The wisps of early morning fog dampened his face, pinked his ears, tingled his fingers, making him glad for the fleece-lined leather flight jacket that wrapped him in warmth. Anticipation crept into reality; he felt reborn after weeks of fighting pain and depression. His foot pressed down the accelerator, miles of two-lane roadway disappearing beneath the newly purchased second-hand military-type Jeep. In the light of dawn the scene repeated: short patches of woods, small fields and orchards, swamp, then back to woods, and again to fields, the light sandy soil supporting regiments of erect corn. On newly-born green blades dew glistened where the first rays of sun stabbed through the rising fog, bringing the faint sweet smell of growth. Farms with barren roadside stands of rough plank, small villages swept past on either side. His breath caught in recognition of the foreshortened curve at the foot of the three-mile long bridge. The Currituck Sound extended far on both sides, but it was to his left that he gazed, yearning for sanctuary, longing to see some familiar sign. The waters of the sound rippled into whitecaps by the breeze that tossed his lengthening black hair.
The fluorescent colors of the billboard slashed across his vision as he slowed, turning left onto the narrow road that led to Duck. Just beyond the village the pavement ended. He stopped and eased from the Jeep to lock the wheel hubs into four-wheel drive, then drove the pair of ruts angling across the low dunes to the beach, the engine whining against the pull of dry sand.
The Jeep picked up speed on the packed sand of the wave-washed beach. His eyes welcomed the expanse of low pale dunes, the deep blue-green of the Atlantic, a glimpse of the green woods along the sound side. Even the wind-driven salt-spray on his face caressed and soothed, savory after months of rubbing alcohol and the astringent sneeze-inducing cleaner used on the hospital floor tiles, though he trembled involuntarily at the thunder of each breaking wave.
Estimating the distance he'd come when the squat shingled tower of the old life-saving station hove into view, he shifted into low and steered toward the gap between two dunes. He felt the tires dig for traction as the Jeep tilted upward then plunged down the leeward side, the sway ceasing as the wheels found purchase in the leafy loam under the trees.
The Jeep pushed through the sparse undergrowth, abrading branches of pine and bay to scent his passing. He breathed deeply letting the familiar odors ease his bruised thoughts as he brought the Jeep to a halt and rummaged in the back, finding only a lug wrench. Stumbling to the rusting iron gate, he used the tool to break the corroded lock, then dropped the chain, and awkwardly pushed the gate against the drifted sand and wild myrtle engulfing the gateposts in rank growth. Driving the Jeep through, he got out again to close the gate. "Now let the bastards try to get me," he muttered, leaving the world outside. A belief that everything outside the fence was an illusion contrived by fate to belittle and confuse overwhelmed him. The thick myrtle hedge that protected the lush azaleas from the salt spray when the ocean whipped into a frenzy from nor'easters or an occasional hurricane concealed, for the most part, the salt-pitted chain-link fence surrounding the property.
The driveway he vaguely remembered had disappeared under a thick blanket of leaves and pine straw. He parked in front of the house and set his feet cautiously on the ground, levering himself upright with his arms. He stretched, arms raised towards the sky, arched his back and took a deep breath before dropping his arms and exhaling, feeling the tension of the long drive ease before he began his cautious way through the tall grass deeper into the thicket. A few early dogwood blossoms clung tenuously to the lower branches. Random spots of red and lavender from azaleas prematurely open, pale new growth budded on twigs.
An entangling vine tripped him. He fell with a muffled curse. He grabbed a black-gum sapling to pull himself up, then stepped ahead. He ducked under the spreading branches of a massive live-oak, dodged the festoons of Spanish moss, his searching eyes finding at last the simple bronze plaque set into a small block of granite. He brushed away the accumulation of leaves and gazed in thoughtful silence at the name of his uncle in raised lettering. 'You came here to get away, to find yourself. After all you tried to teach me, would you have ever guessed that now I'm doing the same? They've finally gotten to me. I swore they wouldn't, but they have. I'm tired. I hurt. There were many days when I wished I were lying beside you in peace.' A long finger flicked away the tear as his losses crashed in. He stood for a few moments longer reflecting on the old man's last admonition, reliving the scene and hearing the words once more.
