Lizabeth's Story (7 page)

L
izabeth wandered to the village green. It was strange to feel the grass between her toes.

She cut across the square of lawn. She came to the statue of the lost fisherman in the center. Under the three-quarter moon, deep shadows accented the folds of his stone slicker and the cross-hatched fishing net over his shoulder. In the hazy light, he seemed about to get off his pedestal and walk over to South Street.

Lizabeth remembered when the
North Star
sank six years ago. Eight men went down with her. At first there was going to be a memorial plaque engraved with the names of all the Cape Light men lost at sea over the years. Then the town council realized that more names would have to be continually added. Donations were collected to put up the statue instead, to honor all of them, past and future. Cape Light was so pleasant and peaceful, but it was a seafaring town that depended on an often treacherous sea.

Death had never touched anyone close to her, Lizabeth realized, except for Amanda. She shivered. She wouldn't think about death. She wouldn't! Maybe Tracy hadn't been delirious at all. If she had just awakened from a deep sleep, it made sense that she was still halfway in a dream. What was the harm in a dream about a party? Someday she and Tracy would laugh about it.

Lizabeth sat down on the bench in front of the courthouse and brushed grass and pebbles from her soles. In daylight the bench was the property of the old men who gathered there to argue, divided for and against whatever President Teddy Roosevelt was doing next. They'd pass hours there, munching doughnuts from the bakery….

The bakery was shuttered now. The busy general store/post office was nothing but a dark looming shape. Moonlight glimmered on the red-and-white pole in front of the barbershop. Cape Light looked deserted. She had never felt so all alone.

What was she going to do? She had never thought beyond seeing Tracy. Where could she go now? Maybe spend the night right here on the bench. It was as good a plan as any. She'd think more clearly in the morning.

Lizabeth twisted into a comfortable position on the
wooden planks and used her arm for a pillow.

Dear God, Lizabeth whispered, please keep Tracy safe tonight. She's still so small and innocent. She wakes up happy every morning, full of wonder for the new day. She doesn't know that anything bad could happen. Please God, take care of my little sister.

Far away a dog barked. It would be an endless, lonely night. She heard a new sound: the whistles of gusts of wind.

Lizabeth sat up. Clouds covered the moon. Now she could barely see more than a foot ahead. New leaves of the big maples around the square rustled. Lizabeth hugged her arms around her chest. The temperature was dropping. The air felt heavy and damp.

It can't rain, she thought. Please, not tonight! She had to find shelter. But where? She couldn't think. Somewhere….

The Mill Pond! There was a little shed on the far side, where they'd put on their skates or stash hot cocoa when the pond froze over in the winter.

Lizabeth had to go slowly in the dark, feeling her way on the road. The distance to the pond had never seemed longer. Ow! Something cut deep into her heel. A sharp stone. She dug it out, but now she was limping.
She kept her mind on the shed and forced herself forward. Another painful step, a little further…

Lizabeth heard water lapping against the shore. The Mill Pond! A flood of memories washed over her. Tracy, learning to skate last winter. It was Chris who patiently held her hand, though all his friends were zooming around the ice. Chris did have a tender side, Lizabeth realized. One that he saved mostly for Tracy.

The last time they went, Tracy was skating on her own with a huge, proud grin. Lizabeth could almost see it: Tracy falling, her little face crumpling but refusing to cry, picking herself up and starting off again. Lizabeth's heart turned over. Nothing ever stopped that brave little girl.

Lizabeth was making her way around the pond when the drizzle began. Last week she would have said a drizzle was good for her dewy complexion. Had her mind really been on nothing else?

She had reached the shed when the rain became heavier. Thank goodness she'd made it just in time! She felt her way around the wooden sides. Here was the door! It was latched shut with a heavy iron lock. Lizabeth was stunned with disbelief. She rattled and rattled the chain. No use. She pounded desperately at the door. She pounded until her fists were sore.

She stood in misery as the rain drenched her. Her dress was plastered to her body. Her soaked petticoat weighed her down. Water ran from her hair down her face, down her neck, along her arms. If she didn't get out of the rain, she'd surely get sick—if she wasn't already.

She heard the first rumblings of thunder in the distance. She had to do something! But what?
What?
Kat's cottage, Rose's, Amanda's—so warm and cozy, forbidden to her now when she needed her friends the most.

Her dripping hair ribbon was blown in front of her face. She pulled it off. She was breathing with rapid, panicked gasps. Stop it, she told herself.
Think!

The abandoned fishermen's huts! There were three of them down near the docks. Ice fishermen had used them before they became too dilapidated. But they were still partially standing, they still had roofs, she thought. All that long way to the docks—but somewhere to go.

