Stone Cove Island (2 page)

Those personal things tugged at me the most: the stuffed tiger that no doubt some toddler was unable to sleep without; the royal-blue leather family photo album, assembled over decades and destroyed in one night. I pulled my sleeves down over my hands and folded my arms across my stomach. It was cold, and I felt the chill in the small of my back. I wished I had not come down to face this alone.

When I reached the harbor, normally the busiest section of town, I kept my eyes on the water. The beach had ugly, deep gashes in it, like a monster had bitten away
hunks of flesh and left bleeding mud behind. I tried to put it back together in my mind to the way it was supposed to look, but I couldn’t. Tears began to sting my eyes. I felt the destruction, as though I was the one who had been hurt.

Where the ferry came in—or used to come in—the docks were all but gone. The few weekend people who hadn’t made it over in time to prepare for the storm were rewarded by having their sailboats either washed up and overturned on the village green, a hundred yards from the water, or shattered into kindling-sized strips, floating beside the broken pilings they’d once been secured to.

The village green was charred a yellow brown, the grass burned by the salt water that had flooded it. The shops that were on the bay side of Water Street were either gone or ripped open like dollhouses, their sun hats and saltwater taffy boxes floating in murky, possibly electrified standing water. Businesses on the up-island side of the street fared a little better. At least the water had receded.

The whole island seemed to be without power except for the Picnic Basket, the sandwich and coffee shop on Laurel Lane. Nancy and Greg appeared to have rigged a generator. I could smell coffee brewing and theirs were the only lights glowing on the main street. So they’d been lucky too. I felt a quick rush of relief. If the Picnic Basket were dark, I would have panicked. Nancy and Greg were known to be the source of all news, official and unofficial, on the island. They prided themselves on always being first to know. They were also usually first to gossip. The Picnic Basket was probably the nerve center for Hurricane Victor information by now.

I wiped my tears with the sleeve of my sweater just in time to hear my name.

“Eliza? Is that you?”

When I turned, Charlie Pender was standing behind me.

What is he doing here?
That was my first thought. Charlie had graduated from Stone Cove High last December, a semester early. I had not seen him since. I remembered that he was taking a year off before college to intern at a newspaper in Boston or Providence and wondered if he might be on some kind of assignment. He seemed taller, or maybe it was just because I felt so beaten down that morning. I saw that same feeling reflected in his eyes; they were faraway, cloudy. In fact, he looked like he was in the same state I was—dazed, distracted, his sandy hair unbrushed, dressed in dark jeans, a sweatshirt, and low-top black Converse. That was funny: we had the same shoes on. But I could feel the space he’d put between himself and the island. It made him seem like a stranger.

Of course, there had always been some distance. While he and I were friendly, our families weren’t. That is, my mom and Charlie’s mom made clear their lack of interest in being friends. His parents owned the Anchor Inn, one of the oldest and definitely the biggest of the hotels. They lived by the success of the island as a summer destination. My mom thought Cat Pender was manipulative, a “climber,” she called her, always sucking up to the richest guests at the inn. I didn’t know what Cat thought of Mom, but I could easily project my own complaints: too nervous, too shrinking, too fragile. My dad and Charlie’s dad were neutral at best. As one of the few local contractors, my
dad often worked on projects at the inn, but I don’t think they’d ever so much as shared a beer.

“This is crazy, huh? Everyone okay at your house?” He sounded wired and a little scared, just like how I felt.

We hugged hello. I was glad for the company, even if he had almost caught me crying.

“Yeah. Big tree came down on the porch. But everyone’s fine. This is unbelievable,” I said. “How’s the inn?”

“It has some damage. That’s a pretty exposed spot up there on the hill. My parents are trying to make the best of it. They don’t want their guests to panic.”

The inn sat on the bluff, perched above the harbor. Every spring it was repainted a perfect, gleaming white. Next door was the famous Anchor Club, known for its grass tennis courts and the croquet tournaments, where members dressed in the white, traditional clothes of the 1920s, when the club was founded. I pictured the howling winds I’d heard the night before, raking through the white clapboard walls, rattling the slate rooftops—as if fighting to tear apart the years of island history. I felt a sinking in my belly. Everything about my life on the island had seemed permanent until last night.