He had held the child's face between huge arthritic hands, gazing into his eyes. "Make me one promise, son. Don't marry your job as I did. No matter how much you love it, there's little comfort when you must leave. After, don't hide from the world like I have. When you've found a place in life for yourself, get married, have children of your own. You're all I have. When you're here these few days each year, I feel alive."
"But I never got the chance," he mumbled unconsciously. He took a few steps back toward the house, almost flinging himself to the ground before realizing that the rapid explosive bursts were not from an automatic weapon. His searching eyes came to rest on a flicker clinging to the trunk of a large dogwood, hammering away. "Almost had me there, you little bastard." He smiled slightly at the frailty of his subconscious and resumed his halting pace.
He paused before climbing the steps and looked up. The massive house remained as solid and reassuring as he'd remembered, though the intense sun and wind-whipped sand had stripped away much of the stain, the cedar shingle siding streaked silver-gray. He forced the key through the greenish corrosion in the lock and pushed the heavy door open, stepping into the hall. A few grains of sand gritted beneath his feet. Despite the musty odor, the dark interior wrapped him in security.
He propped open the storm shutters over the second floor windows to help air the house, then made his way downstairs. Dusk streaked the sky by the time he hammered out the hinge pins of the heavy wooden storm shutter from last of the first storey windows and dropped it to the ground, then fumbled his way down the extension ladder, missing the last two rungs. Cursing the unmanageable leg, he stacked the half dozen or so shutters remaining in good condition to put away the next morning. The rest had shattered into aged fragments when dropped to the ground.
'Thank goodness my uncle put his bedroom down here,' he thought, pushing the door open, 'I don't think I could have made it up the stairs again.' By the light of a candle he made up the bed and snuggled under the down comforter. Though every joint ached and his stomach rumbled from lack of food, the warm cocoon brought surcease. His eyes closed.
He was running across the dunes toward the ocean with cries of delight. From behind him came the deep voiced chuckle of his uncle. He glanced back to see a glowing smile creasing the weathered face at his enjoyment. He jumped back in fright when a fiddler crab emerged from it's hole and scuttled across his path. His uncle laughed. "He's more afraid of you than you are of him. They won't bother you." At the ocean's edge he splashed into the wash of the waves to pick up a perfect conch shell, turning it over in wonder at the rosy glow of the interior, then held it to his ear to hear the ocean. He chortled in joy. At bedtime the shell lay on the pillow, his ear pressed against it hearing the susurration of imagined waters. There was no happiness like this.
His eyes popped open. In the filtered darkness he found contentment in the unbidden memories flooding back:
The family had been thrilled when his uncle built the house, anticipating summer visits to the beach. But once the difficulty in getting to the place and its isolation were discovered, the family, with the exception of his parents, united against the man, unwittingly giving him the solitude for thought and writing he had sought in his retirement. That and the low price on the acreage had been ample justification.
Even given its inaccessibility, the house had been frequented by a few of his uncle's closest acquaintances. During his own summer visits as a child, it did not occur to him that his uncle was aging, for whatever he wished to do, his uncle joined in with enthusiasm. Only the exacted lesson at the organ each day, followed by an hour's practice, diminished the excitement of absolute freedom.
His uncle parked the ancient pick-up on the wide shoulder of the highway. They got out and leaned against the rusting side, waiting to flag the bus. Kurt looked at his uncle in disbelief as a tear trickled down the creased cheek.
"I hate to see you go, especially this time. I don't know when I'll see you again."
"I can come back next summer."
"You'll be fourteen, then. You'll have different interests and no time for an old man."
"I'll always have time for you."
The old man shook his head sadly. "Don't make promises you won't keep."
With a screech of worn brakes, the bus stopped; the door slammed open. His uncle gave him a crushing hug and a hurried kiss, embarrassing to a boy vaguely conscious of impending manhood, and said, "I love you," before pushing him toward the steps.
He looked back through the smeared window at the figure standing by the side of the road, hand up in farewell. This and the tears were his only intimation that paradise to childhood eyes became otherwise with advancing age. After that summer he returned only once - to stand with a few strangers in Coast Guard uniform at that spot in the garden.
