Riptide

Chapter 33

The attic was more or less as Hatch remembered it: cluttered to overflowing with the kind of flotsam and jetsam families collect over decades of accumulated life. The dormer windows let in a feeble stream of afternoon light, which was quickly drowned in the gloomy stacks of dark furniture, old wardrobes and bedsteads, hat racks and boxes, and stacks of chairs. As Hatch stepped off the last step onto the worn boards, the heat, dust, and smell of mothballs brought back a single memory with razor sharpness: playing hide and seek under the eaves with his brother, rain drumming loudly on the roof.

He took a deep breath, then moved forward cautiously, fearful of upsetting something or making a loud noise. Somehow, this storehouse of memories was now a holy place, and he almost felt like a trespasser, violating its sanctuary.

With the surveying of the original Pit now completed by the mapping teams, and an insurance adjuster due on the island in the afternoon, Neidelman had little choice but to call a half-day halt to activity. Malin took the opportunity to head home for a bite of lunch and perhaps a bit of research. He remembered a large picture book, The Great Cathedrals of Europe, that had once been his great-aunt's. With any luck, he'd find it among the boxes of books that his mother had carefully stowed away in the attic. He wanted a private chance to understand, a little better, exactly what this discovery of St. John's meant.

He made his way through the clutter, barking one shin on a scuffed bumper-pool table and almost upsetting a hoary old Victrola, precariously balanced on a box full of 78s. He carefully replaced the Victrola, then glanced at the old records, scratched and worn to mere whispers of their original tunes: 'Puttin' On the Ritz,' 'The Varsity Drag,' 'Let's Misbehave,' Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters riffing to 'Is You Is Or Is You Ain't My Baby.' He remembered how his father insisted on playing the ancient thing on summer evenings, the raucous old show tunes and dance numbers floating incongruously over the yard and down toward the pebbled shore.

In the dim light of the attic, he could make out the great carved maple headboard of the family bed, leaning against a far corner. It had been presented by his great-grandfather to his great-grandmother on their wedding day. Interesting present, he thought to himself.

Sure enough: beside the headboard was an ancient wardrobe. And behind the wardrobe he could make out the boxes of books, as neatly stacked as when he and Johnny had put them there, under orders from his mother.

Hatch stepped up to the wardrobe and tried to force it aside. It moved an inch, perhaps a little more. He stepped back, contemplating the hideous, solid, topheavy piece of Victoriana, an artifact from his grandfather's day. He heaved at it with his shoulders and it moved a few inches, wobbling unsteadily. Considering how much the wood must have dried over the years, it was still damned heavy. Maybe some stuff remained inside. He sighed and wiped his brow.

The wardrobes upper doors were unlocked, and they swung open to reveal a musty, vacant interior. Hatch tried the drawers at the bottom and found them empty as well. All except for the bottom drawer: stuffed in the back, torn and faded, was an old T-shirt with an iron-on Led Zeppelin logo. Claire had bought this for him, he remembered, on a high-school outing to Bar Harbor. He turned the shirt over in his hands for a moment, remembering the day she'd given it to him. Now it was just a two-decade-old rag. He put it aside. She'd found her happiness now— or lost it, depending on whom you asked.

One more try. He grabbed the wardrobe and wrestled with it, rocking it back and forth. Suddenly it shifted under his grasp, tilting forward dangerously, and he leaped out of the way as the thing went plummeting to the floor with a terrific crash. He scrambled to his feet as an enormous cloud of dust billowed up.

Then he bent down curiously, waving away the dust with an impatient hand.

The wooden backing of the wardrobe had broken apart in two places, revealing a narrow recess. Inside, he could make out the faint lines of newspaper clippings and pages covered with loopy, narrow handwriting, their edges thin and brittle against the old mahogany.

Chapter 34

The long point of ochre-colored land called Burnt Head lay south of town, jutting out into the sea like a giant's gnarled finger. On the far side of this promontory, the cliff tumbled wooded and wild down to the bay known as Squeaker's Cove. Countless millions of mussel shells, rubbing against each other in the brittle surf, had given the deserted spot its name. The wooded paths and hollows that lay in the shadow of the lighthouse had become known as Squeaker's Glen. The name had a double meaning for students at Stormhaven High School; the glen also functioned as the local lovers' lane, and virginity had been lost there on more than one occasion.

Twenty-odd years before, Malin Hatch had himself been one of those fumbling virgins. Now he found himself strolling the wooded paths again, uncertain what impulse had brought him to this spot. He had recognized the handwriting on the sheets hidden in the wardrobe as his grandfather's. Unable to bring himself to read them right away, he'd left the house intent on strolling down along the waterfront. But his feet had taken him back of the town, skirting the meadows around Fort Blacklock, and angling at last toward the lighthouse and Squeaker's Cove.

He veered off onto a rutted path, a thin pencil line of black dropping through the thick growth. After several yards, the path opened into a small glade. On three sides, the rocky escarpment of Burnt Head rose steeply, covered in moss and creepers. On the fourth side, dense foliage blocked any view of the water, though the strange whispering of the mussel shells in the surf betrayed the nearness of the coast. Dim bars of light striped diagonally through the tree cover, highlighting ragged patches of grass. Despite himself, Hatch smiled as Emily Dickinson came unbidden to mind. ''There's a certain Slant of light,'' he murmured,

Winter Afternoons—

Which oppresses, like the Heft

Of Cathedral Tunes—

He looked around the secluded glade as the memories came charging back. Of one May afternoon in particular, full of nervous roving hands and short, tentative gasps. The newness of it, the exotic sense of venturing into adult territory, had been intoxicating. He shook the memory away, surprised at how the thought of something that had happened so long ago could still be so arousing. That had been six months before his mother packed them off to Boston. Claire, more than anyone, had accepted his moods; accepted all the baggage that had come with being Malin Hatch, the boy who'd lost the better part of his family.

Ican't believe the place is still here, he thought to himself. His eyes caught a crumpled beer can peeping from beneath a rock; still here, and still apparently used for the same purposes.

He sat down on the fragrant grass. A beautiful late summer afternoon, and he had the glen all to himself.

No, not quite to himself. Hatch became aware of a rustling on the path behind him. He turned suddenly, and to his surprise saw Claire step out into the glade.