Point of Direction by Rachel Weaver

Author:Rachel Weaver [Weaver, Rachel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781935439936
Publisher: IG Publishing

12.

WE BARELY speak when Kyle comes in for the night. I have just finished cleaning the kitchen while I wait to add more chips to the smokehouse fire to keep it going through the night. He mumbles goodnight and heads upstairs to bed. I wait until I know he’s sleeping, climb the ladder quietly, pick up William Harris’ logbook and walk back down the stairs. I light three candles on the windowsill next to the rocking chair, add a couple more pieces of wood to the fire, and skim through entries of north and southbound boats, of storms rising and subsiding, until the following entry:

December 23, 1977 0703 Getting harder and harder to be here. Never been so alone. Can’t relax. It’s so loud. Awful. Dark and windy. This is what I deserve, right?

February 18, 1978 2050 Coast Guard food drop today. They came in and had coffee and I wanted to kick them out. They had older brothers or cousins who went to the war while they stayed home and did their math homework. The fat one asked if I’m a fag out here by myself with no girls. How can I explain staying out here? If I keep drawing, leave my gun in the shed, I’ll be able to go home, be someone to look up to. I’ll know when it’s time to leave, just like I knew when it was time to come.

I stare into the fire. I want him to appear. I want him to be sitting at the kitchen table. I want to talk to someone who knew when it was time to come here and when it was time to go. I want to know if it helped him to be out here or if he ended up dead because of it.

Outside, the fog presses against the house, against my body. Everything holds perfectly still, the sound of the foghorn lingers between blasts. The smokehouse fire is almost out, only narrow tendrils of smoke rise from the bucket. I add overflowing handfuls of woodchips then close the door and wait, to make sure it catches. I pace in front of the smokehouse thinking of William Harris. I think of Kyle and me, the months ahead and a thick fear coats the back of my throat.

Once I see smoke seeping out the cracks of the smokehouse, I head back inside and settle in the chair by the fire, loud and popping now. I’ll need to add one more batch of chips when we get up in the morning, then by lunch, the fish will be done. I stare at the logbook for a while before I pull it into my lap. I scan through the last of the entries of boats and weather until I find this:

April 1, 1979 2314 First trip to town since last October. Stayed a week. Missed the lighthouse, but not at first. The days are getting long and the wind is settling. I wrote to Sheila today explaining everything. There’s no way I can send it.

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