Just after he turned sixteen, his parents had been killed in an automobile accident. The old man had stood arm around him at the funeral and had fought for his custody, but because of his uncle's reputation as a recluse and access to a school involving a twice daily boat trip across the sound, the court placed him with a wealthy socialite aunt whose antipathy toward her brother overrode her distaste for teenagers. She did not let his presence interfere with her plans, pleased that he seemed to have inherited her brother's predisposition towards solitude. After enrolling him in an academically superior day school, she accepted her brother's advice in the one area on which they found agreement and provided him with an excellent piano teacher.
He shut out the memories and turned on his side to sleep.
When he opened the dry faucet in the bath the next morning, he remembered the lack of power. Grateful that the battery in his razor was fully charged, he shaved, then washed in water dipped from an old rain barrel at the back of the house. Once he had driven back to the highway and found a hearty breakfast at a roadside restaurant, he visited the office of the power company, then the oil company from which he'd found a receipt on his uncle's desk. To the village post office where he rented a box and on to the market. By the time he unloaded two market carts of food and cleaning supplies into the back of the Jeep, he was eager to return home.
With the supplies put away, he went to the bedroom and opened the one large suitcase he'd left unpacked the day before. He hung what few pieces of good clothing he could still wear in the back of the closet. Life here would require little more than the jeans and pull-overs he hung for immediate access. He pulled several pair of field shorts from the bottom of the duffle bag with a grimace. Long his favorite warm weather attire, he wondered now that if even alone he could bring himself to put on a pair without a feeling of depression. He shook his head and placed them in the bottom drawer of the dresser.
After a cup of tea, he gathered supplies and went into the library to begin cleaning. He picked up the eight-year-old calendar from his uncle's desk. 'Wonder what today is?' He began to count back then stopped, dropping the calendar in the trash bag with a shrug. "What's the difference?" He mumbled and moved on to clean elsewhere, thinking of what his uncle had once said: 'Time is immaterial here, one day the same as another. Change comes slowly, without notice.' He thought of the words again as he stopped in the hall to look at the grandfather clock, remembering his uncle's delight when the antique piece had been restored to working order. He opened the panel and raised the weights, then set it, making certain the chimes were silenced between eleven in the evening and eight in the morning.
Days passed in a mindless haze of vacuuming, dusting, scrubbing, broken by scant meals and endless cups of tea. Finally, with muscles aching, he dropped an old towel into the bucket at his feet with a sigh of relief and pride. "Ready for inspection, sir." The oft spoken phrase accompanied a smile at the memory of the way his uncle had made a game of cleaning, even the little help a child had been able to give, sweeping the floor or running the vacuum. Now the glass in the three sets of French doors overlooking the sound sparkled a reflection of the setting sun. The beamed cathedral ceiling soared two and a half storeys above him, while some thirty feet away bookcases lined the wall beneath a gallery filled with the frozen geometrical flow of organ pipes. At his back a leather sofa and wing chairs comprised a grouping before an outsized stone fireplace. Despite the amount of glass, the dark paneling and worn oriental rugs created a dim, cool haven, permeated with the scents of old wood, books, leather, the sweet smokiness of winter fires, and, always, the sea.
As he lifted the bucket to empty it, his arm gave an involuntarily jerk, water slopping on the floor. "Damn!" He wiped up the spill and slumped down in a chair at the kitchen table, waiting for the spasms to pass before he fixed a full meal for himself.
He took his glass of wine and sat on the deck in the deepening twilight, feeling the feather touch of the cooling breeze, its salt tang. Flickering points of firefly light danced, stars popped out in electric brilliance. The crickets' chirp, an occasional splash of a fish in the sound, faint rustle of leaves comprised a gentle tone poem. The glass remained unraised, his efforts of the past few days having drained the last vestige of thought and strength. Into his total relaxation came a sense of peace.
The hum and sharp prick of a mosquito jerked him back to reality. He slapped the pest and picked up the glass, going into the library and settling into one of the leather wing chairs before the fire, to stare into the wine. While living with his aunt, exercise, a good book, and music filled his days. In college, an occasional glass of wine complemented the books and music. He remembered how he'd missed the precious music and solitude during his stint in the military. The books, music, wine, and solitude were here, but after his initial burst of enthusiasm in setting the place right, they failed to create the cohesive sanctuary he sought.