Lizabeth retraced her steps back to Lighthouse Lane. She lost track of how long she'd been walking. She could hardly see in the pelting rain. Then the first bolts of lightning scared her. Stay away from trees, Lizabeth remembered. They're hit first in a thunderstorm. But the lane was lined with trees! There was nothing she could do except keep going.

She limped, favoring her right foot. In the dark, she veered off the road. When she brushed against the bushes, she redirected her steps back to the path. She went from paving to dirt road, her feet squishing in mud. She gave in to the streams of water running down her body. When lightning came, she learned to use the moment of visibility to check her direction.

She walked and walked, and suddenly she thought, Maybe this is my walkabout. She had nothing: no shoes, no clothing but a torn and sopping dress, none of the trimmings that had been so important to her. I'm stripped bare, Lizabeth thought. It's just me now, down to the basics. Is this where I meet myself?

Who would she meet? A girl whose entire soul had been wrapped up in becoming a beauty queen, with
Beauty Secrets of the Ages
as her bible? A girl who thought her pretty dresses made her special? So very smug and so dependent on being rich—is
that
all I am? Her tears mixed with the rain running down her cheeks. Not anymore, please, God—I can be better than that!

Lizabeth was tempted to sink helplessly to the ground. No! She wiped her eyes. No, I'll go on walking and I
will
reach the huts. And I will
not
seek help where I might infect someone else.

In a flash of lightning, Lizabeth spotted the first tumbledown hut. She almost cried with gratitude as she rushed toward it. The door was half off its hinges. It was easy to get in. She bumped her knee on something—a crate? She went deep into the shed until she hit the far wall. It was dry back here. Blessedly dry!

Lizabeth went limp with relief. A haven at last. She sank down to the rough, splintery floor and huddled into a ball to keep warm. I'll make it through the night, she thought, and there'll be another morning and God's warm, comforting sun.

Suddenly she heard the door's hinges creak. The wind? No, the door was being
pushed
open. Someone was coming inside! Lizabeth gasped and scrambled to her feet.

“Who's there?” a hoarse voice called.

Lizabeth was too uneasy to answer. She shrank against the wall. She heard the scratch of a match. She saw the flare of a candle being lit. Above its wavering flickers was a grotesque bony face.

Crazy Mary!

“W
ho's there?” Crazy Mary's hoarse voice repeated. “Answer me!”

Lizabeth cowered against the far wall. Her heart was racing.

“Don't think I can't hear you! Show yourself!” Crazy Mary lit another candle. Now there were two, placed in hurricane lamps on a crate. Their light wavered unsteadily throughout the hut. “This is
my
place!”

“I'll…I'll go.” Lizabeth was trembling.

Crazy Mary, covered by a dripping tarpaulin, was blocking the doorway. Did she dare run past her? She was afraid to get close.

“Please. If you move from the door, I'll go. Let me…let me go.”

Crazy Mary took a step toward her.

“Don't come near me! I might have scarlet fever,” Lizabeth threatened.

“What do I care about the fever?” Crazy Mary chortled, and her laughter was horribly out of place.

“Let me out,” Lizabeth begged.

“Foolish girl! You'll catch your death in the rain.” Crazy Mary peered at her. “You're a young one, are you? Tell me how old.”

“Thir—thirteen,” Lizabeth stammered. She saw a neat pile of rags against the wall and a dented tin dish. There was a big straw bag stuffed with pieces of clothing and what seemed to be a faded family Bible. She had stumbled into the hut that served as Crazy Mary's home! “I didn't mean any harm, I—” If she could somehow edge around her…

“Are you a friend of my Kevin?” Crazy Mary asked.

Who was Kevin? What was she supposed to say?

“No, no, I get mixed up.” Crazy Mary groaned. “It was six years ago Kevin was fifteen. Nineteen hundred, turn of the century. Six years.”

Crazy Mary was an old woman, that's all, Lizabeth told herself. She couldn't be very strong. Lizabeth gathered her courage. I can force my way past her and get out. Just
go
!

“Are you a drowned rat? That's what you look like.” That awful chortle again and Crazy Mary tossed a frayed
blanket at Lizabeth. “Here.”

Lizabeth caught it automatically. It smelled, but she couldn't resist wrapping it around her wet and freezing body. She was uncertain. Outside was the driving rain. Inside was Crazy Mary! Though Kat's father said she was harmless…No, of course she couldn't
stay
here!

“Six years,” Crazy Mary mumbled. “No one remembers the
North Star
. You don't know. You don't know anything.”

“The
North Star
?” Lizabeth repeated. She had been seven when the shock and sadness of it affected the whole town.

“What do
you
know?” Crazy Mary sounded belligerent and Lizabeth shrank back.

“I remember the
North Star
,” Lizabeth said. “It sank.”

