Fox Island (17 page)

“Maybe that’s why I watch it. God’s given up
on me, that’s for sure,” Jessica asserted, stomping her cane for
emphasis.

“Grandma Jessie, don’t start that again. We
didn’t come here for you to talk like that,” Melody scolded.

Price tried to shush Melody.

“It’s true. I wrecked everything.
Everything.”

“The Lord’s mighty good at forgiving,” Tony
said.

“Grandma, we didn’t come here to talk about
that old car wreck. Mr. and Mrs. Shadowbrook want to visit with you
about what it was like riding the ferryboats in the old days. Come
on, let’s sit in the shade by the azaleas.”

“Those are rhododendrons. They’re evergreen
and odorless as paper bells. I’d prefer azaleas myself, a little
pleasant scent to brighten an old woman’s day, but I wasn’t
asked.”

The sun beat down through the hazy blue sky,
but the shade helped calm them as they tried to sit comfortably on
a cement bench next to the raised redwood planter full of scarlet
blooms. Melody got a cushion for her grandmother.

“Mrs. Reynolds,” Tony began.

“Call me Jessica. I like everyone to call me
Jessica, don’t I?” She patted her cane on Melody’s knee.

“Ok. Jessica, tell us some of your earliest
memories of riding the ferry.”

She leaned both hands on top her cane,
carved in the head of a fox. “There were steam paddle boats in the
real old days. Just like those riverboats on the Mississippi. I
think one was the
Tyconda,
a
stern wheeler, one with the paddles in the back.”

“What was it like going to school in
Tacoma?” Price asked. “How early did you have to get up to catch
the ferry?”

“We got up at 4:42 every morning.”

“Why 4:42?”

“Papa was very organized. That allowed each
of us time to help with the chores, clean up, have breakfast, do
Bible reading, and make it to the trading post by 6:15. It used to
be on 9th and Fox Drive, across from the dock.”

“How was the ride over? Was it often
stormy?”

“Oh no. Most of the time it was like riding
a bus. We got most of our homework done while riding that
ferry.”

“How about once you got to Tacoma? How did
you get to your school?”

“Either by bus or one of the adults ferried
his car over and would give us a ride. Did I tell you I had a twin
sister?”

“Yes, we knew that.”

“Her name was Jill. I’m Jessica, and her
name was Jill. Yes, that’s the way it was. Papa named us after two
singers he once heard in the Yukon. He went north to the gold rush
and came back wealthy.”

“Were there ever any boat wrecks?” Tony
asked. “A storm out on the Narrows? Or an accident docking the
boat?”

“When the water was too rough, they didn’t
run the ferry. Sometimes we would miss several days of school. But
that didn’t happen very often. After dark, or during a rainy or
foggy day, they followed a compass course. If you didn’t know the
tides, you could miss your destination by as much as a half mile.
When it was really foggy or snowing, they’d bounce echoes to find
their way. Some of those captains could bounce echoes off a clam
shell.”

“Grandma Jessie, did Auntie Jill ever get
hurt in a ferry accident?”

The smile dropped as the gray hair seemed to
tinge bluer in the filtered light. “Who told you that?”

“I read it in an old newspaper.”

“It was nothing.” She rubbed the palms of
her hands as if trying to wash something off.

“But the paper said Auntie Jill broke both
her legs.”

“Oh, that.” She rubbed her own legs. “Some
cars shifted when we rammed into the dock during a squall. The
bumper from a black ’27 Ford pushed her into the railing. It caught
her right leg about here.” She jabbed about four inches below her
right knee. “And the left leg above the knee about here. She was
wearing her favorite green dress. Well, it was both of our
favorites. We always dressed alike, you know. The one got ruined,
so we had to toss both of them away. She had to stay at home in
splints for six weeks.”

“That must have been strange for you, going
to school without your twin sister,” Price commented.

“I couldn’t go to school. I had to stay
home.”

“You both stayed home?”

Mrs. Reynolds gazed off across the patio.
“Yes, we both stayed home. We did everything together, you know. Do
you have a twin sister?” she asked Price.

“No, but we have twin daughters. They aren’t
identical. In fact, there is nothing similar about them.”