"Leave me alone!" He shouted at the ghosts that tormented him. He swallowed the last of the wine and went to the harpsichord. The instrument had surprised him, for his uncle had not mentioned it in his frequent letters to which, he now sorrowfully remembered, he'd not always replied. After jacking the strings into tune against the small electronic standard he found nearby, he opened the book of music left on the rack and began one of the Scarlatti sonatas. He struggled to regain the facility his fingers once held, inspired by the meld of music and instrument, yet instead of the peace playing always brought, he felt a growing sense of unease. At the conclusion of the work, he obeyed a compulsion to turn. Behind him a denim-clad figure with an enlisted man's white hat perched casually on the back of his head leaned against the door-facing staring fixedly at him, his hand resting lightly on the .45 holstered on his hip.
"What are you doing here?" His cold voice slashed.
He appraised the husky man, blond crew-cut hair bleached to tow by the sun, a broad square face. The violet-blue eyes hinted at cruelty beneath the surface, shading slightly as they bored into his.
"I live here. Who are you and how'd you get in?"
The man's hand closed over the grip of the pistol. "That's a crock. Chief says ain't nobody supposed to be here. This place's been empty ever since the old man died. Let's go."
"Where?"
"Station. Move it!"
He stopped to take an envelope from the desk and hold it out. "Look at this."
"Save it for the chief. Move!"
He placed the envelope securely in his jacket pocket and switched off the lights under the watchful eyes then preceded the man to the gray military Jeep in the drive. Not until they drew up in the lighted area before the shingled life-saving station did the man speak again. "Inside!"
He blinked in the sudden brilliance of the fluorescents. A chief warrant officer seated at a regulation metal desk topped with gray linoleum looked up curiously, then in amazement from the crewman to the figure before him. The crewman was a few inches taller than his own six feet, broad shouldered and large boned, but this stranger was taller and slender, small framed despite his height that must be at least six foot seven. He looked closer into the deep-set gray eyes seeing pain, echoed by lines uncommon in a youthful forehead. Lengthy curly black hair, a thick spreading mustache accentuated the youthfulness. The chief looked back to the crewman. "The house?"
"Yes, sir." The man's hand rested on the pistol once more.
The chief's eyes bored through him. "Name?"
"Kurt Lawrence, Chief." He dropped the envelope on the desk and opened his billfold beside it. "There's a copy of my uncle's will; ID's in my wallet."
The officer extracted a driver's license and an army ID from the billfold and spread them on the desk, opened the envelope and unfolded the document, reading rapidly. He squinted at the picture on the ID card, turning it in his hand to eliminate the glare of the lights on the plastic, then looked at Kurt, trying to visualize him with shorter hair and without the mustache.
His face cleared as he spoke. "Put the piece away, Lindstrom."
He stood, extending his hand. "Chief Warrant Officer Joe Sloane, Captain. My apologies, but I had to make sure. Paul was a good friend of mine. Since his death, we've kept an eye on the place. I remember hearing him speak of you now." His brow wrinkled in recollection. "For some reason you look kind of familiar, sir."
"It's not Captain any longer. I'm out." Kurt smiled in sudden recognition of the lined, weathered face. "You were at his funeral."
"I remember now. You've changed a lot since then."
The smile twisted as Kurt's finger idly traced the thin jagged scar from cheekbone to temple. "Time changes one."
The chief nodded, "Have a seat, sir." After Kurt had taken the chair beside the desk, the chief resumed his seat and jerked his head at the crewman. "Get us some coffee, Lindstrom."
Kurt dropped into a chair by the desk. "I appreciate your looking after the place, Chief."
"No problem. We've had a little trouble time to time with people trying to break in. Curiosity, mostly. That's why I had the boys chain the gate. I guess you had to bust the lock to get in."
Kurt nodded in reply as the chief groped in his desk drawer then extended his hand. Two keys dangled from a ring. "You'll want these. They fit the gate and the front door. Paul give 'em to me years ago 'cause a few of us used to go over once in a while to get away from here. Since he passed on, we've gone only to check up on things."
With the official mask gone, Kurt appreciated the warmth flowing from the massive rawboned man across the desk. "Keep the keys, Chief."
He looked at Kurt evenly as he replaced the keys in the drawer. "You alone?"
Kurt nodded. "I ..."
