Sleet tick-ticked against the cottage windows and wind moaned in the chimney. The power had gone out an hour before, and Max’s cottage was getting colder by the minute. The rising storm seemed to make Lincoln restless. Claire could hear him moving around the room, fussing with the cold woodstove, tightening the window latches. The ingrained habits of a man who has known hard winters. He lit newspapers and kindling in the stove and threw in a log, but the wood was green, and produced more smoke than heat.
Max did not look well. He sat clutching a blanket, a box of Kleenex by his chair. A shivering testament to the miseries of a winter flu and a cottage without heat.
At last he looked up with rheumy eyes. “Where did you find this mushroom?”
“Upstream from the Boulders.”
“Which boulders?”
“That’s the name for the place—the Boulders. It’s a hangout for the local kids. They found dozens of those mushrooms this summer. It’s the first year they’ve noticed them. But then, it’s been a strange year.”
“How so?” asked Max.
“We had all those floods last spring. And then the hottest summer on record.”
Max nodded soberly. “Global warming. The signs are everywhere.”
Lincoln glanced at the window, where needles of sleet tapped at the glass, and laughed. “Not tonight.”
“You have to look at the big picture,” said Max. “Weather patterns changing all over the world. Catastrophic droughts in Africa. Floods in the Midwest. Unusual growing conditions lead to unusual things growing.”
“Like blue mushrooms,” said Claire.
“Or eight-legged amphibians.” He pointed to the bookshelf, where his specimen jars were displayed. There were eight jars now, each containing a freak of nature.
Lincoln picked up one of the jars and stared at a two-headed salamander. “Jesus. You found this in our lake?”
“In one of the vernal ponds.”
“And you think this is because of global warming?”
“I don’t know what’s causing it. Or which species will be affected next.” Max refocused his bleary eyes on the mushroom. “It’s not surprising that plant life would be affected.” He turned the mushroom over and gave it a sniff. “This damn cold has blocked up my nose. But I think I can smell it.”
“What?”
“The scent of anise.” He held it out to her.
“I smell it too. What does it mean?”
He rose and pulled down An Illustrated Textbook of Mycology from the bookshelf. “This species grows in both hardwood and coniferous forests, from midsummer through fall.” He opened the book to a color plate. “Clitocybe odora. The anise funnel cap. It contains a small amount of muscarine, that’s all.”
“Is that our toxin, then?” asked Lincoln.
Claire sank back in her chair and gave a sigh of disappointment. “No, it’s not. Muscarine causes mostly gastrointestinal or cardiac symptoms. Not violent behavior.”
Max returned the mushroom to the Ziploc bag. “Sometimes,” he said, “there is no explanation for violence. And that’s the frightening thing about it. How unexpected it can be. How often it happens without rhyme or reason.”
Wind rattled the door. Outside, the sleet had turned to snow, and it tumbled past the window in a thick whirl of white. The wood stove gave off only the barest suggestion of heat. Lincoln crouched down to check the fire.
It had gone out.
“Lincoln and I saw something tonight. On the lake,” said Claire. “It was almost like an hallucination.”
She and Max sat facing the hearth in Claire’s parlor, their backs turned against the shadows. She had coaxed him out of his unheated cottage, had offered him a bed in her guest room, and now that dinner was over, they sat before the fire and took turns pouring from a bottle of brandy. Flames hissed brightly around a log, but for all that light, all that combustion, precious little heat seemed to penetrate the room’s chill. Outside, snowflakes skittered against the window and stray branches of forsythia, bone bare, clawed at the glass.
“What did you see in the lake?” he asked. “It was floating on the surface of the water, near the Boulders. This swirl of green light, just drifting by. Not solid, but liquid. Changing shape, like a slick of oil.” She took a sip of brandy and stared at the fire. “Then the sleet began to fall, churning the water. And the green light, it just disintegrated.” She looked at him. “It sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”
“It could be a chemical spill. Fluorescent paint in the lake, for instance. Or it could be a biological phenomenon.”