The old woman perked up. “That’s good.
That’s the way it should be. The other way is too confusing. How
would you like to grow up always looking at a mirror image of
yourself and being called by the wrong name?” She tucked her left
fist under her chin, the elbow balanced on the cane and right hand,
her face drawn tight with concentration. “The car wreck was my
fault, you know. I was getting sleepy and she told me to stop and
rest, but I wanted to go on. I don’t know why.”

“Grandma,” Melody interrupted. “Why didn’t
you ever tell me about the ferryboat accident?”

“You never asked.”

Tony studied the woman’s face. “Jessica, I
really enjoy your paintings.”

“Yes,” Price chimed in, “The Two Girl
pictures are so delightful. You must tell us what made you think up
such a creative idea, especially for that day.”

“It was tedious to have to sit there for
such a long time. We sat there and sat there.”

“Which are you? Are you the girl? Or the
reflection?”

Jessica Reynolds twisted her pearl necklace
until a welt developed on her neck. She rubbed one black pump
against the other, back and forth, back and forth. Melody sent them
a warning signal.

“I was delighted to discover some of your
later works,” Tony injected in the long silence. “We stumbled
across the collection downstairs ... the mother-daughter scenes.
You were trying a different style. What a very talented and
versatile lady you are.”

“Trash! That’s a pile of trash.” The woman’s
features turned harsh and bitter, her voice agitated, angry.
“Melody, I told you to throw those away. Why didn’t you discard
them like I said?”

“Grandma, Mother gave those to me. I like
them and I want to keep them.”

“They’re a disgrace and you know it. I’m
missing my program. Melody, help me to my room.”

“Grandma, you said you didn’t like it.”

She struggled to her feet, almost toppling
over. “What I said was, I am not going to give any interviews and
that’s final. I know what you’re up to. I don’t want to talk about
it anymore.”

Melody jumped to her feet and held her
grandmother’s arm. She turned to shrug at Tony and Price as Mrs.
Reynolds shuffled into the apartment.

“Can we help?” Price offered.

“It’s okay. I’ll be right back.”

Price and Tony waited in the white
Oldsmobile.

Finally, Melody’s long dark hair bounced
into view. She swung her leather bag and herself into the backseat.
“Well, I tried,” she grimaced. “Sorry about that scene. You never
know what’s going to touch her off. The other day it was
Bennington. Today it was my mother’s paintings.”

Tony and Price gaped at each other. “Your
mother’s? You mean, it was your mother who painted those pictures
down in the family room, not your grandmother?”

“Yeah. It was in the ’60s, right before she
got married. I think they’re great. But Grandma says, ‘They lack
artistic merit and authentic social observation.’ So, Mom won’t let
me hang them up.”

“But they look so professional,” Price
said.

Melody dismissed the subject with a wave of
her hands. “Wild, isn’t it? But who can argue with a recognized
artist? Certainly not my mother.”

Chapter 7

When the Tacoma Narrows Bridge opened up the
Kitsap Peninsula to increased motor traffic, the next natural step
was building a bridge to Fox Island. The opening of the almost
two-thousand foot Fox Island Bridge on August 28, 1954, by governor
Arthur Langle, was a turning point in the history of this arboreous
community. The initial tolls, however, were about the same rate as
the ferry passage, with the added burden to the commuter to pay for
a car, gasoline, and parking. Instead of a gateway for growth, the
bridge actually reduced the residency from 150 to 115 families.
While the bridge is taken for granted by the Island’s residents
today, in the short range, its impact was negative rather than
positive.

It’s never easy to judge both immediate and
long-range consequences.

“Hi, Mom, what are you doing here?”

Barbara Mason charged into the house,
clinking with glass beads on her chest and half a dozen copper
bracelets on each arm. A face mask of powdered makeup seemed
layered in a dimly lit room. “Well, it’s my mother’s house and
you’re my daughter. Do I need any other excuse for stopping
by?”

“No, it’s just... well, you never come to...
I mean, it’s been a long time since you got this far from home.”
Melody hemmed and hawed as her mother marched down the hall toward
Price.

“Nice to see you again, Barbara. Would you
like a cup of hot tea?”

