The wardrobes upper doors were unlocked, and they swung open to reveal a musty, vacant interior. Hatch tried the drawers at the bottom and found them empty as well. All except for the bottom drawer: stuffed in the back, torn and faded, was an old T-shirt with an iron-on Led Zeppelin logo. Claire had bought this for him, he remembered, on a high-school outing to Bar Harbor. He turned the shirt over in his hands for a moment, remembering the day she'd given it to him. Now it was just a two-decade-old rag. He put it aside. She'd found her happiness now— or lost it, depending on whom you asked.
One more try. He grabbed the wardrobe and wrestled with it, rocking it back and forth. Suddenly it shifted under his grasp, tilting forward dangerously, and he leaped out of the way as the thing went plummeting to the floor with a terrific crash. He scrambled to his feet as an enormous cloud of dust billowed up.
Then he bent down curiously, waving away the dust with an impatient hand.
The wooden backing of the wardrobe had broken apart in two places, revealing a narrow recess. Inside, he could make out the faint lines of newspaper clippings and pages covered with loopy, narrow handwriting, their edges thin and brittle against the old mahogany.
Chapter 34
The long point of ochre-colored land called Burnt Head lay south of town, jutting out into the sea like a giant's gnarled finger. On the far side of this promontory, the cliff tumbled wooded and wild down to the bay known as Squeaker's Cove. Countless millions of mussel shells, rubbing against each other in the brittle surf, had given the deserted spot its name. The wooded paths and hollows that lay in the shadow of the lighthouse had become known as Squeaker's Glen. The name had a double meaning for students at Stormhaven High School; the glen also functioned as the local lovers' lane, and virginity had been lost there on more than one occasion.
Twenty-odd years before, Malin Hatch had himself been one of those fumbling virgins. Now he found himself strolling the wooded paths again, uncertain what impulse had brought him to this spot. He had recognized the handwriting on the sheets hidden in the wardrobe as his grandfather's. Unable to bring himself to read them right away, he'd left the house intent on strolling down along the waterfront. But his feet had taken him back of the town, skirting the meadows around Fort Blacklock, and angling at last toward the lighthouse and Squeaker's Cove.
He veered off onto a rutted path, a thin pencil line of black dropping through the thick growth. After several yards, the path opened into a small glade. On three sides, the rocky escarpment of Burnt Head rose steeply, covered in moss and creepers. On the fourth side, dense foliage blocked any view of the water, though the strange whispering of the mussel shells in the surf betrayed the nearness of the coast. Dim bars of light striped diagonally through the tree cover, highlighting ragged patches of grass. Despite himself, Hatch smiled as Emily Dickinson came unbidden to mind. "'There's a certain Slant of light,'" he murmured,
Winter Afternoons—
Which oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes—
He looked around the secluded glade as the memories came charging back. Of one May afternoon in particular, full of nervous roving hands and short, tentative gasps. The newness of it, the exotic sense of venturing into adult territory, had been intoxicating. He shook the memory away, surprised at how the thought of something that had happened so long ago could still be so arousing. That had been six months before his mother packed them off to Boston. Claire, more than anyone, had accepted his moods; accepted all the baggage that had come with being Malin Hatch, the boy who'd lost the better part of his family.
Ican't believe the place is still here, he thought to himself. His eyes caught a crumpled beer can peeping from beneath a rock; still here, and still apparently used for the same purposes.
He sat down on the fragrant grass. A beautiful late summer afternoon, and he had the glen all to himself.
No, not quite to himself. Hatch became aware of a rustling on the path behind him. He turned suddenly, and to his surprise saw Claire step out into the glade.
She stopped dead as she saw him, then flushed deeply. She was wearing a summery, low-cut print dress, and her long golden hair was gathered in a French braid that reached down her freckled back. She hesitated a moment, then stepped forward resolutely.
"Hello again," Hatch said, jumping to his feet. "Nice day to bump into you." He tried to make his tone light and easy. He wondered if he should shake her hand or kiss her cheek, and in the period of hesitation realized the time for doing either had already passed.
She smiled briefly and nodded.
"How was your dinner?" he asked. The question sounded inane even as it left his lips.
"Fine."
There was an awkward pause.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I must be intruding on your privacy." She turned to go.
"Wait!" he cried, louder than he'd intended. "I mean, you don't have to go. I was just out wandering. Besides, I'd like to catch up."
Claire looked around a little nervously. "You know how small towns are. If anyone were to find us here, they'd think—"
"Nobody's going to find us," he said. "This is Squeaker's Glen, remember?" He sat down again and patted the ground next to him.
She came forward and smoothed her dress with the self-conscious gesture he remembered.
"Funny we should meet here, of all places," he said.
She nodded. "I remember the time you put oak leaves over your ears and stood on that stone over there, quoting the whole of 'Lycidas.'"
Hatch was tempted to mention a few other things he remembered. "And now that I'm an old bonecutter, I throw medical metaphors in with the obscure poetry."
"What's it been, twenty-five years?" she asked.
"Just about." He paused for an awkward moment. "So what have you been doing all this time?"
"You know. Graduated from high school, planned to go to Orono and attend U Maine, but met Woody instead. Got married. No kids." She shrugged and took a seat on a nearby rock, hugging her knees. "That's about it."
"No kids?" Hatch asked. Even in high school, Claire had talked of her desire for children.
"No," she said matter-of-factly. "Low sperm count."
There was a silence. And then Hatch—to his own horror, and for some reason he couldn't begin to understand—felt an irresistible wave of mirth sweep over him at the incongruous turn the stumbling conversation had taken. He snorted involuntarily, then burst out laughing and continued laughing until his chest hurt and tears started. Dimly, he realized that Claire was laughing as hard as he was.
"Oh, Lord," she said, wiping her eyes at last, "what a relief it is to just laugh. Especially over this. Malin, you can't imagine what a terribly forbidden subject this is at home. Low sperm count." And they broke once again into choking peals of laughter.
As the laughter fell away, it seemed as if the years and the awkwardness fell with it. Hatch regaled her with stories of medical school, gruesome pranks they played in human anatomy class, and his adventures in Suriname and Sierra Leone, while she told him the various fates of their common friends. Almost all of them had moved to Bangor, Portland, or Manchester.
At last, she fell silent. "I have a confession, Malin," she said. "This meeting wasn't a complete accident."
Hatch nodded.
"You see, I saw you walking past Fort Blacklock, and . . . well, I took a wild guess where you were headed."
"Not so wild, it turns out."