Dark Nantucket Noon (2 page)

Exhilarated, Kitty ran down to the sand at the water's edge and whirled around, her bag a driving force at the end of one arm, her hair swatting her neck, slapping her face. Then she walked straight ahead in big strides, the sunshine striking down upon her shoulders.

The simple facts of the seashore made her happy. Air, water, earth and fire, everything reduced to its ancient elements. She had been wanting for a long time to do something with those four things, a long funny exercise in rhymed couplets. Why didn't she just stay, abandon her students, her apartment in Cambridge, her old life, and just stay? With only these four gigantic things to think about—the salt air, the blue water, the clean sand and the fiery sun. Only three in a little while, because the sun was about to have its eye put out by the murdering moon.

The northwest wind knocked and shouldered against her. Kitty leaned into it, adapted herself to it, let it whip at her hair and at the, two ends of her wrapped skirt. Suddenly she felt hungry, terribly hungry. She sank down on the sand and reached for her sandwiches. Then she had to get up and plump herself down higher up the beach, because she hadn't counted on the reach of the waves. The tide must be rising. She unwrapped a sandwich and took a lusty bite. It tasted marvelous. Then she unscrewed the top of her Thermos and poured out a little coffee. That tasted marvelous too. She felt around in her bag for the photographic plate she had wrapped up carefully in a cotton kerchief, and held it to the sun. There! A tiny nibble had been taken from the lower right-hand side. Kitty glanced around at the bluff and the sand and the sea, wondering if there would be any diminishing yet of the daylight. Not yet. Everything seemed just as before.

She stood up, let the wind carry away the crumbs from her skirt, gathered up the debris from her lunch, chased a flying sandwich wrapper, pounced on it, stuffed it into her bag and walked on. The going was hard, because the sand was mushy even at the wet edge of the water. Every now and then she rested by stopping to look up at the sun through her photographic plate. The bite that was being taken by the hungry moon was growing bigger, but still the light shining on the sea seemed as bright as ever. The shore continued to curve out of sight ahead of her as if she were walking always in the same place. Once Kitty climbed the bluff to examine a pile of shells and fragments of sponge and bits of beach glass that had been dumped there by some child. They had not come from this place, because here the shore was bare except for flotsam tossed up by the storm, pieces of broken lumber, a plastic jug. There was no other debris on the coarse golden sand, only the overlapping lines traced by the farthest-flung waves, delicate scalloped edgings the thickness of a single grain of sand, beaded with miniature pebbles and fragile tassels of seaweed and pearly fragments of sponge like crumbs of bread. Kitty scooped up some of the shells and dropped them into her bag.

The lighthouse was in sight at last, a white object far away. She looked at her watch. Only an hour before totality. Impulsively Kitty made up her mind to watch the eclipse from the lighthouse. There was no time to waste. She ran back down again to the edge of the water and began striding along, dragging her heels out of the clinging sand, feeling the pull in the small of her back. By the time the moon had effaced half of the sun's disk she was tired, but she kept her eyes fixed on the curving shore ahead of her, willing the lighthouse to come in sight. The sky was noticeably darker now, the blue deeper and more intense, the sea more forbidding, the air chillier and sharp. The crescent sun was slanting down through the beach grass on the bluff, making miraculous images of itself between the interfering blades, and the dancing sparkles on the rushing waves were crescents too. The light filtering through Kitty's hair made small crescents amid the shadow that floated beside her. But Kitty had eyes now only for the lighthouse, a faraway gleaming tower above the bluff. She hurried her heavy feet, feeling giddy, high-spirited.
I
am running a race with the moon. So is the sun, which comes forth like a bridegroom leaving his chamber, and like a strong man runs its course with joy.

