THE ZOO Page 2

  Stepping out the back door into a strident wind straight off the ocean, Sam briskly shook out the frayed multicolored braided rug that her mother had so proudly made years ago. After smoothing it down over the clean floor, she struggled with the heavy pedestal based oak table, putting it back in it’s rightful place in front of the bay windows.

  Sam found an old radio tucked behind the toaster on the kitchen counter.

  Scanning quickly, she found a Bangor station playing ‘70’s music. Her hands automatically moving to the beat of Neil Young’s "Every Man Needs A Maid", she scrubbed the countertop and then moved on to tackle the stove.

  Vaguely, as she slowly built up a sweat, it dawned on Sam that plain, old-fashioned manual labor had it’s rewards. It gave her something she needed right now.

  Mindless work. The most important decision she’d had to make so far this morning was what brand of cleaning fluid to use. Manual labor. Throughout the years, Jeff had so adamantly refused to do anything around their apartment with his hands that Sam had accused him of actually believing that manual labor was a Mexican gardener.

  Sam smiled grimly at the thought of Jeff. She had done the right thing by coming back home. She was sure of it. Already she could feel the familiar house safely enveloping her as she went from room to room, uncovering furniture and obliterating the past few years of accumulated dust.

  The graceful home, built in 1872, held a good sized kitchen; pantry; dining room; study, and Sam’s favorite, an enormous double parlor with fireplaces situated at opposite ends of the room. A sturdy staircase with a nicely turned mahogany railing climbed from the wide foyer to the second story.

  Upstairs there were five bedrooms, the master having it’s own full bath. This was the room that Sam had spontaneously taken for herself upon arriving the previous evening.

  Her parent’s old bedroom held wonderfully cozy memories for her. Leaning against the doorway, gazing about the well proportioned room, Sam was suddenly flooded with long-forgotten scenes. She recalled the many happy hours she had spent curled up on her mother’s chaise placed by the window. She would stare out at the sea below as her father read a wondrous mix of Kipling, Longfellow, and the Bobsey Twins out loud to her in his deep, low voice. The massive cherry four poster made her think of blustery, subzero winter days kept home from school with a scratchy throat. Satisfactorily, she would snuggle deeply into the bed, piled high with goose down pillows, while her mother pampered her with endless processions of honeyed tea and buttery warm cinnamon toast.

  The combination of these nostalgic memories brought Sam a much needed impression of safety and belonging. She felt herself relax as she worked. For the first time in months she found herself letting down her guard.

  Sam walked slowly through the rooms becoming reacquainted with the familiar, well worn furnishings. Lightly running her fingertips along the hand hewn molding of a pine fireplace, Sam was well aware that this sheltered atmosphere she was creating for herself was, at best, only a temporary illusion.

  Sighing, she wearily pushed an escaping curl of thick, auburn hair back behind her ear. She was bone tired from lack of sleep and the unfamiliar exertion of heavy cleaning. "At least I’ve made a dent in the old place," she thought with satisfaction. "You’re really just putting off the inevitable," she silently chided herself, "sooner or later you’re going to have to stop moving long enough to face this situation."

  "Not yet," she muttered out loud, startling herself in the silence. Turning from the study, Sam started up the stairs for a well deserved shower. The only reason that she’d so easily gotten rid of Martha that morning was that she had promised to come for dinner. The inevitable, it seemed, could be delayed just a bit longer after all.

  She ignored her waiting parked car, deciding to hike the few minutes to Martha’s.

  It was a beautiful, soft evening. Sam could smell the annual rebirth of the land all around her as she walked. The trees were slowly becoming outlined with a vague, velvet-like green. One more good rain, Sam thought, and everything should really start to blossom. 10 Surprised, she realized than that she was actually looking forward to summer on the Island. Sam remembered each and every one of her girlhood summers in remarkably vivid details.

  Situated some forty-five minutes out by boat from the mainland, completely surrounded by the mighty Atlantic , the two mile long island was an unquestionable heaven-on-earth to a child. As brutal as the long, unrelenting winters could be, the island’s summers were pure magic. But, it wasn’t summer yet, Sam reminded herself, as she hugged her jacket closer against the damp, evening chill and consciously intensified her pace.

