Late Afternoons

She leaves the house at two thirty, as she does every weekday. It’s a sunny spring day with barely any breeze off the ocean, ideal fishing weather. Roy left at sunrise and will not dock his cuddy until just before the sun dips back into the sea, as satisfied with his day’s catch as the sun will be with the yellow and orange brushstrokes it leaves lingering in the sky, silhouetting grey clouds as darkness settles. She has plenty of time before meeting him in the harbour.

She enjoys these afternoon walks alone, peacefully connecting with her surroundings, never tiring of the beauty in her coastal town and the forest that envelops it with tall, green protective boughs. In just over an hour she will walk little Jeremy Spence home from school. Her relaxed amble to the other side of town is quiet this time of day. Many of the yards she passes are in full colorful bloom, scattered with flowers and the occasional garden gnome. She especially enjoys passing the Whittaker’s yard. Allison has an envious green thumb and meticulous eye for garden display which everyone in town loves to admire on their after dinner strolls. She likes to pause here during the day and watch honeybees wabble from petal to petal in drunken nectar bliss, an amusing spectacle those who pass in the evening are apt to miss.

She waits for Jeremy at the edge of the cedar grove behind the school yard. Resting in the shade of an expansive ancient cedar is an ideal setting for the symphony of birdsong rising from the forest. The harsh blat of the school buzzer announcing the children’s end-of -the-day release startles her from tranquil meditation, even after all these months.

Jeremy is alone, lagging behind the others and struggling to keep an oversized knapsack square on his scrawny back. He’s too young to be walking the dirt road the mile up the coastline to his home alone. She watches out for him, although he doesn’t know this; no one does. She stays in the treeline shadows three to four feet behind him, listening vigilantly for vehicles and predators.

Jeremy is lost in his own thoughts, careless about how far into the road he veers and oblivious to his surroundings. He continuously shifts the knapsack from shoulder to shoulder as he silently trudges up the gentle incline home. When he comes to a large, shoulder-high boulder on the path that leads from the road toward his yard, he stops, hoists the pack atop it with a grunt, then scrambles up beside it. His natural rock-climbing agility impresses her. This is the only time she sees the quick sliver of a smile cross his lips. She settles on the slope behind him near a pine tree, knowing what comes next.

He opens the front pouch of the bag and retrieves two palm-sized stones, ritualistically weighing each back and forth in his hands - one, two, three, four - shifting from foot to foot and settling his gaze past the bulrushes at the marsh water’s edge. His mother likes to joke that, while most of the town’s homes face the ocean, hers overlooks a swamp. Jeremy sees the marsh as a target to release his inner, indefinable sadness.

He hurls the first stone with a strong, determined arm and they both watch it lob over the reeds and sink into the murky water with a faint “glub”. Only when the water is perfectly still again does he hurl the second stone. He mutters to himself between each throw but she is too far away to make out the words.

He has twelve stones in his pack today, more than usual. He’s never in any hurry to get home and she’s content to watch and wait. Jeremy’s father is Roy’s best friend. Seeing the strong fisherman, a head taller than Roy, deteriorate to a shrunken man in a wheelchair over this past year has been hard on everyone.

The marsh mallards are familiar with Jeremy’s rock ritual and respectfully retreat to the far edge of the pond, quietly accepting his stone offerings. Mother Nature wraps the boy in a calm, comforting embrace when he slides down the boulder and continues up the path home.

His dad, Greg, is waiting for him on the porch, tucking the binoculars he’s been watching Jeremy with into the wheelchair’s side pouch just as his boy bounds up the stairs, seemingly without a care in the world.

“Hi son, how was school?”

Now that Jeremy is home, safe, she returns to the road and continues the climb toward what she considers to be the best view of the harbour; her private lookout known only to sea birds, small mammals and the occasional deer. She loves watching watercraft glide to and from the wharf and circle the harbour. Her vantage point is high enough that the droning boat motors are a muffled accompaniment to bird and squirrel chatter. This water ballet is never choreographed the same. The only constant is when she catches sight of Roy’s red vessel round the harbour crag on the distant horizon and make its way back to the dock. This is her cue to descend the mossy slope in a playful race that ends with her sitting on the shore at the end of the dock, offering a silent prayer of thanks for his safe return. She’s never been late getting to the harbour in all their years together.

As Roy ties the mooring line to the dock, his shipmates adjust to land legs again, each looking satisfied with the contents of their coolers as they walk toward her. “Hi Bess. He’s home safe.”

Roy greets her with a silent nod and they head to the truck. “We’ll stop at Greg’s on the way home and give him a couple of salmon. He would have loved it out there today.”

The ride back to the Spence home is a welcome rest. She leans against Roy’s comforting, strong shoulder, closing her eyes and bobbing with the forward thrust of the half ton as it veers the long way round the marsh. As they pull into the driveway she sees Jeremy leap from the porch in a gallop toward them. “Uncle Roy! Bess!”

As Roy takes two large salmon from the cooler in the back of the truck up to the house, Jeremy throws his arms around Bess, burying his face into her soft neck. “I wish you were my dog,” he whispers, and she knows her fur will dry a small tear or two before he pulls away and lets her lick his cheek.