"Shut the fuck up!" A deep voice yelled, followed by the crash of crockery and clatter of metal from outside. The chief catapulted from his chair, covering the distance to the door in two long strides and flung it open. "What the hell?"
His voice rumbled angrily for several moments before he returned, roughly pushing Lindstrom before him. He seemed to have forgotten Kurt's presence as he confronted the crewman.
"Damn it, Lindstrom, you're on mighty thin ice. How many times have I warned you?"
"Sorry, Chief, but ..."
"No excuses! Now get out there and clean up that mess and do like you were told."
"Sir."
Once the door closed, the chief looked at Kurt. "Sorry about that."
"Reminds me of one of the men in my platoon, used to come out fists first. We had to wash him out."
"Exactly what I'm afraid I'm going to have to do with Lindstrom, though God knows when or if I'll ever get another man as sharp as he is in electronics as a replacement."
With a cautious tap at the door, Lindstrom eased in to set the tray of coffee on the corner of the chief's desk, then slipped out.
Kurt reached for the heavy crockery mug the chief held out. "How'd you know I was in the house?"
"One of the boys said he thought he'd seen lights, but it was the phone that made me sure."
"It doesn't work."
"They work if they're turned on. Your uncle couldn't get a regular line 'cause there's only a line to the station here and another to the store up to Corolla. He and the boys took some old stuff we had on hand and rigged up the system, so's any of us might be at the house could be reached if we was needed or if Paul needed help like he did just before he died. They connect with that phone." The officer jerked his thumb in the direction of an old wall phone. "I had the boys leave the receivers at the house off the hook and listen in once in a while to see if all's quiet. I happened to turned it on tonight and heard music, so I sent Lindstrom over."
Kurt swallowed the last of the coffee, set the mug on the tray, and pulled himself up. "I'd better get back."
"Lindstrom will take you, sir. Since you're going to be here, we'll leave the phones in operation. Be sure you replace the receivers on all four phones at the house. You find them all?"
"There's the one in my bedroom, the kitchen, and another in the library. Where's the fourth one?"
"In the hall upstairs. Be sure you get it, too."
"I will. Thanks, Chief."
The officer's yell brought the crewman at a run. "You take Captain Lawrence home and get back here. You're on restriction."
The chastened crewman barely stopped the Jeep long enough for Kurt to get out at the gate before speeding back toward the station.
The percussive thunder of a brief electrical storm awoke him in the early morning hours. After it passed, he slept until a ray of sunlight awakened him. He remembered the broken shutters as he poured the last cup of the tea from the pot. The chief had seemed cordial enough, perhaps he would know of someone to make replacements before the hurricane season.
The starter on the Jeep labored to turn the engine over enough to catch. As he drove cautiously through the sand, he glanced at the dash. The battery indicator glowed brightly. "What now?" he asked himself, hoping the condition would right itself, but the light still glowed when he parked in front of the station and reached over to switch the engine off.
A native of the area, the chief immediately provided the name of a carpenter and offered to make the arrangements for the work. He walked out with Kurt and, when the Jeep failed to start, yelled for the station motor mechanic.
"Your battery's shot," the crewman said after poking around under the hood and making a couple of tests with a meter.
"Pick up one on your way in tomorrow and put it in for Captain Lawrence," the chief ordered, then called Lindstrom to drive Kurt home in the station Jeep.
"Like it out here?" Kurt asked during the ride.
"What's to like, sir? All I want is my hitch to be up so I can get away from this hole."
"It's quiet."
"Yeah. It wouldn't be so bad if I could get away from those bastards at the station once in a while. Even if there was a piano, no way I could get any practice in with them around."
"You know music?" Kurt asked, startled at the revelation.
"Why do you think I waited until you finished playing the other night? There's no way I'd of believed there was a harpsichord within a hundred miles of this place. That Scarlatti wasn't half bad, you know."
"Ah! If you recognize Scarlatti then you're a serious musician. Do you play?"
"Some."
"What's your rating?"
"Electronics second."
"Did you have some training before you entered service?"
He shook his head. "Mostly luck. I used to help out an organ repairman when I was in school, so I scored high on the tests they give and got sent to electronics school." He braked the Jeep in front of the house.
"Ever been in the house before the other night?"
"No, sir."
"If you've got a minute, I want to show you something."
