crowd.
Deacon Hurd let a dramatic pause cross the water and hover over his audience. Then, when they were all poised, he cried in a voice that sounded like God's, "Two."
"Oh," said the crowd. And then "Oh" again.
So they came up to the dock, with more than enough hands reaching out to take the bow and stern lines, and then more than enough hands pulling the towrope close in, and more than enough hands reaching down to tie it fast. They all stepped back as Turner guided Lizzie, woozy but with her eyes open, up the dock ladder, Mr. Newton reaching down to take her hand and bring her up. And then the crowd was pushing away from her granddaddy, and he was scooping Lizzie into his arms. She was putting her face in his chest and beginning to cry, and without saying more, they turned and walked off the dock together, the crowd carefully not touching them.
Turner was standing at the end of the dock, alone.
He thought of the whale, swimming so close to him but just out of his reach across the dark water, its skin glistening white and black in the silver moonlight, its great fins slapping the water, and its eye ... its eye.
But now the eyes of most of the communicants of Phippsburg's First Congregational were on him. He felt guilt move toward him like a thickened fog—he could almost see it. The just and perfect Willis Hurd walked past him easily, but the fog embraced Turner like a vampire, and it whispered, "You are not one of us."
His father was coming through the crowd at the end of the dock. He came slowly and purposefully, as though the crowd were not there. Turner waited for him without moving. He could feel his father's footsteps on the dock.
"You're safe, then," said Reverend Buckminster.
"Yes."
"And the girl who was with you?"
"She was hurt. She's with her granddaddy now."
Reverend Buckminster nodded. "Your mother's upset. Come along home."
So they walked off the dock, Turner a little behind his father, but the vampire fog followed him up the shore, past First Congregational, and across Parker Head to the parsonage, where his mother was waiting at the top of the porch steps. She rushed him into the house and burst out with a cry the likes of which Turner had never heard before.
There followed all the frantic questions—his mother kept touching him while he answered. They told him of the sighting of the dory rounding Bald Head, the breathless news brought back to Phippsburg, the efforts of half the boats of the Phippsburg docks to find them before it was full dark, under the godly perseverance of the Hurds.
Then there was a silence, and Mrs. Buckminster stood. "That's enough. Turner will be hungry, and the Lord knows we could all do with something to eat, now that the excitement is over." She paused to look back at Turner, and looked back again just before she went into the kitchen.
"Turner," said Reverend Buckminster quietly.
Turner looked at him. He thought, He's going to come apart. He's holding himself together as best he can, but he's going to come apart.
"Turner, whatever were you doing with that Negro girl?"
"She was hurt. I was taking her back to the island."
"That's not what I mean. You know that's not what I mean. What were you doing with her in the first place?"
How could he tell his father what he was doing? How could he say they were chasing the sea breeze and putting the whole continent at their backs?
"Turner, no one on that island is fit company for a minister's son. Not a single one. Heaven only knows what goes on over there. But whatever it is, it's not for decent-minded folks to be around. Do you understand what I mean, Turner? Do you?"
"Lizzie's not like that. Whatever decent-minded folks are thinking, Lizzie's not like that."
"You're a child, Turner. You don't know how they can take you in, make you think what they want you to think. Tonight it could have cost you your life."
"Should I have left her bleeding on the shore?"
"You shouldn't have been on the shore. You should be up
Deacon Hurd let a dramatic pause cross the water and hover over his audience. Then, when they were all poised, he cried in a voice that sounded like God's, "Two."
"Oh," said the crowd. And then "Oh" again.
So they came up to the dock, with more than enough hands reaching out to take the bow and stern lines, and then more than enough hands pulling the towrope close in, and more than enough hands reaching down to tie it fast. They all stepped back as Turner guided Lizzie, woozy but with her eyes open, up the dock ladder, Mr. Newton reaching down to take her hand and bring her up. And then the crowd was pushing away from her granddaddy, and he was scooping Lizzie into his arms. She was putting her face in his chest and beginning to cry, and without saying more, they turned and walked off the dock together, the crowd carefully not touching them.
Turner was standing at the end of the dock, alone.
He thought of the whale, swimming so close to him but just out of his reach across the dark water, its skin glistening white and black in the silver moonlight, its great fins slapping the water, and its eye ... its eye.
But now the eyes of most of the communicants of Phippsburg's First Congregational were on him. He felt guilt move toward him like a thickened fog—he could almost see it. The just and perfect Willis Hurd walked past him easily, but the fog embraced Turner like a vampire, and it whispered, "You are not one of us."
His father was coming through the crowd at the end of the dock. He came slowly and purposefully, as though the crowd were not there. Turner waited for him without moving. He could feel his father's footsteps on the dock.
"You're safe, then," said Reverend Buckminster.
"Yes."
"And the girl who was with you?"
"She was hurt. She's with her granddaddy now."
Reverend Buckminster nodded. "Your mother's upset. Come along home."
So they walked off the dock, Turner a little behind his father, but the vampire fog followed him up the shore, past First Congregational, and across Parker Head to the parsonage, where his mother was waiting at the top of the porch steps. She rushed him into the house and burst out with a cry the likes of which Turner had never heard before.
There followed all the frantic questions—his mother kept touching him while he answered. They told him of the sighting of the dory rounding Bald Head, the breathless news brought back to Phippsburg, the efforts of half the boats of the Phippsburg docks to find them before it was full dark, under the godly perseverance of the Hurds.
Then there was a silence, and Mrs. Buckminster stood. "That's enough. Turner will be hungry, and the Lord knows we could all do with something to eat, now that the excitement is over." She paused to look back at Turner, and looked back again just before she went into the kitchen.
"Turner," said Reverend Buckminster quietly.
Turner looked at him. He thought, He's going to come apart. He's holding himself together as best he can, but he's going to come apart.
"Turner, whatever were you doing with that Negro girl?"
"She was hurt. I was taking her back to the island."
"That's not what I mean. You know that's not what I mean. What were you doing with her in the first place?"
How could he tell his father what he was doing? How could he say they were chasing the sea breeze and putting the whole continent at their backs?
"Turner, no one on that island is fit company for a minister's son. Not a single one. Heaven only knows what goes on over there. But whatever it is, it's not for decent-minded folks to be around. Do you understand what I mean, Turner? Do you?"
"Lizzie's not like that. Whatever decent-minded folks are thinking, Lizzie's not like that."
"You're a child, Turner. You don't know how they can take you in, make you think what they want you to think. Tonight it could have cost you your life."
"Should I have left her bleeding on the shore?"
"You shouldn't have been on the shore. You should be up
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