July/August 2003

She stood on the dock, squinting into the early morning sun. The wooden planks creaked softly as she ran over it. A dog trotted behind her, a small scruffy brown dog. They stopped near the end of the dock, leaped off the edge and into a small boat. “The ferry’s not here yet,” she said to the dog, who didn’t respond, merely scrambled onto one of the seats and put his paws on the edge of the boat for a better view. She started the motor. Slowly, the boat crept away from the silent harbor and out to sea. The dog uttered a soft growl, and then was quiet. The girl looked over her shoulder at the island. It was small, the island, made up of small cottages for the year-round villagers (population 200) and the summer homes that tourists built. Since it was six miles out from the Massachusetts shore, the only way to go anywhere from the island was by ferry; and so the houses were built in a cluster around the harbor. But beyond that, there were several miles of beach, where the island children had explored and wandered for their whole lives. There were sandy dunes, driftwood with which to build forts. And of course, there was the sea. Island life revolved around the sea. The sea, and tourists, but mostly the sea. The girl loved the sea. She loved to swim and splash in the waves, to glide through it in her boat. She loved sea glass and sea shells, and everything about the sea. When she was angry, the water was fierce, and when she was happy the waves were gentle. Sometimes, she thought that she and the ocean were one. Slowly, the boat crept away from the silent harbor and out to sea The island was called Evening Star Isle, and the girl was Eve. Tourists had given her that name. Her real name was Margaret. Margaret Ann. She hated that name. She liked to be called Eve. Eve, which was the name of the Isle. She was the island. That’s what people were always telling her and she knew it was true. She had dark brown hair with streaks in it. Red, gold, and white-blond, all jumbled together, and her eyes were dark brown, almost black. When people looked at her, they saw the island. Tourists snapped her picture while she was sitting on the beach, and once an art student had drawn her. They were far out now. She cut the motor. Eve let the boat drift aimlessly, let herself be carried with the gentle current, savoring these last moments. In the distance, the ferry emerged from the fog. Eve looked up. When she saw the ferry, she swayed slightly in the boat, clutching the side. “Time to go back,” she whispered. “Time for me to leave, Tro.” The dog whimpered softly. “It’s OK for you,” Eve told him. “They’re not kicking you out, you know, so be grateful for that.” Reluctantly, she started the motor and headed back to shore. Her father was waiting for her on the dock, having just arrived back in his fishing boat. He helped her out of the boat, and Tro hopped after her. Silently, they unloaded buckets of fish and carried them to Charlie’s shed, where they would be sorted and sent to the mainland. They trudged back to the cottage. “You understand, don’t you?” asked her father quietly. She wanted to say no. She wanted to yell and scream and tell them that she wasn’t going, would never go, because she was the island and the island was her, and she wasn’t leaving, not ever. They couldn’t make her. She refused. But she couldn’t say that, and so she simply nodded. The cottage was a ways back from the little village, closer to the sprawling dunes and the wide, open sea. Father and daughter walked silently, entered the house without a word. Inside, Eve’s grandmother (who had been living with them since Gramps had died) was making breakfast, potatoes and eggs. Eve’s sister, Angela, was perched on the edge of her chair, her golden hair rippling over her shoulders and down her back. At ten, she was three years younger than Eve, and the princess of the family. Their mother was sitting listlessly, staring out the window. Eve went to kiss her cheek, but she didn’t respond. “Margaret! Come help with the eggs.” Eve went over and stirred the eggs around in the pan while Granny fussed over Angela. “Sweetheart, you understand, it’s only for a little while, till your ma gets back on her feet. Only a month, Angie-pie. You won’t be away from your island more than a month.” Angela said, “It’s Eve’s island.” Eve smiled to herself. “Who?” asked Granny. “Whose island? Daniel, what in heaven’s name is the child saying?” He cleared his throat. “She means Margaret.” Granny glared at Eve. “Don’t be putting fool notions into this child’s head. Eve’s island, it ain’t no one’s island but for those who love it.” “Eve loves the island,” said Angela. “Not more’n you do, and you being more deservin’, Angel,” Granny cooed. “I do declare, Daniel, that child is the most spoiled thing I ever saw. Callin’ the island hers, influencing her sister. And with the baby . . .” At that, everyone froze, save for Mama, who tilted her head and continued to look out the window mutely. Eve dropped the spatula, and a cold ice wrapped around her heart. Baby . . . Her father turned to his mother with a hard face. “Mother, that’s enough.” “Don’t you turn this on me. It’s her fault, ’twasn’t mine.” “I said enough!” Dad shouted. Granny smiled triumphantly, knowing she had hit a nerve. The ferry docked. Eve could see it out the window. She ate quickly. “Don’t shove food into your mouth,” Granny snapped. “Eat like a lady. Watch Angela.” Angela smiled her foolish smile at her grandmother. “What