Kurt pointed to the gallery. "There."
The crewman's amazed eyes widened. "I'll be damned! How large?"
"I'm not sure, maybe sixteen or seventeen ranks." He turned a small key in the switch on the console. "Try it."
Kurt watched Lindstrom's long fingers flicking over the keys while his feet pranced over the pedals so rapidly they seemed to blur. A torrent of sound poured over them. When he finished the piece, Lindstrom turned with a slight smile. "A real organ so near and I didn't know it." He shrugged with a resigned expression. "Not that it makes any difference; the chief wouldn't have let me touch it."
"Why not? You play exceptionally well."
"He hates my guts." He turned back to the keyboard and ran a scale. "All it wants is some tuning. I expect the blower needs oiling, too."
"Would you do it for me?"
"Will I!" The excitement in his face faded into resignation. "Sorry, sir, I don't guess I can. Chief most likely won't let me. I can't do nothin' don't make him mad."
"Perhaps he will if I ask. When will you have time?"
"I've got a half day Saturday and all of Sunday."
"I'll pick you up at the station around thirteen hundred Saturday, then, and clear it with the chief."
"Great. I'd gotta get back or he'll blow his stack. Oh, yeah. My name's Erik, sir."
"Drop the sir. I'm Kurt Lawrence." He grasped Erik's outstretched hand.
Lying on his bunk after lights out that night, Erik felt an unaccustomed pleasure steal over him as he thought of the earlier encounter - the calm acceptance of Lawrence after the first flush of anger and later, though his face expressed only quiet gentleness, the pleading in the pain bruised eyes. The emanations of caring for someone other than himself disturbed him.
When he rolled over in his sleep late Saturday morning, twinges of pain awoke Kurt. He struggled into a sitting position, every muscle aching. He looked at the thing beside the bed - pale pinkish-tan plastic, a hinged steel rod, more plastic covered by a sock and shoe. His hands massaged the stump of his right leg to ease the ache that reminded him once again of a compulsive nature that drove him once he began a task. He slumped back against the pillow wishing he'd not asked Erik to come.
Unable to find a comfortable position, he sat on the side of the bed and pulled on a pair of old jeans and a 'T' shirt. Two cups of strong tea after his luncheon sandwich eased his lethargy. He drove slowly, following the track made the night before. When the Jeep had passed through the gap in the dunes, he saw a denim-clad figure trudging aimlessly in the sand, the station off to the left. He braked beside Erik.
"Were you on the way over?"
Erik's scowl deepened. "Chief ordered me not to go."
"Why?"
"Ask him! I said you wanted me to work on the organ, and the son of a bitch tore my head off."
Kurt heard the bitterness and sensed something more. "He didn't change your duty, did he?"
"No."
"Then he's no right to interfere. Get in."
The Jeep skidded to a halt before the station. Grabbing his crutches, Kurt swung into the doorway of the chief's office, stopping before the man's direct gaze.
"Ah, Captain. I needed to see you, sir. Did you ask Lindstrom to go over today?"
"I did. He's going to tune the organ for me."
"Even if I say no?"
"What objection do you have? He says he's free."
The chief's brow creased. "It's agin my better judgement, that's why. You saw how unpredictable he is the other night, but if you're determined .... Just be damned careful."
Kurt returned to the Jeep where Erik waited, and concentrated on driving in the treacherous sand.
Kurt switched on the instrument as Erik climbed the stairs and opened the door to the gallery. Erik worked until each pipe spoke its true pitch. Finally satisfied, he seated himself on the gallery rail and called, "Try something."
Kurt played a brief piece from memory, thrilling again to the response of the instrument. "Now you. Something with a real pedal cadenza."
Erik took the bench, beginning a Schuman prelude. He played with exuberance and a brilliant technique, louder than Kurt had imagined the instrument could speak.
"Good thing there aren't any neighbors," Erik remarked, switching the blower off.
"Not if you always play that loud. Where are you going?" Erik had started for the door.
If I don't get back, I'll miss chow."
Kurt glanced at his watch. "Eat with me."
"Thanks. I'll help."
When the steaks, potatoes, and salad were ready, they ate at the small table in the bay window of the kitchen. Erik could not be dissuaded from putting the dishes in the washer before they took their coffee into the library. Not until they were seated by the fire did either of them speak.
