By 1776, Kench had withstood all he was going to. He deserted and fled, heading to the lonely islands off Mount Desert. One a day late in October, Kench grounded out his boat on a tiny islet of Swans Island. After years of solitude, he took a Penobscot woman for his wife, sired six children and lived well into his nineties to tell the story.
Happy was about as ornery as his ancestor. He owned a ramshackle Cape Cod style house on a rocky bluff that looked straight out to Marshall Island. It was, by anyone’s standards, a perfectly fine house. Nonetheless, Happy preferred to cook his meals outdoors and sleep in one of the several dilapidated, broken-down automobiles he kept spread out over the property. In the spring and summer, as it was now, Happy generally slept in a rusty, silver 1962 Chevy Impala convertible. This way, as he said, he had an unobstructed view of the stars in the night sky. He liked to lie fully stretched out in the back seat, slowly drawing on his pipe, watching the twinkling lights overhead. Every once in a while, Happy would be fortunate enough to spot a shooting star or two. A comet was a real treat. Overall, most people agreed that Happy may not have known much, but he sure did know his night sky with all it’s various and mysterious constellations.
Somewhere, on a rather vague level, Happy was aware that the Island’s other citizens, most of whom he had known for all of his 82 years, considered him a little strange and eccentric. If the truth were to be know, Happy was more than likely outright certifiable. But due to the innate, fundamentally held Yankee belief that each man has a basic right to his own privacy, the locals pretty much left Happy to his own devises ......... and that was how he liked it.
This particular Wednesday evening, Happy was just tossing the day’s catch of clams into the boiling pot on top of his Coleman stove when a sudden movement to the east caught his attention. Pushing his grimy cap back on his head, Happy looked up, watching the gradual streaking of lights as a plane made it’s way almost leisurely over Jericho Bay.
"That boy better pull her up some, Spike, or he’ll be taking a bath." Happy commented to his customary companion.
Spike, alertly watching the bright lights getting even brighter as the craft slowly went still lower in the sky, whimpered nervously.
His master, though, had gone back to tending his clams and didn’t pay anymore attention to the dogs’s uneasiness.
"Just a couple more minutes for supper ... " Commented Happy, checking his antiquated pocket watch before shoving it back into his pants. Rummaging around deep in the trunk of the Chevy, Happy surfaced triumphantly with a paper plate and plastic fork. Irritably, he abruptly turned around to address Spike, who had finally stopped his whimpering and was now loudly barking.
"What the hell, boy ....... ?" He never got to finish the sentence because for the first time in his life, Happy was struck speechless by what he saw.
Chapter 8
Just about sunrise the next morning, Happy rolled over in his sleep. This sent him crashing off the back seat of the Chevy Impala onto the rusted out floorboards, heavily hitting his head on the door handle as he fell. Happy didn’t even feel it. That small wallop was nothing compared to what was going on inside his head.
"Jesus Christ on a crutch, Spike," He muttered, " worse hangover I’ve ever had ......
"
But even as he said the words, Happy remembered old Bobby Pigeon’s grandson’s wedding festivities just this past winter over in Deer Isle. Now, those folks down Deer Isle - Stonington way knew how to throw a party.
Hazily, the previous night’s events started to come back into focus. Splashing ice cold water onto his face, Happy paused, trying to recall exactly what had happened. He could clearly remember Spike barking like an idiot. He could remember seeing something bright. So bright that it should have hurt his eyes, but for some reason it didn’t.
Happy was concentrating so hard now that he was squinting. Passing a rough towel over his face, he gingerly touched his forehead. What a pounder, he thought sourly.
But no matter how hard he tried, Happy couldn’t seem to jog his memory.
There was only one more thing that he could recall after the brightness.
That was being scared shitless.
Happy could remember being so terrified that he could barely breath. So, when the brightness had finally gone, he’d done just what any other All-American Male would have done. He’d gotten good and drunk.
"Come’on Spike," he said planting his cap firmly on his head. "Let’s you and me go see if Wanda’s got the coffee pot on this early."
Leaning heavily on his walking stick, Happy started the short hike to Minturn, on the other side of the Island. By the time he arrived at Wanda’s back door, the sun had burned through the early morning mist and the day ahead promised to be a warm one.
Peeking through the window, he spotted Wanda in her usual rocking chair. Not bothering to knock first, Happy opened the door and stepped into the kitchen.
Wanda barely glanced up from her newspaper.
"Morning, Hap," she nodded, "coffee’s on the back burner."
Trying to move slowly so as not to jog his head unnecessarily, Happy took a mug down from the shelf and filled it to the rim with hot brew. Sighing, he carefully let himself down into the chair at the kitchen table and put his head in his hands.
"Hap, you look like you’ve been rode hard and put up wet." Commented Wanda casually. "What’d you do, tie one on?"
Not waiting for his reply, Wanda proceeded to read a news article out loud.
"A teenage girl in New Jersey is facing up to thirty years to life in prison.
The girl is accused of murdering her newborn son in the bathroom of the local high school gymnasium minutes after giving birth in one of the stalls.
Authorities say that she wrapped and hit him in the bottom of the trash reciprocal, and then returned to her high school prom, where she preceded to dance the night away with her date."
After a long moment of silence, Wanda finally spoke again. "It’s all there ......
in the papers, on TV ...... just like Gluskabe had said it was."
"What’s that, Wanda?" Happy asked, picking his head up carefully.
Sharply, Wanda looked over at Happy. She may be old, but she sure wasn’t stupid.
If she didn’t want to sound like a crazy, old woman, she had to be real careful here.
"Hap, what do think about the state the world’s in today?"
"Excuse me, Wanda?" Happy looked up from his coffee mug, not quite sure what she meant.
"The world, Hap .... you know, this place we all live in together. The one where every time you pick up a paper or turn on a TV you hear more about people killing each other every day and playing Russian Roulette with our environment."
Wanda stated irritably.
On the other side of the Island, Sam was stubbornly trying to ignore the persistent ringing of her telephone. Groaning loudly, the finally gave up and rolled over. Making a grab for the receiver, she knocked a pile of books precariously balanced on the bedside table onto the floor with a loud bang.