“It took all four with it. To the bottom of the sea. Down to the crabs and the lobsters and the creeping crawlers and—”

“Eight men went down with the North Star,” Lizabeth corrected. This
was
crazy! Was she actually having a conversation of sorts with Crazy Mary? But if she kept the old woman calm and talking…She'd make her move soon, suddenly brush past her. Lizabeth shuddered. Back into the rain with no place to go.

“Four of mine,” Crazy Mary said. “John Dellrow. My husband. He was fifty-six. Fifty-six is too soon, don't you think? Johnny Dellrow, Jr. He was thirty, the image of his father. A fine boy. Oh, he hated it when they called him Junior. Alan Dellrow, twenty-eight. Alan always said fishing was no kind of life. Not tough enough for it. Wanted to work on a farm. I'll tell you the truth: John had no patience for him.”

Lizabeth had never connected the Dellrow tragedy with Crazy Mary. “I'm sorry,” she said.

Crazy Mary didn't seem to hear her. Her talk flowed out as if a dam had opened.

“Alan, well, he was the one remembered flowers on my birthday. Daffodils one year, tied up with a yellow ribbon. Now wasn't that nice? Imagine, flowers on my birthday! And Kevin, just turned fifteen. He was the baby. Didn't think I'd have another one, but then there was Kevin. He was my special one. Knew his numbers and letters and such a smile! I didn't want him going out with the others that day.” Crazy Mary groaned. “I said he oughta be in school. But he wanted to be a man like his brothers. You should have seen his eyes, begging to go. John said I was babying him, making him soft. John was head of the house, you know, so I said all right. I had an
awful cold feeling that day, but I said all right. That's what I did. And I started the codfish stew for dinner, cutting up onions and all. Potatoes, too. Had plenty of potatoes in those days.”

“I'm sorry,” Lizabeth repeated. Pity had almost replaced her fear.

“What do
you
know? I waited at the dock. September fourteenth, 1900. I waited and waited. The other boats came in and I waited. What do you know about grief?”

“Nothing, but…” Lizabeth took a breath. “My little sister has scarlet fever. Tracy. She's only four. Tonight she was saying things. Things that didn't make sense. What does that mean?”

“
Pshaw
! What makes sense and what don't? Makes no difference.” Crazy Mary laughed. “I don't give two figs for sense.”

“I'm scared for her,” Lizabeth said. She was talking only to herself now. “I'm scared.”

“You're a young one. Are you a friend to my Kevin?”

“No, I'm sorry, I don't know Kevin.”

“He's the one with the nice smile. The girls are crazy for him. You know who I mean? The one with the dimples. You can't miss him.”

“I don't know him.”

Crazy Mary stared at Lizabeth. “What's your mother think, sending you out like that? Barefoot and a ripped-up dress! Hair like a rat's nest. I don't send my boys out like that!”

Lizabeth shrugged.

“I'm turning in,” Crazy Mary said, “I have my rounds to make first thing in the morning. You can stay, but if you make any noise I'm sending you right out in the storm. No shenanigans, mark my word!”

“Yes, Mrs. Dellrow.”

“They call me Mary,” she mumbled.

Lizabeth took a far corner and rested on the floor against the wall. The blanket smelled terrible, but it kept her warm.

 

“Wake up if you want to eat!” Mary nudged Lizabeth with her toe. “Don't think I'm serving breakfast in bed.”

Lizabeth couldn't believe that she had managed to sleep—and with Crazy Mary nearby—but light was now seeping around the edges of the door. It was morning!

“Shake a leg. I'm hungry,” Mary said.

Lizabeth's stomach was grumbling. She had hardly eaten the chicken at Kat's last night. Now she'd give any
thing for a piece of it. She wondered what Mary did for food.

The old woman beckoned impatiently. Lizabeth combed her fingers through her hair and followed Mary out of the hut.

It was just dawn. The chill of the night was already gone. It would be an unseasonably warm May day. Lizabeth's clothes were still wet, and she was grateful to feel the first rays of the sun.

Lizabeth followed Mary along Wharf Way. She was still barefoot and limping, but her heel didn't hurt as much anymore. She felt so much better. A night of sleep had healed her. We Merchant girls, she thought, we recover fast. Tracy, too, would be better this morning.

They passed the bustling docks. They were full of activity: men loading boats, calling to each other, hoisting sails.

In contrast, Lighthouse Lane was sleepy and deserted at this early hour. Mary loped along toward the center of town and Lizabeth followed, puzzled. They reached the village green. The stores around the square were still closed.

“Quick before they spot us,” Mary said. “Got a late start this morning!”

She led Lizabeth behind the bakery on East Street, where waste bins were lined up in the alley.

“He throws out stale things,” Mary said. “The best pickings are in here.” She waded into the garbage.

