So much passage of time and distance had enabled Sam to forget just how enormous her childhood home was. She was fully confronted by that realization later that morning after Martha had finally gone home to her, by then, undoubtedly starving husband and children.
Feeling that it was as good a place as any, Sam started in the kitchen. Taking the grime covered dishes and platters from the open pine cupboards for a good scrubbing, then wiping the shelves down while the plates air-dried. No shiny, stainless steel dishwasher in this antiquated kitchen! Locating the broom and sponges in the pantry, she lathered and rinsed the old red linoleum floor.
Stepping out the back door into a strident wind straight off the ocean, Sam briskly shook out the frayed multicolored braided rug that her mother had so proudly made years ago. After smoothing it down over the clean floor, she struggled with the heavy pedestal based oak table, putting it back in it’s rightful place in front of the bay windows.
Sam found an old radio tucked behind the toaster on the kitchen counter.
Scanning quickly, she found a Bangor station playing ‘70’s music. Her hands automatically moving to the beat of Neil Young’s "Every Man Needs A Maid", she scrubbed the countertop and then moved on to tackle the stove.
Vaguely, as she slowly built up a sweat, it dawned on Sam that plain, old-fashioned manual labor had it’s rewards. It gave her something she needed right now.
Mindless work. The most important decision she’d had to make so far this morning was what brand of cleaning fluid to use. Manual labor. Throughout the years, Jeff had so adamantly refused to do anything around their apartment with his hands that Sam had accused him of actually believing that manual labor was a Mexican gardener.
Sam smiled grimly at the thought of Jeff. She had done the right thing by coming back home. She was sure of it. Already she could feel the familiar house safely enveloping her as she went from room to room, uncovering furniture and obliterating the past few years of accumulated dust.
The graceful home, built in 1872, held a good sized kitchen; pantry; dining room; study, and Sam’s favorite, an enormous double parlor with fireplaces situated at opposite ends of the room. A sturdy staircase with a nicely turned mahogany railing climbed from the wide foyer to the second story.
Upstairs there were five bedrooms, the master having it’s own full bath. This was the room that Sam had spontaneously taken for herself upon arriving the previous evening.
Her parent’s old bedroom held wonderfully cozy memories for her. Leaning against the doorway, gazing about the well proportioned room, Sam was suddenly flooded with long-forgotten scenes. She recalled the many happy hours she had spent curled up on her mother’s chaise placed by the window. She would stare out at the sea below as her father read a wondrous mix of Kipling, Longfellow, and the Bobsey Twins out loud to her in his deep, low voice. The massive cherry four poster made her think of blustery, subzero winter days kept home from school with a scratchy throat. Satisfactorily, she would snuggle deeply into the bed, piled high with goose down pillows, while her mother pampered her with endless processions of honeyed tea and buttery warm cinnamon toast.
The combination of these nostalgic memories brought Sam a much needed impression of safety and belonging. She felt herself relax as she worked. For the first time in months she found herself letting down her guard.
Sam walked slowly through the rooms becoming reacquainted with the familiar, well worn furnishings. Lightly running her fingertips along the hand hewn molding of a pine fireplace, Sam was well aware that this sheltered atmosphere she was creating for herself was, at best, only a temporary illusion.
Sighing, she wearily pushed an escaping curl of thick, auburn hair back behind her ear. She was bone tired from lack of sleep and the unfamiliar exertion of heavy cleaning. "At least I’ve made a dent in the old place," she thought with satisfaction. "You’re really just putting off the inevitable," she silently chided herself, "sooner or later you’re going to have to stop moving long enough to face this situation."
"Not yet," she muttered out loud, startling herself in the silence. Turning from the study, Sam started up the stairs for a well deserved shower. The only reason that she’d so easily gotten rid of Martha that morning was that she had promised to come for dinner. The inevitable, it seemed, could be delayed just a bit longer after all.
She ignored her waiting parked car, deciding to hike the few minutes to Martha’s.