"Where's your home?" Kurt asked.
Erik hesitated a few seconds before answering in reluctant tones, "Haven't one."
"What?"
"I ... I'm from Wisconsin. I don't have any family. " He jumped up. "I need to practice some more."
The hostility with which Erik attacked the keys brought Kurt near admonition, but the intensity of his playing lessened to a calm. When he turned, his face mirrored the serenity of the quiet final passages. "First real practice I've had since I've been out here. God, I hate to go, but it's time."
The brightness of the full moon eased the drive. When he stopped the Jeep in front of the station, Kurt looked at him. "What do I owe you?"
"How could you owe me anything?"
"For all that work."
"It wasn't nothin'. I like doing it. But if you insist, I'll ask a favor."
"Name it."
"Can I come back to practice and maybe borrow some more of your books?"
"Any time you wish."
In the quiet of the next day Kurt opened books, scanned a few pages and tossed them aside. He sat at the harpsichord long enough to play only a few measures before getting up and standing at the doors, gazing expressionless at the waters of the sound. Preparing meager meals occupied time, the food untasted as he ate.
As he lay in bed that evening, he wondered why Erik hadn't returned. Odd, too, how he had closed up under the question of his home and background, not even revealing his age. He knew he was older than Eric, though there could be no more than two or three years difference.
'Forget it,' he argued with himself. 'You have no friends. What's the difference? You came here to get away, so why invite hurt?' But the quiet companionship of Erik had filled an unacknowledged void. As he drifted into sleep, the lines in his forehead smoothed out, subtracting years from his face, leaving him the look of an innocent. A slight tic in his cheek made the thick moustache twitch comically for a moment then stilled as relaxation became complete.
He awakened disoriented, the thud of the knocker reverberating through the house again. He slipped on a robe, grabbed his crutches, and made his groggy way down the hall.
"Chief!"
The officer nodded. "Sorry, if I woke you, sir, but I need to talk to you."
"Come in. Coffee will be ready in a minute."
The chief followed Kurt to the kitchen and took a seat at the table while Kurt switched on the coffee maker and set mugs beside it. They waited in silence for it to gurgle to a stop. Kurt filled the mugs and pushed one across the table to the chief.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing exactly. We're pretty isolated out here, so I guess that's why I feel a responsibility for my crew, 'specially them who ain't married and stay to the station most of the time. Your uncle was a real friend to me. Now no offense, but I don't know you. I wasn't even sure you still owned the place, it's been so long since you was out here. Come as a shock when you turned up t'other night. Last time I seen you was at Paul's funeral and you was just a kid. I would of thought a young man like you would want to be where there's some lights and life."
"Isn't it pretty obvious?"
"You mean the leg?"
"What else? Hell, I stumble around so bad on the leg a cop in town thought I was drunk, and using crutches isn't much better the way people stare. Damn it, I'm a cripple!"
"You ain't so bad off compared to some I've seen," the chief snapped, then looked chagrinned. "I'm sorry. It's your life and I ain't got no right to interfere, but I never s'pected you to turn up here. You planning on stayin'?"
"For a while. When Uncle Paul left the place to me my aunt wanted me to sell, but I decided to keep it until I made up my mind what I wanted to do. Whether I stayed in service or got out when my hitch was up, I thought I might use it as a place to get away for a while in the summers and maybe keep it for my retirement. I'm glad I did, now, with the accident and all."
"That were smart. It may be some time a-comin' yet, but ain't no way beach property is goin' to lose value. 'sides, a man needs a place of his own. I got my own little place up to the village. But I got off the subject as usual. What I come about was Lindstrom."
"What about him?"
"Did you tell him he could come back?"
Kurt nodded.
"I wondered. He give me a hell of a time yesterday. He swore you told him to come back, and then he sulked for the rest of the day when I wouldn't let him. I don't mind telling you he's an odd one. Had lots of men under me in the past twenty years or so, but none ornery as him. In a small station like ours, you get to know your men pretty well, but this one ..." the chief shook his head. "Nobody knows any more about him than what's in his record. Did he tell you anything?"
"When I asked where he was from, he told me he had no family, then changed the subject. I could see he was getting uptight, so I didn't push it."