  Martha and Kevin Dodge’s house was the very last one on Joyce Road in Minturn, one of three small communities the island held. Coming up upon it Sam was, once again, struck with just how God-awful-ugly the huge, rectangular building was.

  Built high on a knoll with a view of Jericho Bay, the early nineteenth century brown, clapboard house had at one time been Swans Island’s solitary general store. For the past hundred and fifty years or so the old place had belonged to Martha’s side of the family. She, Kevin, and the children shared living space with her elderly Abaneki grandmother, Wanda Kneeland.

  As Sam walked up the steps, the front door was vigorously flung open before she even had a chance to knock.

  "Look at you!" exclaimed Kevin Dodge,lifting Sam up off her feet in a mammoth bear-hug and kiss, his full beard tickling her face. "Martha’s back in the kitchen and you’re in deep shit."

  Sam smiled up at the hulking man, "It’s good to see you, too, Kev. Guess I’m late, huh?" Not bothering to wait for his answer, she made her familiar way to the kitchen. Even if she hadn’t already known the route, she could have found it simply by following her nose.

  Pushing open the kitchen door, she took a moment to savor the blend of delicious aromas that emanated from the vicinity of the stove. Her long black hair caught up in an elastic, looking like an orchestra conductor, Martha stood in the middle of all this wizardry, serenely stirring the contents of all the bubbling pots with a big, wooden spoon. Even amid all the culinary mess and clutter, Martha had an air of contented grace about her that Sam immediately yearned for.

  This soft sentiment, however, was quickly dispelled when, without even bothering to turn around, her friend spoke, "You’re late, you jerk."

  "Sorry", replied Sam, without sounding it. "I’ve been swamping out the house."

  "So, how do you like domestic life so far?" asked Martha, tossing a grin over her shoulder in Sam’s general direction.

  "Well ......... I can honestly say it sucks. My back is killing me." commented Sam, chewing on a raw carrot and perching herself on a stool. "But the house is starting to feel like home again. It needs paint, though. You know, Martha, I rally did the right thing. Coming home, I mean. It feels good to be here."

  Turning with a air of concern, Martha answered, "Of course, I’m thrilled to have you back here again. But Sammy, you will let me know when you’re ready to talk, won’t you?"

  "You know I will ....." Sam started to reply, but was interrupted by a deafening clatter on the back steps. The door banging wide open, three kids exploded through it into the kitchen. "Whoa! Where’s Kevin Jr.?" shouted Martha above the din.

  "He’ll be here in a minute, Mom. He’s closing up the barn." explained the youngest, trying unsuccessfully to swipe his blond hair out of his eyes with a thoroughly grimy hand. Looking at Sam without any hint of shyness, he stuck out that same hand and proclaimed, "I’m Michael and my Mom’s told me everything about when you two were growing up together in the old days."

  Without hesitation, Sam took his hand. "I sincerely hope not quite everything!" she laughed.

  "What do you mean "old days" buster?!" Martha whacked him neatly on his butt with the dish towel in her hand. "You monsters go get washed up for dinner."

  "My God, Martha," exclaimed Sam, momentarily stupefied by all the clamor, "Four boys!"

  "Yep, couldn’t thr
ow a girl for the life of me." stated Martha flatly as she ladled the thick stew into a deep tureen. "Here, Sam," she said, handing over a stack of silverware, "go put your brand new domestic talents to good use."

  Chapter 4

  Later that night, after the boys had been corralled and tucked into their individual beds, Martha, Kevin and Sam sat amicably in front of a roaring fire finishing off a bottle or two of Kevin’s home brew.

  Sam found herself feeling more relaxed than she had in months. The combined warmth from the fire and old friends felt wonderful. Martha had just finished explaining how her grandmother had decided to instill a sense of their Penobscot heritage into her great - grandsons. From there the talk went to another of the Island’s oldest inhabitants.