“Biological?”
He pressed his hand to his forehead, as though to ease a headache beginning to build there. “There are bioluminescent strains of algae. And certain bacteria glow in the dark. There’s one species that forms a symbiotic relationship with luminescent squid. The squid attracts mates by flashing a light organ powered by glowing bacteria.”
Bacteria, she thought. A floating mass of them.
“Scotty Braxton’s pillow was stained with a luminescent substance,” she said. “At first I thought he’d been using some sort of hobby paint. Now I wonder if it was bacterial.”
“Have you cultured it?”
“I cultured his nasal discharge. I asked the lab to identify every organism that grows out, so it will take time to get the results. What have you found in the lake water?”
“None of the cultures are back yet, but maybe I should take a few more samples before I pack up and leave.”
“When are you leaving?”
“I rented the cottage through the end of this month. But with the weather turning so cold, I might as well cut it short and go back to Boston. To central heating. I have enough data already. Samples from a dozen different Maine lakes.” He looked at the window, at the snow falling outside, thick as a curtain. “I leave this place to hardier souls like you.”
The flames were dying. She stood up, took a birch log from the pile, and threw it onto the fire. The papery bark caught instantly, snapping and sparkling. She watched it for a moment, savoring the heat, feeling it flush her cheeks. “I’m not such a hardy soul,” she said softly. “I’m not sure I belong here, either.”
He poured more brandy into his glass. “There’s a lot about this place that takes getting used to. The isolation. The people. They’re not easy to get to know. In the month I’ve been here, you’re the only one who’s invited me to dinner.”
She sat down and regarded him with a new measure of sympathy. She recalled her own introduction to Tranquility. After eight months, how many people here did she really know? She’d been warned it would be this way, that the locals were wary of outsiders. People from away drift to Maine like loose bits of fluff, linger for a season or two, and then scatter to the four winds. They have no roots here, no memories. No permanence. Mainers know this, and they greet each new resident with suspicion. They wonder what has driven this stranger into their midst, what secrets lie hidden in some past life. They wonder if the stranger has somehow carried with him the very contagion he is trying to escape. Lives that fall apart in one city often fall apart yet again in another.
Mainers can see the progression. First the new house, enthusiastically purchased, the garden with freshly tamped-down daffodil beds, the snow boots and L.L. Bean jackets. A winter or two goes by. The daffodils bloom, fade, bloom untended. The heating bill astounds. The storm windows linger months past thaw. The stranger begins to shuffle pale-faced around town, to talk longingly of Florida, to recall beaches he has lolled upon, and to dream of towns that have neither mud season nor snowplows. And the house, so lovingly restored, soon collects one more decoration: a For Sale sign.
People from away have no permanence. Even she was not sure she would stay here.
“Why did you want to move here, then?” he asked.
She settled back in her chair and watched the flames engulf the birch log. “I didn’t move here because of me. It was because of Noah.” She looked up toward the second floor, t
oward her son’s bedroom. It was silent upstairs, just as Noah had been silent all evening. At dinner he had scarcely said a word to their guest. And afterwards, he had gone straight to his room and shut the door.
“He’s a handsome boy,” said Max.
“His father was very good-looking.”
“And his mother isn’t?” Max’s glass of brandy was almost empty, and he seemed flushed in the firelight. “Because you are.”
She smiled. “I think you’re drunk.”
“No, what I’m feeling right now is … comfortable.” He set his glass on the table. “It was Noah who wanted to move?”
“Oh, no. He had to be dragged, kicking and screaming. He didn’t want to leave his old school or his friends. But that’s exactly why we had to leave.”
“The wrong crowd?”
She nodded. “He got into trouble. The whole group of them did. I was taken completely by surprise when it happened. I couldn’t control him, couldn’t discipline him. Sometimes …” She sighed. “Sometimes I think I’ve lost him entirely.”
