Free The Hour Before Dark by Douglas Clegg

strongest accent, which was vaguely masculine despite her petite softness. She was a category of woman who lived on Yankee islands, just as there was a category of men who did as well, who had thick hair that always needed cutting, and ruddy complexions from constant movement in the cold, a nearly downcast expression as she spoke, as if gravity were her only make-up; she used profanity the way insecure chefs used spices: as if no sentence were complete without at least a “fuck” or a “goddamn.” In this way, she was unlike any of us. She was as Yankee as the low stone walls that had surrounded Hawthorn for more than two centuries. She was like a weathervane on the roof, or the shingles themselves: part of the way things looked in New England, part of its charm, but also part of its expectation. Few on the island could out-island my sister. She had an old soul for the place, as if she were the reincarnation of my great-grandma Cery (pronounced Cherry) Raglan, a salty bitter woman of enormous bosom and the iron will of a mule.
    As I held her for a moment, I smelled our mother’s scent—particularly the essence of lime—and for a moment, I was truly happy. Happy to be with my sister. Happy to be home again. Happy that at least the three of us would be here for the time being.
    Even if for all the wrong reasons.

     
    8
     
    When I entered Hawthorn again, I felt enveloped in its plain New England arms, its brick and wood and white walls and smell of earth and coffee and winter spice.
    Its length seemed less like a serpentine pattern and more like a series of Christmas boxes waiting to be opened.
    Why had I hated this place so much?
    Why had I left it behind and done everything I could to let work and life get in the way of coming back?
    Now it was late in the game. My father, gone. I’d thought I’d have some time later in life to sort out our problems. Maybe in my forties. After I’d somehow established my own territory in the world. Sometime in the future, when he was older and softer and I was wiser and more understanding of my own nature. I had made a huge mistake by running away from my problems.
    Despite the length of the house, it wasn’t that wide, nor were the ceilings high. It was built for Welshmen and women—my great-greats, none of whom were tall. It wasn’t until my father married my mother and produced two sons who had some Norwegian and German in them, that the house seemed smaller and less grand to my dad. He told me that no one should really be taller than five-foot-six anyway.
    I could practically feel my father still alive in the entry-way—and yes, though my mother was long gone, I felt her there, too, and saw her in my sister’s face. I looked for the penknife notching in the doorframe—and there they were. The notch that was me at four, then at six, then at twelve; and Brooke and Bruno’s notches, as well, all of us lined up against the doorframe every few years to check our progress.
    I went to hug my sister, and she whispered in my ear, “Good to see you again.”
    My sister and brother and I had seen each other in the years I’d been gone—but not more than once or twice. I hadn’t seen her in nearly six years, though, and we’d been so close growing up, that I felt my eyes tearing up just to be there, in the house, with both her and Bruno. It was enough for the time being.
    Brooke loved the island more than she loved life itself, and Hawthorn was the heart of her love. She had told me as a child that she wanted to grow up to either be a fisherman, or a fisherman’s wife, and she had danced along the edge of the shoreline on many summer twilights, stretching her arms up to the pink sky, while her friends gathered around a bonfire that had just been set for the night—but she was separate from them, a nature spirit on the island.
    Some heaviness had come into her—not in terms of weight, but an aura, as if remaining on the island had tugged away at her vitality, her ability to