He kept going, seemingly tireless. The ocean was to our left; it was low tide and it smelled stronger than by the bridge. Like brine, like salt, like sand.
We kept going until we reached a second bridge that connected Mason’s Island to another smaller island. Sam brought the bike to a stop at the end of the bridge, and we both hopped off.
“Enders Island,” he said, gesturing in front of us. It was small, and I could see just a few tiny buildings arranged in a loose circle in the middle. “I do yard maintenance here. St. Edmund’s Retreat.”
“St. Edmund’s?”
“I’m not religious,” he said. “But they’re okay here. They’re nice. It’s quiet.”
He left his bike by the side of the road, and we walked over the bridge. There were perfectly manicured lawns, religious statues and shrines, a gazebo, a small reflecting pool, benches, stone buildings, and stone arches...
We walked to the very tip of the island, the Atlantic spreading out in front of us like a dark-blue blanket.
“Sometimes I come here to think,” Sam said.
I could understand why—it was so peaceful, being almost completely surrounded by water. I could see other small islands dotting the coast and countless sailboats and powerboats. It made me wish I lived closer to the ocean. It made me think of my aunt’s big house by the sea, a house I would probably never see again.
Anger again, but just a tiny flare in the pit of my stomach. It was manageable, and I mentally swatted it away and sat next to Sam on the grass.
“What’s your nicest memory of her?” he asked.
A hundred things popped into my head at once. Breakfasts on the front lawn, books read in blanket forts, day trips to the city. It was hard to pick one.
And then I remembered her letter, the bluebells in Brooklyn, the late dinner, the timelessness she spoke of.
Aunt Helen was a fan of the many intricacies of time—its inconsistencies, its betrayals (how a perfect day could slip by in the blink of an eye and a terrible one could last forever—like the day she died, stretching out to reach infinity). And she was a fan of the ocean, and of being still, and of getting swept up in a normal afternoon. And she was a fan of changing her mind.... Jumping off cliffs one minute and slowing down the next. I think that was exactly what she was trying to show me. All the options of a day.
Sam lay back and rested his arm over his face to shield himself from the sun.
I looked out at the water and tried to imagine a field of bluebells.
I glanced down at Sam; he’d closed his eyes.
It was so rare to find someone you could be quiet with.
I lay back next to him, our arms an inch apart, and suddenly the entire world was sky. Just sky forever, blue and white and bright and never ending.
I don’t know how long we stayed like that.
“What’s that?” Margo asked, pointing to the old book in Alvin’s hands.
“Dad’s journal,” he responded, not taking his eyes off the page.
Margo stepped closer. The journal was stuffed with newspaper clippings, old photographs, pages and pages of tiny, cramped writing that she recognized immediately as her father’s.
“You need to get some sleep,” Margo said.
“I just know there’s something in here,” Alvin said, still not looking at her. “Something about the Overcoat Man, about how to find him. If we find him, we find our parents. It’s like the answer’s right in front of me, and I just can’t put the pieces together.”
“Maybe in the morning... ,” Margo said gently, but she stopped when it became clear that Alvin couldn’t even hear her anymore, so deep was his attention to the book in his hands.
She went downstairs to their grandfather’s kitchen and made him a cup of tea.
—fromAlvin Hatter and the Wild-Goose Chase
8
I’d missed most days of school last week, and now that I was back in the swing of things, I couldn’t help but notice how many people seemed interested in me. Abe too—when I saw him in the hallways, he was constantly surrounded by a small gathering of people I didn’t recognize. I even saw someone handing him an Alvin book, but I turned away before I could figure out what they wanted. I would recognize those covers from miles away, from outer space, and I was mortified to think they might be asking Abe to sign it. Not like he would, of course.