Where were the birds? There had been small ones skittering along the edge of the waves, and herring gulls dipping and soaring. They were gone.
I
must be moonstruck
, thought Kitty, giggling.
I'm suffering from moon madness.
She pounded on, her feet doggedly taking turns, her chest rising and falling in gasping breaths. The land had narrowed. She could see the ocean on either side. The sandy neck was all one beach. Suddenly her shoes were in water. A shock of cold went through her, and she looked down. A wave had run up the shore and spilled over on the other side. Kitty tried to dodge the next, but it caught her and dashed against her legs, soaking her shoes and woolly stockings and drenching the hem of her skirt with the freezing water of the North Atlantic. Ankle-deep, Kitty stood still and cried out with the bitterness of the cold. The wave slipped sideways back, and the next impulse was not as high. Swiftly she pulled off her sopping shoes and stockings and stuffed them in her carryall. The sand seemed almost warm to her bare feet. The sky was darker now, the wind freshening, lifting her hair, blowing up the loose heavy edge of her skirt. Lightfooted, Kitty began to run again, glancing up at the streaking rays glaring over the rim of the moon.
Not yet, moon, don't put the sun out yet. I want to touch base first
. Gasping, she ran, shivering with cold, the wind tossing her hair in a long streamer, blowing the flap of her skirt up about her waist, exposing one pale cold leg. At first Kitty tried to push her skirt down, but it was too much trouble. And why bother? There was no one to see. Even the all-seeing eye of the sun was about to be put out. It was really dark now, quite dark. She stopped running and plodded along for another half mile. Then with a breathless laugh Kitty suddenly reached up and wrenched off her sunglasses. Sunglasses! At a time like this.

Touch base! She was nearly there. She ran across the wet sand, her hands stretched out, the stone side of the lighthouse looming up before her, and at last her fingers touched the peeling white paint of the wall. Then she turned and tottered a few steps, her heart in her mouth as a pall of darkness suddenly dropped upon her shoulders. The sand was fluttering with strange shadows. She threw her head back and looked up. The sun was going. A single piercing ray glistened at one side, and then—

Kitty screamed. The sea screamed, the sand, the sky. The sun was gone. There was a black stone in its place. A small black stone. Pearly brightness flared up around it. Two planets welled up in the midnight sky near it.

God have mercy. Kitty shuddered, struggling not to burst into hysterical tears. She should never have come out here alone. No one should behold the end of the world like this alone. Oh, God, the black stone. She should fall on her knees and pray, she should offer herself up as a sacrifice, she should wail and hammer some brazen gong. But all she could do was cry, and stare up, mesmerized, shaking, weeping—until the moon at last drifted to the left and released a blaze of sunlight to the right. Choked with relief, Kitty laughed, and wiped her face with the backs of her hands, and then stumbled around the base of the lighthouse, holding her palms out to catch a handful of sunlight, circumambulating the round tower like a pilgrim praying his way around a holy place, babbling to herself. She felt cracked, unhinged, deranged, delirious. Everything was suddenly at high pitch. And so when she saw the empty cars parked down near the beach on the other side of the dune, a pickup truck and a jeep, she whirled around and looked up at the top of the lighthouse, because she knew immediately exactly where the people were. They were up there! But she was too near, it was too dark, she couldn't see, she laughed with understanding, she was only looking up into blackness. And then her attention was caught by something at the foot of the lighthouse wall. There was a woman there. A woman was lying at the base of the wall, her head bent sideways to look at Kitty. She had been hurt. There was a red stain on her shirt. It was not surprising. Kitty did not feel shocked. The moon had thrown down a bolt like a thunderstone. She ran up to the woman. Perhaps she could help her. Perhaps the woman wasn't dead.

There was a great deal of blood. Kitty knelt down on the cold sand and pulled her kerchief out of her bag and dabbed at the brimming wound. But there was too much blood, and the kerchief was soon soaked. Puzzled, Kitty looked at it in disbelief, then wadded it into a sopping ball, dropped it back in her bag, and scrabbled around for a sweater that was rolled up in there somewhere. Had she lost it?