  "I can’t wait to see Happy again." Sam commented. "How is he doing?"

  "He’s as crusty as ever, the old fart." Said Kevin. "Still lives out on the Head with all those broken down cars and that old hound of his."

  Eventually, the conversation came around to Sam’s work in the SETI based tracking progrm over the last few years.

  "Kev doesn’t believe in little green men from outer space ..... or UFOs." Martha reached across her husband on the couch for a handful of pretzels in a bowl on the coffee table. "Say’s it’s all Hollywood bullshit." She ended with her mouth full.

  "Course it is!" Chimed in Kevin, "Only a fool would believe all that hype.

  Roswell my ass."

  "So, what do you say to that, Sammy?" Martha sat back against the cushions grinning. She was starting to have fun. This was an ongoing difference of opinion that her husband and friend had been having for years now. She knew it wouldn’t take much to get them both going. When they were kids, their arguments would get quite loud.

  "God, Kevin. How can you be such a close minded idiot?" Sam snapped in disgust, fully taking the bait. "Little green men ....... Jesus."

  "You tell him, girl." Martha knew that Sam was just getting warmed up.

  "In our galaxy alone, Kev, there are approximately three to four hundred million stars. That’s so many that I can’t even begin to comprehend it! But think about this, Kevin. Each and everyone of those stars could be possible homes for other beings. Don’t you know that Earth is a relative late - comer to the cosmic scene?"

  "Well then," Kevin, unimpressed by her figures, munched loudly on a pretzel, "why don’t we just take a little trip to a couple of those stars and check them out?"

  Sam laughed, "Kevin, we couldn’t afford the gas to get to the star next door let alone the other three hundred and ninety nine million of them. That’s why the tracking programs, like the one I work with, are so vital. The interstellar distances are so vast that it’s just simply more cost effective to listen. Not to mention the time it would take in terms of years of travel to those distances.

  Radio broadcasting is the only way to go."

  The three sat quietly for a few moments thinking about what Sam had just said.

  Suddenly, Sam started to laugh. "Really, Kev. Little green men? Aren’t you going to feel like an ass when your nearest galactic neighbor turns out to be so much smarter than you?"

  "Probably better looking, too." Roared Martha, shoving her elbow deep into her husband’s ribs.

  Sam shook her head as she rose from her chair. She knew when to fold with these two.

  "Laugh all you want, guys, but I’m convinced that somewhere out there - lost among all those stars - is a civilization that is much older and therefore that much more elaborate than ours. Our culture has only had technology for a bit over a hundred years now. What if we are able to discover one that has used technology for one hundred thousand years? Think what we could learn from them!"

  She started to pull on her jacket for the short walk home.

  "Yeah," said Kevin, as he helped with the coat, "or maybe we should think about how they could blast the bejesus out of us!"

  "Do you really believe that, Kev?" asked Sam incredulously, spinning around to face him.

  "Don’t really know what I believe, kid. All I’m saying is this - maybe, just maybe, when all is said and done after using all your fancy science, silicone chips and amazing computer that can make a trillion fucking calculations in a heartbeat - maybe if we ever do find someone else out there - well, we may find that we would have been better off just to have kept our mouths shut."

  Sam reached up to give Kevin a hug goodnight. "That’s what I’ve always liked about you, Kev. You’re so damn positive in your outlook."

  Chapter 5

  Sam heard him approaching long before she actually saw him. The unmistakable chug of a vintage VW bus as it climbed the small hill at the foot of her driveway. When she heard the engine being roughly shifted downward to make the turn, she knew she was going to have a visitor.

  Scrambling to her feet, she quickly gathered her scattered papers up from the porch floor and made an exit for the front door ...... and security. Safely inside the house, Sam watched tensely from a shaded parlor window as the dusty, blue bus emerged from behind the thick cedar hedge. It pulled up and parked in front of the porch that she had only seconds ago vacated.

  He was exceptionally tall and walked in long, easy strides. Sam’s first impression of him was that he looked ready for anything. Loping effortlessly up the steps, he crossed the porch and was at the door quickly. Ignoring the ornate brass knocker, he rapped loudly on the wood with his knuckles.

