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by Rachel McNeil
“Today will be the day. Today will be the day.”
He repeated the mantra to himself as he always did. Each time the syllables floated quietly out of his raspy throat, he became more torn between the feelings he wished to have and his actual outlook. Still, he let himself hope.
He could barely see the island through the distorting fog. The ferry was unusually empty that morning, and the passengers were uncomfortably wet. He turned his tired eyes to the passing scenery and scanned the crescents of the misty waves for the local family of seals, though he doubted they would surface near the boat on such a dreary day.
Before long, the dock came into view. It was a welcome sight, and he laid a calloused hand on his brown canvas bag. Through the fabric, he could feel the cold, metal strings and hear the hollow sound of the face of his banjo. The instrument was his solace, his prized possession. It was the only worldly item he had held onto since his life had finally changed for the better. He remembered something from his incredibly distant childhood that his mother had told him about valuing life over earthly possessions, but only sighed with a chuckle. So much had changed.
His toes were already chilled, marking a drop in temperature, and they curled in his worn, summery sandals. The ferry docked and the local kids unloaded the luggage. Beyond them, the banjo player saw a few faces, all familiar ones; he hopped off, cradling his bag in his arms.
As he walked down the wide wooden dock, he nodded to these numbered acquaintances. Usually, by the time his feet touched grass, he would have been greeted by most of the island’s inhabitants, but on that gloomy day, only a few had the will power to climb out of bed.
He made his way to the gazebo, his favorite place on the entire island. Every day for the last three summers he sat there and gazed over the water, watching boats come and go, and plucked his banjo, waiting anxiously, until it was time to leave on the evening ferry. Like each of these days before, he settled in to play. He was uncomfortable and realized with surprise that his bony hands would be too cold to play. A coughing fit shook his bones, and when it finished, he grimaced at his thoughts. Feeling the moist, frigid air on his hollow cheeks, he decided not to risk damaging his instrument by exposing it to such conditions. How odd it was to be sitting there without his usual background music. He ran his fingers through his choppy, grey-peppered hair. His hands then tapped out rhythm after rhythm trying to keep his still fidgeting fingers busy. There was nothing to do now but wait.
Just before noon, Marie came by on her morning walk around the island. She was a full-bodied, elderly woman over seventy years of age who lived alone, enjoying her retirement a little, and the company of others a lot. His heart rate quickened, and he watched her in anticipation, full of cautious, half-hearted hope. He knew this island was her longtime home, and she operated by routine, regardless of the conditions.
“Young man, why don’t you come in and have a snack?” She asked enthusiastically, motioning to her cottage down the path. He noted her kind smile. Every day, Marie would walk by the gazebo, and invite him to tea; every day, he declined with ridiculous excuses. He could never build up the courage to accept and would spend the rest of his day plucking his banjo. She never took offense to this, and would go about her own day, leaving him alone with his deflated thoughts.
That day, when Marie took a pause from her stroll, he thought about his cold toes and numb fingers. He had no excuse. Caught off guard by this realization, he blubbered and gesticulated, much to Marie’s amusement. She chuckled, and he lifted his gaze to meet hers. Unlike the unhappy weather forecast, her grey eyes and hair were soft and glowing. On her, the silver was flattering, and the glimmer in her eyes suggested patience and unconditional optimism. He took a deep breath and finally listened to his mantra: today was the day he would finally join her. He was nervous, but surprised her by accepting her invitation.
Delighted, Marie led him across the yard to her cottage through tall grass and geranium bushes. He smiled at her excitement and chatter, and remained a passive listener.
She pushed open the screen door and motioned toward a round, wooden table and two matching chairs as he removed his cap and sandals. The door swung shut behind them, and as he looked, he immediately felt at home, a feeling he had almost forgotten. The carpet was a braided beige pattern, worn away by retraced steps and games of tag. The walls were filled with old photographs of a happy family: a man and a woman at an altar, a little boy playing on a beach, a golden retriever bounding through a familiar field of grass...
“That was my dog, Harold” Marie noted. “He was the most loyal animal I ever knew. Quite beautiful, might I add.” She was removing her jacket and boots.
“Who is this young man?” he asked Marie, pointing to the most recent photo of the boy. In the picture, he was sitting on the porch, grinning from ear to ear with his dog in his lap. It was a bittersweet reminder of the banjo player’s own childhood.