No, I'm not eating
garbage
, Lizabeth thought. But she was so hungry. The tantalizing aromas from the back door of the bakery made her mouth water. Mr. Witherspoon must be at the ovens now, she thought, preparing the day's goods.

If I'm going to eat today, Lizabeth thought, maybe this is it. Maybe I have to. How quickly life could change!

Then she noticed that Mary had taken a paper-wrapped packet from the top of the bin. Who
wraps
garbage? It contained three rolls.

“No doughnuts,” Mary grumbled. “On good days, I find a doughnut.”

When Mary offered Lizabeth a roll, she took it, hesitated for just a moment, and bit in.

The roll wasn't stale at all. The caraway-sprinkled crust was crisp, the inside was soft, and Lizabeth suspected it was still warm from the oven. Lizabeth was sure Mr. Witherspoon had put it out especially for Mary, even if she didn't realize that.

The same thing happened when they explored the
garbage behind the general store. A carefully covered wedge of cheddar was waiting on top. Lizabeth broke off a piece. It tasted fresh from the wheel in the store. Cranky old Mr. Thomas must have been thinking of Mary, too. The people of Cape Light were so kind!

Mary gummed the cheese with smacking sounds. She dismissed Lizabeth with a wave of her hand. “Go on your way now. I have things to do.”

“Thank you,” Lizabeth said, “for everything.”

Mary didn't answer. Lizabeth watched the old woman shuffle down the alley in her torn, oversized shoes. A last glimpse of flying, disheveled gray hair, and Mary disappeared around a corner.

Lizabeth wandered toward the village green. She saw Mr. Hardy unlocking the door of the telegraph office. Cape Light was coming to life. If anyone noticed her barefoot and ragged, there'd be questions to answer. Someone would surely tell her parents. She'd have to stay out of sight. After dark she would go to see Tracy again. What could she do until evening?

It was a long and lonely day. Lizabeth walked aimlessly on a little-used road in the direction of Potter's Orchard, but the sound of a horse and carriage made her duck behind a briar bush. After it was safely past, she
headed the other way toward Durham Point. She went by the salt marsh. She was walking in circles. Hours must have passed. The sun was high in the sky now. Her clothes were almost dry.

Hunger told her that it had to be lunchtime.

Lizabeth sat down on an old pine trunk felled by a long-ago storm. It was crumbly and covered with lichens. Twittering birds were loud. Nuthatches? Chickadees? She didn't know one bird call from another. Even the birds had each other for company, she thought. She had no one.

Another day of my walkabout, she thought. No one to meet but myself. Hello Lizabeth, this is who you are. Food, shelter, family, and friends are all you need. This is what's real. The girl who pretended to be dumb and got into knots over a beauty event and complained about lighthouse discomforts was gone, someone she hardly remembered.

She was so hungry! She dreamed of roast beef and lemon meringue pie, and her mouth watered. Any kind of food would do. A crust of bread, anything. She decided to chance going into town to see what she could forage.

At the town square she kept to the shadows in the back alleys.

“Lizabeth! Lizabeth!” It was Kat's voice calling from the street. She sounded tearful. “I didn't mean anything I said. Not a word! Lizabeth, if you can hear me…”

“Lizabeth!” Amanda called. “Lizabeth, where are you?”

They were looking for her! And poor Kat thought she'd disappeared because of their fight. She wanted to reassure her. She wanted so badly to run to them!

No, she couldn't! Kat and Amanda might tell Mother and Father. She couldn't blame them. When Kat had stowed away to Boston last year, Lizabeth had broken her promise not to tell because she thought Kat was in danger. She'd thought it was the right thing to do. Kat and Amanda might feel the same way.

Lizabeth couldn't let anything stop her from seeing Tracy tonight. She
had
to see Tracy no matter what! So she hid behind a barrel in the alley until Kat's and Amanda's voices faded away toward North Street. And she was left twice as lonely.

She found nothing in the bins but half a wormy peach and a slice of bread green with mildew. She gagged. All right; she'd go hungry today. One day wasn't that long.

When it was twilight, Lizabeth crept back to the
village green. There were only a few stragglers left. She saw Mr. Thomas lock up the general store. The old men had deserted the bench in front of the courthouse. She'd sit there and wait until it was dark enough to climb the trellis. Soon…

She was crossing the green when she saw two familiar figures. Chris and Rose! Together—and holding hands! Lizabeth ducked behind the statue of the lost fisherman. She peeked out at them.

Chris and Rose went to the bench and sat down. And then—Lizabeth couldn't believe her eyes! Chris sat slumped with his head in his hands. His shoulders were shaking. Rose had a comforting arm around him.

He was
crying
! Impossible. Boys and men didn't cry. Chris certainly
never
cried. But that's what she was seeing. Something must have happened. Something terrible. Tracy!