Impatiently Kitty upended the bag and dumped everything out on the sand. Ah, there was the sweater. She pressed it against the woman's breast. But it was no use. The woman was dead. The cage of her chest was not rising and falling. Kitty shook her head and abandoned the effort, and began picking up her possessions from the sand and dropping them back in her bag. What a mess. They were all bloody from the bloody kerchief. And there was too much stuff. She put a big shell in her skirt pocket.

There. Kitty stood up, the bag in her hand, and saw the people in the lighthouse coming out. They were looking at her, looking down at the dead woman.

There were four of them. Three men and a woman. They were staring, exclaiming. One of the men dropped to his knees beside the dead woman. It was Joe Green. Kitty was not surprised. One of the other men was looking at her, choking, saying something ridiculous. “You killed her,” he said. He meant Kitty. He thought she, Kitty, had killed the woman.

“No,” said Kitty. “It was the moon, you see. The moon did it.”

The third man had his camera out. He was taking her picture. The woman was crying, her hand over her mouth, her horrified eyes looking at Kitty. Now the man with the camera was bending down, pointing at something in the sand. He wasn't a man, after all, not a grown man. He was a young student of Kitty's, Arthur Bird. “Hello, Arthur,” said Kitty.

Arthur's face was pale. Usually it was pink, Kitty remembered, with boyish red patches on his plump fair jowls. “There's the knife,” he said.

“Oh, thank you,” said Kitty. “That's mine. It fell out of my bag.” She picked it up. It had fallen point down and nearly buried itself in the sand.

The three men and the woman all recoiled, staring at her. Then Arthur lifted his camera and took another picture.

“No, no,” Kitty said. “You don't understand. I didn't kill her.” She dropped the knife back in her bag. “It was the moon, don't you see? The moon did it.”

2

“Hast not been a pirate, hast thou?—Didst not rob thy last Captain, didst thou?— Dost not think of murdering the officers

when thou gettest to sea?”

Moby Dick

They overpowered her then. There was nothing, really, to overpower. The man who was not Joe Green or Arthur Bird merely walked around the body of the dead woman and took Kitty's arm. He asked her politely for her bag, which she surrendered promptly, and then he asked, please, would she mind getting in the jeep? Well, certainly, she'd be glad to. She didn't really want to walk back. And now she was shivering so dreadfully, so uncontrollably, that she was glad to climb into the warm enclosed car and sit down, pulling her bare feet up under her.

The man she didn't know reached across her and took the key out of the ignition. Kitty sat alone on the front seat of the tipped jeep, her shoulders hunched high, her body canted a little to one side, and stared out to sea.

The daylight seemed almost normal now. The shore birds were pattering back and forth at the edge of the water once again, and the herring gulls were back at work—ho hum, no rest for the weary. Kitty tried to compose her mind with a mental exercise, an example of poetic imagery for her freshman class in versification.
My mind is a library, you see, class, and when I open a book, all the pages are blank.
Kitty rested her straining head for a moment on the thought of an empty page, then slammed the book shut again because there were wet red splashes of blood on the white paper.

What were those people doing? She craned her head around to look. Joe was standing away from the others, his back to them in a crooked posture of grief. The others were talking, glancing in Kitty's direction. She looked back at the water, feeling her face flood suddenly with guilt and misery. A sense of appalling disaster hung in the air. Her disordered intellect was beginning to be restored by the sunlight to the normal rational processes of commonplace reckoning. She had done something dreadful, she understood that now. Instead of running away from Joe Green, she had been drawn to him, sucked, pulled, like the tides by the moon. Running from him, yet she had raced after him, followed him, chased him, sought him out on this remote corner of the world to which he had fled, backed up against the sea. How he must have winced to see her, and what must he think now?
The dead woman had been his wife.
She, Kitty, had not been just an irritating presence from the past. She had destroyed him. Kitty beat her fist against her forehead. Why couldn't she have gone to that observatory along with everybody else? If she had, she would be on her way home right now.