“Are you here to do a story? You’re working at a newspaper, right?” I asked.

“The
Boston Globe
. I don’t get to write much though. A little for the website but it’s mostly research and whatever anyone else doesn’t want to do. I was coming back this weekend to see my parents anyway, so I thought I’d stay in case it turned out to be big.”

We both took in the mangled shore. It was big.

“I feel bad,” he said. “I almost feel like I willed it. Looking for a story.”

“Weather’s not that mystical,” I said, mostly to myself. “It’s just weather. This just happened. It’s not like we asked for it.”

“Huh. You haven’t changed. That’s nice.” I felt a weird flutter as he said it. I didn’t know he thought of me as being any particular way. It was uncomfortable, the compliment amid the destruction.

“Yeah, well, I’m still here,” I said quickly. “Things don’t change that much. You’re the one who left for the big city, right?”

“True,” he said. He looked at me a minute, like he was going to say something else. “Should we go see what’s going on? Nancy and Greg have probably set up a war room down there.”

“Or at least they’ll have some coffee.” I’d been drinking coffee, black, since I was twelve and hanging around my dad’s construction sites. My mom didn’t know about it until much later. Of course she disapproved. My feet were wet. My nerves felt raw. I realized right then I was actually dying for some coffee.

“That sounds good,” he agreed.

We turned and headed back up the street to the Picnic Basket. Slowly people were starting to come out to take in the damage. On the steps of the Congregational Church, Mrs. Walker, the minister’s wife, was sweeping uselessly at huge fallen roof tiles and wood fragments from the steeple. Lexy Morgan and her father were bailing water out of his candy and souvenir shop. Charlie and I paused
at the surreal lake of floating jawbreakers and Atomic Fireballs and offered to help. Mr. Morgan shook his head, too upset and too focused to talk. Mrs. Hilliard, my history teacher, stood in the middle of the street, staring at her car. It had been flattened under a giant maple tree, and now was an accordion of red metal and spiderwebbed glass. She looked confused, as if she’d just awakened from a dream, as if she weren’t sure what she was looking at was real. I knew the feeling. I couldn’t shake it.

Nobody even noticed when we entered the Picnic Basket. The stove was unlit, but Greg was toasting bagels in a toaster oven and there was a huge pot of coffee brewing, both plugged into the portable generator. Nancy was at her computer, finding out everything she could about the storm. She called out headlines to the dozen or so people huddled around her.

“No prediction of how long to restore ferry! Freak softball-sized hail across the border in New Hampshire! Coast guard expects delays of supplies and building materials to island residents in region! Lady Gaga plans Martha’s Vineyard storm victim fund-raiser with Diane Sawyer and Carly Simon.”

She snickered at that last one. A few others grumbled. Stone Cove Island’s rivalry with Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket goes back a long way. Locals insist our island has a more low-key, discreet reputation, but a lot of people feel jealous of the glitzier image of the other two. When the president vacations in Nantucket, islanders here make a big point of saying how thankful they are for the peace and quiet of Stone Cove.

“Nancy, what about the power?” called Jim McNeil, the mechanic in town.

“Thursday at the earliest, they’re saying.”

That was three days from now. I could see everyone mentally calculating their supplies: water, canned food, batteries, extra blankets. So far the weather had been warm for October, but at this time of year, it could be below freezing tomorrow. I’d heard my mother worrying about that just last night, and wondering if we had enough firewood on hand. Greg looked up from his bagel station and nodded at us.

“Charlie, Eliza, you okay? Everybody good at home?”

“We’re fine, Greg. Thanks,” I said.

“Your dad’s about to be busy, I guess. Lots of work to be done.”

“Yeah, I guess it looks that way,” I answered.

Charlie handed me a cup of coffee and gestured to the door. I followed him outside.

“That’s about the worst way I can think of to find out what’s really going on. Local news sites and gossip magazines. Let’s go over to the
Gazette
and see if Jay will let us look at their wire service. Even just their Twitter feed would be better info than this.”

Jay Norsworthy was the editor of our local paper, the
Stone Cove Island Gazette
—an island fixture. Charlie had interned for Jay at least one summer, and I could tell how happy Jay was to see him the second we walked in the door.

