“Me, too.” She didn’t say she already was living there, had been for “a while,” and would be for a while longer.
“So, should I leave today?”
She scowled. “No! Come to the dinner tomorrow night. And why not stay a few days after that? Rafe goes back to school Wednesday, but I’d love to have you stick around.” Not only hadn’t she seen her son since August, but she also hadn’t seen her dad.
He squinted up at the sky.
“As long as you don’t mind sleeping on the couch,” she quickly added. Surely, Rafe wouldn’t bat an eye at roughing it on the floor. He’d done that before. “It would be nice, having the three of us here.”
Stephen thought for a moment. “Will he be back later today?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then. How about if I stay tonight, but leave in the morning?” His tone was flat, no doubt muted by disappointment.
“But, Dad, you can come to the potluck …”
“It’s fine, Madelyn. I should have let you know I was coming. But I’ll be here for Christmas. If that’s still okay.”
“Of course it is! By then we’ll be back in the cottage and have more space.” Though Grandma’s cottage would now have three bedrooms, Maddie didn’t elaborate; she wasn’t sureif having her grandmother and her father in the same house for more than two or three nights would be wise.
They reached the beach; it was low tide, when the sand was wet yet firm, perfect for running.
“The water’s darker now than in summer,” Stephen said. He moved down to the shoreline; Maddie followed. “You’re happy here, aren’t you, Madelyn?”
“I am, Dad. I like helping Grandma.” She bent her knees, trying to shake off the urge to break into a run. She wondered if he was going to say he was lonely in Green Hills, that he missed having Rafe and her there.
As their footsteps grazed the water, their conversation was sparse and not entirely comfortable. Then Stephen said he’d recently seen Don Jarvis, Maddie’s department chair. Jarvis had asked after Maddie, and he’d prodded Stephen about whether he thought she’d ever come back to the college, teach in person, and be interested in sliding back onto the tenure track that she’d abandoned.
Managing a small smile, Maddie didn’t respond. She couldn’t explain that her life had changed, that her world was now focused on different things—like wondering how it was that the October sun could warm her face while, at the same time, the light breeze made her wish that she’d worn gloves. There was no way to explain that her life was now a dichotomy of a career path and the path of an ancient way. Or that on a morning like this, she preferred the contradictions of autumn weather to the predictable stale air of a classroom. She didn’t say those things, because she truly was trying to take one day, one week, one month at a time.
They reached the opening into Menemsha Harbor where, on the opposite side, the slips that once moored summer yachts and pleasure boats were silent, save for gentle waves lapping the wooden docks, waiting for the putt-putt of fishing trawlers to return from their day’s work.
“I don’t know about you,” Maddie said, “but I could use coffee.”
“Good idea,” Stephen replied. He looped his arm through hers, the gesture feeling oddly like a reversal of the roles between parent and child, as if the child now needed to bear the weight of another elder besides Grandma.
Early in the morning, Maddie packed a thermos of coffee for her father, along with two blueberry scones—Rex’s creations and frequent contributions to his nonpaying tenants. Then she and Rafe bid Stephen good-bye. They’d had a pleasant time the night before, with Grandma and Stephen being polite to each other, and Rafe livening things up with tidbits he’d learned that day from Joe—things like how the tribe often referred to the Vineyard as “Turtle Island,” an Indigenous Peoples’ name for the earth, and that near the cliffs in Aquinnah, a large rock, shaped like a giant toad, once served as a Wampanoag post office where tribal members left messages for each other. Joe admitted that some people, including him, still did on occasion.
Stephen seemed to enjoy the evening, which made his departure bittersweet. Maddie told him she would have invited him for Thanksgiving, but Grandma already said she did not believe in celebrating that “mythical” day. Maddie understood. (It also didn’t matter to her because Rafe would be with Owen and the “steppeople” that day.) Stephen said he’d planned to wait until Christmas, anyway, that he’d been invited to share Thanksgiving dinner with fellow retired professors. Then, nearly as quickly as he’d arrived, he was gone.
And Cranberry Day began.
The events passed in a blur of emotion, commotion, and, best of all, community. Grandma and Joe taught Rafe and Maddie the centuries-old art of harvesting the berries that grewwild in the bogs. The land was tribal, so the crop had never been fertilized or sprayed—the Wampanoags were, and had always been, respectful of Mother Earth, who, since ancient times, had been tending to the bounty; that year, the berries were a healthy bright red thanks to the ideal balance of rain and sun.
At lunchtime, dozens of families gathered at Lobsterville Beach and lit a bonfire; the elders—Grandma Nancy and Joe included—then shared stories of their ancestors. Children had the day off from school; they played quahog games, and raced cranberries down the dunes. As the day waned, people moved to and from their homes to rest; back at the cabin, Grandma napped, while Maddie cleaned the berries they’d picked, and Rafe and Joe yakked about dozens of things.
When they started to get ready to rejoin the others, Grandma pulled out the tribal skirt she’d worn seven decades earlier on her wedding day—the same skirt Maddie donned last summer when they’d celebrated Grandma at sunset on the beach. Now, she asked Maddie to put it on for the potluck. Wearing a white, long-sleeved woven top and Grandma’s wampum beads, Maddie again felt as if she truly belonged. Rafe further honored their heritage by donning—again—his great-great-grandfather’s rawhide necklace with the wampum pendant carved into the shape of an arrow.
Before heading out the door, Grandma asked them to stand next to each other; while she clapped her hands, making them laugh, Joe snapped a photograph. Then the four of them were off to the big hall, where, among their people, they dined on fish and venison, clam fritters and chowder, and seaweed pudding, which Maddie and Rafe agreed tasted better than it sounded, especially since it was served with sharp cheddar cheese. In addition to cranberry-inspired desserts, they had blueberry “slump,” which was sort of like a cobbler. Maddie didn’t ask how—or if—it differed from a buckle.
Through it all, snippets of conversation landed on her ears,tales of this and that, of past and present. Soon the drumming started, and the diners were treated to traditional chants and dancers whose costumes flashed arcs of vibrant colors as they twirled and swayed around the room.
“I want to learn to do that, Joe,” Rafe said, his eyes fixed on the drummers.
“First, you must know the stories,” Joe replied. “Our stories are behind every beat of every drum.”
“Then I’ll listen. And I will learn.”
