kind of you to bring Madame Thibodeau to the service,” I said. Henri had brought his mother to Maine from Quebec so he could care for her. But his long hours at the patisserie meant that he and his wife, Nicole, had needed additional help.

  “Part of my job,” Cindy answered, handing Madame a molasses cookie, which she held but didn’t eat. “The patisserie is open Sunday morning, so Henri and Nicole don’t get to church, but Henri insists I bring his mother. He says she always attended in Quebec, and even if she doesn’t understand the service, it may bring her peace.”

  “Do you think it does?” I asked, looking down at Madame Thibodeau in her wheelchair. Her hair was combed and she was dressed simply, but nicely, but her face was blank. The cookie Cindy had given her now rested, uneaten, in her lap.

  “I can’t always tell. It makes Sunday an easy day for me, though. I get Madame dressed, we attend church and then stay for the coffee hour, and by the time I get her home it’s noon. Henri and Nicole are home from the patisserie then, and they take over.”

  “Is she always in her own world, as she is now?”

  “Not always. Sometimes she talks. Rambles, really. Her thoughts are mixed up, and they usually don’t have anything to do with what’s happening anywhere but in her mind.”

  “Sad. And that must make it difficult for you, to try to figure out what she’s trying to say.”

  Cindy nodded. “It’s part of the job.”

  “How many hours a week do you work?” I asked, out of curiosity.

  “Tuesday through Saturdays I work from four in the morning until two in the afternoon. Then Henri or Nicole come home, and I’m free to leave. Sunday mornings, four until noon. I have Mondays off.”

  “It sounds like a hard schedule.”

  “Long hours.” She nodded. “But I live in the Thibodeaus’ apartment over their garage, so I don’t have to pay rent. I’m saving to buy a car. If I had one, I could go back to school and become an RN, like Nancy Gleason. I don’t have any friends in town, so I don’t mind working. In the afternoons I go for walks or stop at the bookstore. I’m looking forward to the summer. Everyone says more people are here then and there are more things to do.”

  “So you’re a big reader?”

  “Maybe not so big. But I like some stories.” She smiled a little self-consciously. “Romances, mostly.”

  Madame Thibodeau started drooling, and Cindy pulled a tissue out of the bag on the back of the wheelchair and dabbed Madame’s face. “It’s probably time for us to leave. It’s a nice enough day, so I can take her home the long way.”

  Gus Gleason held open the heavy church door so Cindy could wheel Madame Thibodeau out. I didn’t see Nancy, his wife, but as I glanced out the door after Cindy I saw a car pulling out of the church parking lot. Maybe Nancy was heading for her shift at the hospital.

  One other person in a wheelchair was in the church hall: Jim Lewis.

  “Hello. I’m Angie Curtis, Reverend Tom’s step-granddaughter.” That was a mouthful, but it did identify me. Jim looked up at me and nodded pleasantly. “I think you and your wife live near me.”

  “We do, dear,” said Sandra Lewis, joining us and handing Jim a cranberry scone. “We live down on Oak Way, about two blocks from the Green and your house.” She leaned over. “I used to visit your grandmother there before she got married last year.”

  “Oak Way. I know where that is,” I agreed. “Is yours the large, white colonial with the widow’s walk?”

  Widow’s walks weren’t common in Maine, but I loved them.

  “Exactly, dear. And you took over Charlotte’s Mainely Needlepoint business.”

  I nodded. “I’m so glad I finally got a chance to meet you both. I’ve seen you here in church, of course.”

  “Can’t miss us. I think everyone in town knows Jim and his chair. It’s a struggle to get him into it and out into the world, but I do what I can.”

  “Did you enjoy the church service this morning?” I asked Jim.

  He smiled but didn’t reply.

  “Oh, Jim doesn’t talk anymore. His MS has been getting worse, and he can just make sounds now. See? I have to tie him into the wheelchair to keep him from falling.” She pointed at a strip of fabric I hadn’t noticed until then because most of it was concealed by Jim’s jacket. His left hand, in his lap, was badly bruised.

  “I see you’re looking at poor Jim’s hand. A few days ago he tried to get out of bed by himself and fell, didn’t you, dear? Of course, I had a dreadful time getting him off the floor. He must have bruised his hand when he fell. If I hadn’t taken care of my mother for so many years, and learned how to care for invalids, I could never cope with all the problems we have. But he’s my world, aren’t you, Jim?” She reached down and patted Jim’s head, almost as someone would pet a dog.

  Jim didn’t say anything, but his face showed emotions, and he was clearly listening to all we said, unlike Madame Thibodeau, who might not even have known she was in church.

  “I love the daffodils in your yard,” I said. “And the lilies of the valley. They look like spring.”

  “You must come and pick a few to take home,” said Sandra Lewis. “Daffodils are my very favorite flower. I’d always dreamed of being able to see them from every room in my house, and finally that dream has come true. We do love living here in Haven Harbor, don’t we, Jim?”