It was chaos in the tiny office. Jay was racing between his computer and the AP wire printout. His only companion was his black Lab, Sparkler. The
Gazette
had its own
generator, and Jay had gotten their Internet connection half working, but there were no landlines up anywhere on the island. For a dizzying, manic moment, I felt a wave of relief. It was amazing that Jay was still managing to get the paper out on schedule, by himself, despite everything that was going on that morning. Maybe things weren’t as bad as they seemed.

“Charlie, I could really use your help with the Wi-Fi. It’s been on and off, creeping like a snail when it does work. Maybe you can work your magic.”

“I can try.” Charlie pulled the latest printout from the wire and handed it to Jay, then passed me his coffee and stooped down to take a look.

“Jay, is your house okay?” I asked. Jay lived in a cottage near the west bluffs; there was worry about erosion out there even in an ordinary storm.

“Slept here,” he answered, his eyes still on the computer screen. “I knew I’d have to get the paper out early today once I saw what we were in store for last night. I hope it’s still standing. It might be halfway to Rockport by now though.” He laughed, but I didn’t hear any humor in his voice. Here he was trying to jury-rig his Internet connection to get the town paper out and he didn’t know if he still had a place to live.

Unconsciously my gaze went to Charlie. We exchanged a look. No one, I realized, really knew how bad things were yet. We would only find out by degree. My relief faded, leaving a dark hole in its place. What if people had died?

“Was anyone …” I hesitated, then choked out my
question. “How soon will we know if anyone is missing?” I wasn’t sure how to put this.

Jay’s expression was grim. “No one has been reported missing yet, as far as I’ve heard. But everyone’s still taking stock. We should know more this afternoon. The churches are setting up check-in stations with hot food and drinks—the ones with propane stoves that can
make
hot food, anyway—and there’s an evacuation center at the high school. They said only about fifteen people stayed there last night, but I’ve heard lots more are moving over this morning, the ones that can’t stay in their homes.”

“Do we know how many?” asked Charlie. He was squinting at the tiny copper pins in the USB ports, his fingers working to reattach the haphazard wiring in the block of drives and modems.

“Not yet. That’s my next stop.”

“This thing is flaky,” Charlie complained. “Even on a good day.”

“Don’t I know it,” muttered Jay.

Suddenly I felt the full weight of how powerless I was. Sparkler padded up to me, eyeing me as if I might have brought kibble as well as coffee. It seemed crazy that we were inside, reading reports off the wire service about what was happening to us, right now, right outside. I wanted to get back out and
do
something, anything, so I wouldn’t feel so useless.

I peered over Charlie’s shoulder at some more papers piled on top of the modem. The text confirmed what Nancy had told us: no power for up to a week, no ferry service for the foreseeable future, possibly until the spring depending on how fast federal emergency money would come in to
repair the harbor. Someone would have to work with the coast guard to figure out how we would get food shipped in, garbage shipped out, and how people would get on and off the island. There were many more questions than answers, and all of them needed to be solved before winter set in. I was scared, thinking about how bad things could get once the temperatures really dropped. You couldn’t survive on Stone Cove without heat, gasoline or a way to get food.

“If there’s no ferry until spring, my dad is going to completely lose his mind,” said Charlie with a grim smile.

Or starve
, I thought.

He gave up trying to fix the connection and stood, taking his coffee cup back. It was no longer steaming. “Sorry, Jay.”

“No worries. Your parents have been down here, you know that? It sounds like the inn did okay. They have power, at least.”

Charlie sighed. “The boiler room was flooded. They are dealing with some unhappy folks.”

Jay nodded. I could see his newsman’s antenna sussing out a story in this last comment, a piece about those stranded, late-season guests who refused to leave despite dire warnings—island dilettantes now stuck here with the rest of us.

“I’ll bet. I’ll swing by later and see if I can find some way to help with that. Coast guard is holding a press conference at eleven to talk about initial transportation plans. That should be on the agenda too.” He looked up at us and I noticed for the first time the dark circles ringing his eyes. “You two go and be with your families. I’ll manage here.”