Dark brown eyes like Melody’s shot her a
quick, hard glance. “Do I look like the kind of woman who drinks
tea?”

“Coffee, then?”

“Thanks. Is your husband around?”

“No, he’s down the street getting a tour of
the Navy Acoustics Lab. Could I help you?”

“Maybe.” Her hands trembled as she cradled
the hot drink Price handed her. “Don’t you have something to do
somewhere else?” She glared at Melody.

“Oh, sure. I ... eh, I thought you came to
see me.”

“Why would I do that? You’re at my house two
or three times a week as it is.”

The smile vanished as Melody winced. “I’ll
go work on my book.” She shuffled out the front door.

Price led Barbara to the living room. A
brief wave of alcohol fumes drifted by. “What can I do for
you?”

Jessica Reynolds’ daughter stopped to gaze
at the painting titled, “Two Girls on the Train.” A pensive
passenger about eighteen stared out the window as a small town
passed by. Her exact image looked back from the glass of the
window. The only difference was a sense of wonder in the girl’s
eyes and a look of fear in the reflection’s.

“I’ll never know how she did that so well.
She’s never bothered to pass on her trade secrets, as far as I
know.” She turned to Price. “I hear you and your husband went to
interview my mother against her wishes.”

Price braced herself against the back of the
navy chair. “We did go to visit. As soon as she became agitated, we
left.”

“I want it to stop right now. All this
digging up of old things. It hasn’t been good for her. At her age,
and in her condition, she doesn’t need to be bothered with the
past. Her life hasn’t been pleasant, and you two pumping her
doesn’t help.”

Price fixed her gaze without a flinch. “We
visited with your mother just like we did dozens of other Fox
Island residents. I’m sorry if that stirred old hurts. That wasn’t
our intent.”

“But all this talk about a friend of Auntie
Jill’s coming by. She hasn’t been well since she found out about
this Bennington fellow.”

“The man did stop by asking questions, and
we, quite naturally, thought the family would like to be informed.
That’s why we told Melody and I’m sure that’s why she told her
grandmother.”

Barbara Mason’s hair, parted crooked in the
middle, hung as lifeless as her dark circled eyes. “There is no way
my mother needs to put up with that kind of thing. She should be
left alone. The painful past is gone.”

“How about you?” Price said. “Are you still
living in a world of past hurts?”

“I can cope.”

“We saw your beautiful paintings downstairs.
I know why your mother stopped painting, but why did you?”

Barbara tromped to the window and looked
out, her back to Price. “There are many disappointments in
life.”

Like never pleasing her mother? Or herself.
“It doesn’t bother you to bury your talent in a basement?”

“I can cope,” Barbara repeated.

“Do you like how you’re coping?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you like the way you’re living?”
Price couldn’t believe she said that.
Lord, help me.

Barbara glared at her.

“Did you ever wonder why an attractive and
vivacious young woman like your Melody is not the least bit
interested in getting married?”

“She’s still young.”

“Yes, she is. And I imagine she’s watched
the misery of her mother and grandmother who seem content to mope
about the past and have no use for the present. You’ve both passed
your bitterness to your daughter. No wonder Melody is mistrustful
of all men.”

Barbara shoved her cup on the end table,
banging it against the seashell lamp, and stomped to the door. “I
don’t know why you’re saying these things.”

I’m not sure
either.
“Because you seem so unhappy. But you have
such a delightful daughter, your own marvelous artistic talent, a
splendid family history, and apparent financial independence. It
doesn’t add up. I think God has something better for you than what
you’ve settled for.”

Barbara paused her hand on the doorknob.
“I’ve been right there at the house all these years. Anytime God
wants to deliver something better, I’ll be more than willing to
accept.”

“Perhaps you’ve put a few things in the
way.”

“Like what?”

“Lack of confidence. Perhaps the
drinking.”

Barbara squinted her eyes and sucked in her
cheeks. “You don’t even know me. What right do you have to
criticize my life? You’ve never been through what I have. So don’t
you look down your prissy, pious professor’s nose at me and tell me
not to drink. I want you and your husband to stay away from Mother.
Is that clear?” She flung open the door for emphasis.