Sea of Tranquility by Lesley Choyce Page B

absorbing solar energy to bring it fully back to life. An osprey flying overhead. Angeline noticed it all as if in an instant, witnessed it all and absorbed it, said to herself,“This is me. This place. I am at some special, special place and it will stay with me for the rest of my life.” She knocked on the door. They did not have door bells or buzzers or outdoor intercoms here on Ragged Island.
    A door swung inward.
Open Sesame
. The old woman, blinking in the light. Slightly surprised. Not many visitors for her, Angie guessed.
    Elise cleared her suburban throat.“Hope we’re not intruding.”
    Sylvie adjusting her bearings. The word “intruding” had a funny foreign feel to it. People on the island usually didn’t worry about intruding. You were either there to visit or you were not. You did not worry about if it was intruding. But these were not islanders. Mainlanders. Little girl and her mum. Sylvie smiled, opened the door as wide as it would go. “Not at all. Was just sitting alone with a not so interesting book. Close it up. Easy enough at that. Come. Sit. Angeline, isn’t it. Cookie, girl?”
    â€œYes, please.”
    â€œNothing to drink but tea or well water. No pop.”
    â€œIt’s okay. We’re both okay. Angie wanted to come say hello.”
    â€œTea, then. I’ll make it weak. Won’t hurt the little girl. Not much caffeine if you make it weak. Sometimes I make tea from tansy or mint, too. Grows wild in the backyard.”
    The old woman went to her sink and there was a hand pump. She pumped it up and down in a smooth stroking manner like she had done thousands of times in a life. Water in a kettle, set upon an electric hot plate.
So she has electricity
, Elise was thinking.
    This must be what “rural” poverty is like.
Elise kept her thoughts to herself, studied every detail, prepped herself for a debriefing with the women in her group once she returned.
    Sylvie wore a long, theatrical dress, something clearly from what she thought of as “the olden days.” And she was tall. A bit bent over, but tall and graceful. “Sit,” she told the mother from New Jersey.
    Three of them sitting at an old oak kitchen table, with knife marks in it, chips and dings, rounded edges as if from sheer use, not design. Three rocks positioned on the table forsome purpose — or maybe just decoration. Three round, elegant, but common beach stones. The chairs: spindle-legged, flat-seated chairs creaked, thanged, hawed, and yankled with every little movement. Aside from that, the room was stone still and quiet. Outside, though, birds performed soundtracks for nature films.
    Angie was still looking at the hand pump, had never seen such a thing or even heard of it.“Can I try?”
    â€œSure. Oh yes, dear. Please. Lots of water in the well. The island has lots of fresh water even though we’re surrounded by salt. You’d think it’d be salty down there below too, but it isn’t. Clean. Fresh. They say you should drink lots of fresh water, flush your kidneys and all that.”
    â€œYou live here alone?” Elise asked.
    Angie pumped the handle and water flowed into the sink. She smiled and laughed and held one hand under the flowing water, then touched its wetness to her forehead, a baptism ceremony.
    â€œAlone now. Well, depends how you figure it. Husbands are all dead.”
    â€œAll?”
    â€œAll four. Some died young, some older. Way it is sometimes. All good men. They’re all still with me, though. In my heart.”
    Elise tried to look at the beautiful face of the old woman but could not. She was slightly embarrassed as Sylvie revealed so much so quickly to a stranger. Elise was used to small talk, endless small talk. Her crowd talked around in circles about trivial things for a long time before zeroing in on anything real and worthy of serious woman talk.
    â€œWhere does the water come from?” Angie