The birch log slid, sizzling into the embers. Sparks leaped up and drifted gently down into the ashes.
“I had to take some sort of drastic action,” she said. “It was my last chance to exert control. In another year or two, he would have been too old. Too strong.”
“Did it work?”
“You mean, did all our troubles go away? Of course not. Instead, I’ve taken on a whole new slew of troubles. This creaky old house. A medical practice that I seem to be slowly killing.”
“Don’t they need a doctor here?”
“They had a town doctor. Old Dr. Pomeroy, who died last winter. They can’t seem to accept me as even a pale substitute.”
“It takes time, Claire.”
“It’s been eight months, and I can’t even turn a profit. Someone with a grudge has been sending anonymous letters to my patients. Warning them off.” She looked at the bottle of brandy, thought: What the hell, and poured herself another glass. “Out of the frying pan, into the fire.”
“Then why do you stay?”
“Because I keep hoping it’ll get better. That winter will pass, it’ll be summer again, and we’ll both be happy. That’s the dream, anyway. It’s the dreams that keep us going.” She sipped her brandy, noticing that the flames were now pleasantly out of focus.
“And what is your dream?”
“That my son will love me the way he used to.”
“You sound as if you have doubts.”
She sighed, and raised the glass to her lips. “Parenthood,” she said, “is nothing but doubts.”
Lying in bed, Amelia could hear the sound of slapping in her mother’s room, could hear the stifled sobs and whimpers and the angry grunts that punctuated each blow.
Dumb bitch. Don’t you ever go against me. You hear? You hear?
Amelia thought of all the things she could do about it—all the things she’d already done in the past. None of them had worked. Twice she’d called the police; twice they’d taken Jack away to jail, but within days he’d returned, welcomed back by her mother. It was no use. Grace was weak. Grace was afraid of being alone.
I will never, ever, let a man hurt me and get away with it.
She covered her ears and buried her head under the sheets.
J.D. listened to the sound of blows and could feel himself getting excited. Yeah, that’s the way to treat ’em, Dad. It’s what you always told me. A firm hand keeps ’em in line. He rolled up close to the wall, placing his ear against the plaster. His dad’s bed was right on the other side. As he had on so many other nights, J.D. would press up close, listening to the rhythmic squeak of his father’s bed, knowing exactly what was going on in the next room. His dad was something else, a man like no other, and although J.D. was a little afraid of him, he also admired him. He admired the way ol’ Jack took control of his household and never let the females get high and mighty. It’s the way the Good Book meant it to be, Jack always said, the man as master and protector of his house. It made sense. The man was larger, stronger; of course he was meant to be in charge.
The slapping had stopped, and now it was just the bed squeaking up and down. That’s how it always ended. A little discipline and then some good oldfashioned making up. J.D. was getting more and more excited, and the ache down there got to be unbearable.
He got up and felt his way past Eddie’s bed, toward the door. Eddie was sound asleep, the dumb cluck. It was embarrassing to have such a weak wuss for a brother. He went into the hall and headed toward the bathroom.
Halfway there, he paused outside his stepsister’s closed door. He pressed his ear to it, wondering if Amelia was awake, if she too was listening to the squeaking of their parents’ bed. Juicy little Amelia, the untouchable. Right under the same roof. So close he could almost hear the sound of her breathing, could smell her girl-scent wafting out from under the door. He tried the knob and found it was locked. She always kept it locked, ever since that night he’d sneaked into her room to watch her sleep, and she’d awakened to find him unbuttoning her pajama top. The little tease had screamed, and his dad had come tearing into the room with a loaded shotgun, eager to blow away some intruder.
When all the female caterwauling had died down, and J.D. had slunk back to his own room, he’d heard his dad say, “The boy’s always been a sleepwalker. Didn’t know what he was doing.” J.D. had thought he was off the hook. Then his dad had come into J.D.’s room and whacked him so hard across the face, he’d seen exploding lights.