It was a beautiful, soft evening. Sam could smell the annual rebirth of the land all around her as she walked. The trees were slowly becoming outlined with a vague, velvet-like green. One more good rain, Sam thought, and everything should really start to blossom. 10 Surprised, she realized than that she was actually looking forward to summer on the Island. Sam remembered each and every one of her girlhood summers in remarkably vivid details.
Situated some forty-five minutes out by boat from the mainland, completely surrounded by the mighty Atlantic , the two mile long island was an unquestionable heaven-on-earth to a child. As brutal as the long, unrelenting winters could be, the island’s summers were pure magic. But, it wasn’t summer yet, Sam reminded herself, as she hugged her jacket closer against the damp, evening chill and consciously intensified her pace.
Martha and Kevin Dodge’s house was the very last one on Joyce Road in Minturn, one of three small communities the island held. Coming up upon it Sam was, once again, struck with just how God-awful-ugly the huge, rectangular building was.
Built high on a knoll with a view of Jericho Bay, the early nineteenth century brown, clapboard house had at one time been Swans Island’s solitary general store. For the past hundred and fifty years or so the old place had belonged to Martha’s side of the family. She, Kevin, and the children shared living space with her elderly Abaneki grandmother, Wanda Kneeland.
As Sam walked up the steps, the front door was vigorously flung open before she even had a chance to knock.
"Look at you!" exclaimed Kevin Dodge,lifting Sam up off her feet in a mammoth bear-hug and kiss, his full beard tickling her face. "Martha’s back in the kitchen and you’re in deep shit."
Sam smiled up at the hulking man, "It’s good to see you, too, Kev. Guess I’m late, huh?" Not bothering to wait for his answer, she made her familiar way to the kitchen. Even if she hadn’t already known the route, she could have found it simply by following her nose.
Pushing open the kitchen door, she took a moment to savor the blend of delicious aromas that emanated from the vicinity of the stove. Her long black hair caught up in an elastic, looking like an orchestra conductor, Martha stood in the middle of all this wizardry, serenely stirring the contents of all the bubbling pots with a big, wooden spoon. Even amid all the culinary mess and clutter, Martha had an air of contented grace about her that Sam immediately yearned for.
This soft sentiment, however, was quickly dispelled when, without even bothering to turn around, her friend spoke, "You’re late, you jerk."
"Sorry", replied Sam, without sounding it. "I’ve been swamping out the house."
"So, how do you like domestic life so far?" asked Martha, tossing a grin over her shoulder in Sam’s general direction.
"Well ......... I can honestly say it sucks. My back is killing me." commented Sam, chewing on a raw carrot and perching herself on a stool. "But the house is starting to feel like home again. It needs paint, though. You know, Martha, I rally did the right thing. Coming home, I mean. It feels good to be here."
Turning with a air of concern, Martha answered, "Of course, I’m thrilled to have you back here again. But Sammy, you will let me know when you’re ready to talk, won’t you?"
"You know I will ....." Sam started to reply, but was interrupted by a deafening clatter on the back steps. The door banging wide open, three kids exploded through it into the kitchen. "Whoa! Where’s Kevin Jr.?" shouted Martha above the din.
"He’ll be here in a minute, Mom. He’s closing up the barn." explained the youngest, trying unsuccessfully to swipe his blond hair out of his eyes with a thoroughly grimy hand. Looking at Sam without any hint of shyness, he stuck out that same hand and proclaimed, "I’m Michael and my Mom’s told me everything about when you two were growing up together in the old days."
Without hesitation, Sam took his hand. "I sincerely hope not quite everything!" she laughed.
"What do you mean "old days" buster?!" Martha whacked him neatly on his butt with the dish towel in her hand. "You monsters go get washed up for dinner."
"My God, Martha," exclaimed Sam, momentarily stupefied by all the clamor, "Four boys!"
"Yep, couldn’t throw a girl for the life of me." stated Martha flatly as she ladled the thick stew into a deep tureen. "Here, Sam," she said, handing over a stack of silverware, "go put your brand new domestic talents to good use."