Barefoot Girls by Tara McTiernan

Why did she feel like she had done something wrong? It was his eyes – hard and dark and sharp, cutting into her.
    His boat was sliding up alongside of the dock now. His expression had only darkened. She had expected him to brighten up, say, “Of course! Hannah O’Brien! You’re Keeley’s girl, aren’t you?” That was what everyone always said. Instead, his mouth, already thin-lipped, had shrunk and hardened even more.
    “O’Brien? You mean Keeley O’Brien?” he said, his mouth pursing as if he had eaten a lemon.
    She was shocked, and a little frightened. Who was this man? Why did he look at her like that?
    She pulled herself up to her full height and smiled, as if this man wasn’t being rude and un-Captain’s-Island-like. “Yes, that’s my mom! I’m sure you know her; she’s always been on the island. And you? I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name? I don’t come out to the island that much anymore, just a week here and there. Where do you live?”
    Where do you live: it was a common islander question; one meant to pigeonhole you. The Barefooter house, and the houses of all the Barefooters except Aunt Zo’s, were “down-island” on the southern half where the houses were smaller, more widely spaced, and the inhabitants were distinctly more sociable, throwing parties constantly and dropping by each other’s houses all day long. It was a laid-back crowd and the Barefooters, especially Keeley, were the stars.
    “Up-island” was where the houses were larger and more impressive, often three stories high with widow’s walks at the top. The houses were closer together and there was much less vegetation and the privacy it afforded. Although all of these houses were perfect for parties with their deep wrap-around porches, sizeable high-ceilinged rooms, and long docks fitted out with ladders and diving boards, most of this neighborhood kept to themselves. In general they sat quietly chatting on their porches, occasionally sailing from their docks, rarely shouting “Hey” to passing neighbors like they did down-island, and never throwing loud boisterous parties like the Barefooters did.
    Hannah looked at the man. If this man was a regular islander, he probably lived up-island. He had that stiffness and distance.
    “McGrath,” the man said and tilted his head up-island. “We live up next door to the Captain’s old house.” He narrowed his eyes at her, looked past her towards the parking lot. “Just stopping by?” He attempted a friendly smile that looked painful. “Well, didn’t know you were an islander. Sorry to interrogate you, just didn’t know – you know how it is these days. Gotta be careful. This island’s a magnet for all kinds of criminal-types.” He glanced at her and then away, as if implying something.
    She didn’t like that glance. “Yes, well, I understand what you mean. Heard sometimes there’s break-ins over the winter, squatters. Never been here in the winter, or this time of year, so I wouldn’t know.”
    “Oh, yes.” Mr. McGrath nodded enthusiastically and looked at her with the first sign of real friendliness. “Bums and delinquents almost every year. Especially if the water freezes over and they can walk.  Burned a hole in the DiPietro’s porch floor last year having some kind of party. Beer bottles and whatnot everywhere.  What a mess.”
    “Are you living on the island right now?” Hannah said, never having heard of anyone staying this late except for the hippies in the seventies and the famed hermit-captain. Was Mr. McGrath here by himself?
    He answered her unasked question. “The wife and I stay on every year until the end of October. It’s quiet. We like it.” He glanced at her and amended, “Boring, though! Nothing going on. You’d hate it, go crazy. Us old people, though, we don’t mind being bored.”  He tried to laugh a little, looking at her and then away. He reached for his oars. “Well,” he said, sounding actually happy, his voice