"Good thing you didn't. If he's pushed any, he'll come out swinging. Pretty good scrapper, too. Caught me by surprise one time." He stroked his chin, reflectively. "There I go wanderin' again. Then you know almost as much as I do, 'cept he was sent out here 'cause of a bad record. In two years, he's been busted twice and got out of a court martial the second time only 'cause he agreed to come to the station. Fer some reason we ain't considered good duty. But I thought I ought ta warn you he ain't one I'd be considering fer a friend. If you don't want him over here, say the word and I'll try to keep him to the station. If he keeps on like he's a-goin', I'll have to discharge him for the good of the service, though it'd fret me to go thet far. He's a damn good technician; ain't much with a wire in it he can't fix."
"I'm sure you're telling the truth, Chief, but it's hard to believe. He worked like a dog on the organ, played for a while, and then read. Matter of fact, I lent him a couple of books."
"'pears long as he's got his music he's okay. A lot of his scraps with the men has been about the stuff he listens to on the radio. You know what kids like now-a-days, classical music drives 'em nuts. Your uncle Paul was different; he could play anything. Used to play some of the old tunes for me once't in a while." His face softened at the memory. "Mostly we just set and talked. Mighty fine man, that."
"I'm glad you feel that way about him, Chief. When I was a kid, he always had time for me; seemed more my age than an adult."
"If you're a-goin' to be 'round, I hope we'll be friends, sir." He held out his hand.
Kurt grasped it firmly. "Please, drop the sir. It's Kurt. You've already been a friend, and I expect I'll be here for quite a while. When my parents died, my aunt sold our house, so this is home."
"Sorry iffen I spoke out o' turn a while ago, but I thought ... I gotta get back. Sorry 'bout wakin' you."
"That's okay. I had a bad night, but it's time I was up."
"What you want me to do 'bout Lindstrom? I keep the boys thet ain't livin' nearby close all week, but lessen they got duty, they're free on weekends."
"Let him have the keys."
"Iffin you say so. But iffin anything comes up you can't handle, use the phone and I'll git here."
As the chief walked toward the station Jeep, he paused and turned, his eyes sweeping over the house. He returned to foot of the steps. "I 'spect I'm speaking out o' turn agin, but iffin I was you, I'd get them there shingles stained pretty soon. I seem to recollect Paul havin' it done every five years er so an' it's been 'bout ten now since it were done. Down here, you gotta pertect wood. Iffin you don't, it ain't a-goin' to hold up. You're lucky this here place was built by men from the village, that's why it's stood up to hurricanes without much damage. It's built to give with the wind. Ain't like them crackerboxes down the beach fer summer people. Most of 'em'll go in a smart nor'easter."
"I know it needs doing, but I wouldn't have the foggiest of whom to get to do the work."
"Know a good man in the village. Honest and does what he says he'll do. He's gettin' along in years, but his son and grandsons paint with 'im when they ain't working the boat. Won't work fer people from offen the Banks, but I think he did this place a couple of times fer Paul. Folk 'round here knew Paul was an educated man, but he didn't make no big thing o' it. They admires a man what keeps his own counsel. But we was talking 'bout the house. Want me to talk to 'im?"
"I would very much appreciate it, Chief."
As the chief drove away, the faint smile that crossed Kurt's lips when the chief had begun to speak in the accented local vernacular returned, for it came natural to the rough-hewn man. The unusual words and pronunciations of the natives had so intrigued him during his visits as a child that he had begun to imitate them. It was in a writing class at the university that he'd learned the origin. Assigned a short paper on the subject Memories, Kurt had written of his childhood visits with his uncle. Called upon to read his composition, he had unconsciously used the broad oi for i in the word 'time'.
His professor sprang up in excitement. "Where did that pronunciation come from? Your accent is Maryland."
Kurt looked at him blankly.
"I'm talking about the Elizabethan pronunciation you used on i."
Kurt reflected for a moment. "It comes from childhood, sir. I used to spend part of my summers on the Outer Banks with my uncle."
"I knew it," the professor exalted. "My avocation is linguistics. I spent an absolutely fascinating summer down there studying the Elizabethan speech patterns of the natives. You are fortunate in having heard it when you did. Tourists and television are already corrupting the accent and may eventually eliminate it completely. Thank you, Mr. Lawrence."