Amelia got a lock put in her door the next day.
J.D. closed his eyes and felt sweat dampen his upper lip as he pictured his luscious stepsister lying in her bed, slender arms flung out. He thought of her legs as he’d seen them this summer, long and tan in her white shorts, just the softest hint of golden down on her thighs. Sweat was breaking out on his forehead now, and on his palms. He felt his heart beat hard. His senses had sharpened to such acuteness, he could hear the night humming around him, fields of energy looping and swirling in electric flashes.
He had never felt so powerful.
Again he gripped the doorknob, and its resistance suddenly enraged him. She enraged him, with her superior ways and her disapproval. He reached down and touched himself, but really, he was touching her, taking command of her. Making her do what he wanted. And even though sex was what his body craved, when he finally released himself, the image that came unbidden into his mind was of his own fingers, like thick ropes, wrapped around Amelia’s slender neck.
12
Noah shoved two slices of bread in the toaster and jammed down the lever. “He stayed all night, didn’t he?”
“It was too cold for him to sleep in the cottage. He’ll be going back today.”
“So are we taking in every strange guy who doesn’t know how to keep his woodstove lit?”
“Please keep your voice down. He’s still sleeping.”
“It’s my home too! Why should I have to whisper?”
Claire sat at the breakfast table, staring at her son’s back. Noah refused to look at her and stood hulking by the kitchen counter, as though the toaster required all his concentration.
“You’re mad because I had a houseguest? Is that it?”
“You don’t even know him, and you invite some strange guy to spend the night.”
“He’s not a strange guy, Noah. He’s a scientist.”
“Like scientists aren’t strange?”
“Your father was a scientist.”
“Is that supposed to make me like this guy?”
The toast popped up. Noah threw the slices onto a plate and sat down at the table. She watched in puzzlement as he picked up a knife and began to slash the toast into smaller and smaller squares. It was bizarre, and she’d never seen him do this before. He’s transferring his rage, she thought. Taking it out on the bread.
“I guess my mother isn’t so perfect after all,” he said, and she flushed, stung by the cruel comment. “
You’re always telling me to keep my nose clean. I’m not the one having sleepovers.”
“He’s just a friend, Noah. I have a right to have friends, don’t I?” She added, recklessly, “I even have a right to boyfriends.”
“Go ahead!”
“In four years, you’ll be in college. You’ll have your own life. Why can’t I have mine?”
Noah crossed back to the sink. “You think I have a life?” He laughed. “I’m on permanent probation. Being watched all the time. By everyone. ”
“What do you mean?”
“My teachers all look at me like I’m some kind of criminal. Like it’s just a matter of time before I screw up.”
“Did you do something to draw their attention?”
In fury he whirled around to face her. “Yeah, it’s my fault! It’s always my fault!”
“Noah, is there something you aren’t telling me?”
With an angry sweep of his hand, he knocked two coffee cups off the counter and into the dishwater. “You already think I’m a screw-up! You’re never happy with me. No matter how perfect I try to be.”
“Don’t whine to me about having to be perfect. I’m not allowed to screw up either. Not as a mother, not as a doctor, and I’m getting pretty sick of it. Especially when no matter how hard I try, you always blame me for something.”
“What I blame you for,” he shot back, “is dragging me to this dump of a town.” He stalked out of the house, and the slam of the front door seemed to echo forever.
She reached for her coffee, which by now was lukewarm, and sipped it fiercely, hands shaking around the cup. What had just happened? Where did all that rage come from? They’d argued in the past, but never had he tried so hard to hurt her. Never had he cut so close to the bone.
She heard the rumble of the school bus as it drove away.
She looked down at his plate, at the uneaten toast. It had been slashed to crumbs.
“This isn’t the right place for him, Dr. Elliot,” said the nursing supervisor. Eileen Culkin was short but powerfully built for a woman, and with her booming voice and background as an army nurse, she commanded instant respect. When Eileen spoke, the doctors listened.