“My son, Peter. Left me years and years ago. Let me help you with that!” she said, eyeing the bag containing the banjo. He did not hesitate passing it over, even though her elderly arms looked frail next to the heavy metal instrument. He was curious and eager to know more about her relationship with this boy.
He continued to look at the photographs of the young boy and pup. “Why did he leave you?” he asked. The people in the photos looked so pleased with their lives, so happy.
“Well, I suppose I wasn’t honest. I don’t think he would’ve left if I didn’t make him. There were… issues with the neighbors.”
He cautiously took it another step. “Do you mind if I ask what kind?”
She replied without pausing her preparations. “It started as one drink and spiraled into a heroin addiction, to put it bluntly,” she stated. “I kicked him out when he was eighteen.” Her words were a sharp contrast to her motherly countenance and the banjo player closed his weary eyes for a moment.
“Did he ever come back?” he finally asked, already sure of the answer.
“No,” she replied, setting the table at which he was now sitting.
“Don’t you wonder where he is now?”
She sat down, a gentle smile on her lips. “For many years, I was heartbroken that I had thrown out my only son. I worried, you see. When my husband died, soon after, I decided to live with my choices. I still think about him, daily, hourly, but I think of that young man in the photos, not the one who left this island swearing to never return.”
“But you don’t miss him? You don’t want to know if he’s even alive?” the musician asked, astonished.
“No. I certainly miss him, but I don’t see the point in knowing how he’s lived these last thirty years.”
He could no longer look her in the eye. “Would you ever want to see him again?”
She placed flowers in a vase. She poured their tea and without hesitation said, “I only hope he knows that I still love him. Do you take cream or sugar in your tea?” Marie had brought out plates of cookies, small sandwiches, and chocolate covered strawberries to complement the tea, complete with floral napkins and cups and saucers. Shaking his head, he now felt extremely uncomfortable, but did his best to be grateful for her obvious efforts. He asked for a place to wash and she pointed to a door down the hall.
Shutting the bathroom door and trying to stay silent, the banjo player clasped his face in his hands. After all these years, she had forgiven her troubled son. She had moved on. He had the chance to take a good look into his reflection. How different he had become. His face now had color, though his cheeks were still sunken. He had scars, but his beard covered them. This lady had blindly welcomed him into her home for the afternoon, and the only thing she knew about him was that he was pretty good at playing a heavy, five-stringed banjo. He could not do it. After three years of building his strength, what he came here to say could not be said. Making himself presentable, he glanced one last time at the stranger’s face that he had learned to accept.
When he went back to the kitchen, she was waiting patiently for her guest’s approval of the spread. As they ate and drank, Marie chatted about her family, about the island, about her recipes. He enjoyed listening to her, and saw the bliss in her eyes. She was completely content right where she was. To him, everything about the scene was once again relaxing and comfortable, from the embroidered pillows on the chairs to the sweet aroma of tea and cookies. Her voice was like a choreographed song, complete with harmonies and hand expressions. He truly felt at home and never wanted to leave this wonderful place.
Hours later, he looked at the familiar clock, surprised that it was almost time to meet the evening ferry and return to the mainland. He pointed this out to Marie, who hurriedly packed him a brown paper bag full of sugar cookies and even a few of the remaining strawberries. As the banjo player put on his hat and shoes, Marie gave him a warm hug and a lovely trill of laughter to take with him. She helped him sling his banjo over his shoulder and filled his arms with goodies. He was once again sent through the rickety screen door, and he took several long strides forward, knowing there would be no return to this house, to this island.
He could hear the ferry’s horn in the distance warning him to board, but he automatically turned back to look at his mother. She was standing on her porch, waving goodbye to a friend. He waved back; it was a simple goodbye. He made his way down to the dock.
He sat down in his regular seat and waited for the dock-lines to be untied. As the ferry pulled away, an overwhelming sadness set in. He looked at his bag, and wanting nothing more than to play, opened it. Inside, he found a floral paper napkin tucked in the strings of his banjo. On it was written, “Next time, play for me, Pete.”
He began to tap a comforting rhythm and as he stared at the grey waves, the family of seals appeared off the portside.