  Sam turned to her desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. She withdrew a .38, checked it’s chamber and slid it into her deep sweater pocket. Feeling slightly reassured by it’s weighty feel, she went into the foyer and opened the front door just an inch and asked firmly, "Who is it?" while keeping her hand lightly on the gun.

  "Per Erriksson." Responded a deep, musical voice. "Martha asked me to stop by."

  Not getting an immediate answer from within, he continued, "You are Samantha Coley, aren’t you?"

  Sam was instantly flooded with embarrassment. God, she’d totally forgotten that Martha had arranged for someone to drop by today to give her an estimate on painting the house. She hastily pulled the door open and stepped out onto the porch.

  "Sorry," she exclaimed, "it had completely slipped my mind that you were coming this morning. I appreciate your taking the time."

  Looking down at her with steady, dark gray eyes, Per was instantly mindful of her wariness. It was unmistakable, despite her attempt to disguise it. Somehow, he was certain that her reaction to his sudden arrival was based on something more than simply a healthy distrust of strangers. Per had no doubt that it went deeper than that.

  "If this isn’t a good time for you, I can come back." He said softly.

  "Oh, no," Sam stammered, " this is fine, really. Let me show you around."

  She led the way down the porch steps onto the still brown lawn and walked with him around the house and attached barn. Ten minutes later, back where they had begun the tour, Sam asked politely, "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

  "That would be great." Smiled Per, pulling a pencil and small pad out of his jacket. "If it’s okay with you, I’ll just sit here and do dome figuring."

  Gingerly, he sat down on a wicker chair. Instinctively, he knew that she didn’t want him to follow her into the house.

  Relieved, Sam went inside, down the foyer to the kitchen in the back. While she gathered the makings for coffee, she tried to calm her jangled nerves.

  Primarily, she was irritated. For Christ’s sake, she silently berated herself, people are bound to show up once in awhile. What are you going to do? Go through the rest of your life getting sick with fear overtime you run across a complete stranger?

  But even as she admonished herself, Sam knew there was more to her irritation besides the sudden appearance of her visitor. Damn. He was very attractive with his deep gray eyes and lyrical (was it Scandinavian?) accent. Martha hadn’t bothered to mention those features when she’d spoken about him.

  Ok, Ok, she thought in annoyance, tossing a hand
ful of oatmeal cookies onto the plate despite herself. Just give him his coffee, tell him you’ve decided the house doesn’t need painting after all, and he’ll go away. Squaring off her shoulders, Sam carried the laden tray out to the porch.

  Hurrying to his feet when he saw her coming, Per helpfully opened the screen door. Smiling somewhat self-consciously, Sam placed the tray down upon a small wicker table set between two chairs. As she bent forward, Per had a clear, unobstructed view into her protruding sweater pocket.

  "Help yourself," she said, glancing up at him. Frowning slightly, Per sat back down and reached for a mug, concentrating on stirring in the sugar and creamer.

  "Do you ..... ?"

  "Will ..... ?"

  Laughing, they both waited for the other to start speaking again.

  "You know," Sam began, "as we were looking at the house, I was thinking it really doesn’t look so bad. Perhaps it could go another year before I bother to paint." She finished hopefully.

  "I suppose you could put it off," nodded Per agreeably, "but it would make the job that much harder and expensive the following year if you decide to do that."

  This certainly wasn’t going the way she’d planned. But, before she could think of a more tactful way of putting things off, Per spoke.

  "Martha said that you had lived in Boston for the past fifteen years or so."

  Sam nodded, wondering just what else Martha had said.

  "That’s a nice town," he continued, "I’ve been there in my travels. Overall, I remember the residents of Boston as being rather friendly. I can’t say that the rest of your country’s cities are all that way." He finished wryly.

  Curious now, Sam looked at him sprawled out before her in old, faded Levis; a blue work shirt; badly scuffed boots, and a beat up leather jacket. She couldn’t help but notice how his sandy hair curled slightly around the upturned collar.