Trespass Point
Juliana Delany
Tom Howard/John H. Reid Fiction & Essay Contest 2024 (view all the winners)
Honorable Mention, Fiction
Nothing was broken.
She'd gone down to the dock to see the heron. The rocks were slick with algae and morning dew, and her feet in her worn hiking boots had bolted out from under her with astonishing force. Leaning on a stick, she'd made it back up the hill, stopping every few feet to press on the wound with a bloody tissue.
In the kitchen, she saw under her mother's old brass magnifying glass that the damage was really just one deep gash on her knee and some surrounding scrapes. Her thin skin had ripped like wet paper. There was swelling, and there would be bruises. Beck would be horrified.
But Beck would never see. Ginny cleaned the wounds, dressed them, replaced her shorts with a baggy pair of gardening pants, and got to work.
Her younger sister, Rebecca—called Beck since their school days—would be here in a matter of hours for dinner and an overnight, with her husband James and their two granddaughters. To show the girls their family's old summer home—where Ginny had been living year-round for decades—and to catch up, Beck had said. But as the other owner of these five acres in Somerset, Beck had more on her mind. She was ready to sell. She had told Ginny as much in her last Christmas card.
By the way, we're thinking it's time to let the old place go, she had written in her pretty cursive, after recapping her family's marvelous year back in New Jersey, where Ginny and Beck had grown up and Beck had settled. (A daughter had made vice president, a grandson was heading to MIT, and the whole family had gathered to celebrate Beck and James' golden anniversary. Oh, and there was a new dog.) It was never meant to be a year-round home, and it's just so much cost and upkeep. Plus, Somerset is so far north. We know you'd be more comfortable somewhere smaller and closer to family.
Ginny had not replied. She no longer sent Christmas cards, let alone replied to them.
Now she limped around the kitchen mixing bread dough and setting it under the blue tea towel to rise, marinating pork chops and slicing potatoes, making a salad with greens from the garden. She would give them no I-told-you-so moment, no weakness to whisper about. No evidence to support their theory that she was too old for life alone on this rocky coast.
She leaned against the old Formica counter and eased her weight off of her knee for a moment. Through the wavy glass of the kitchen window, open to catch the July breeze, she watched the gathering of birds on the rocks below. Seagulls, cormorants, and ducks were settling in the sun. The heron stood apart, dignified and alone.
She thought—and it was a comfort, not a threat—I will die in this house.
********
After lunch she slowly scaled the stairs, her knee pounding with its own pulse, and made up the east-facing guest rooms, where she and Beck had slept every summer—the green room (Beck's as a girl) for Beck and James, the yellow one (her own childhood room) for the two girls. The quilts on the twin beds, made by Ginny and Beck's grandmother, were worn silky and threadbare, but two on each bed did the trick nicely on a cool night. Both rooms were serene at this time of day, their dormers facing a grove of birches and pine saplings carpeted in lush ferns.
She would cook for her sister, and clean. Her mother had taught both daughters the art of gracious hosting; it was what you did for family. But unlike Beck, with her packed social calendar and constant stream of house guests, Ginny had her limits. She would not give up her room at the front of the house, her parents' old room, with its big oak bed and wide view of water. Not for Beck and James, not for anyone.
Most of her chores done, she lay on a chaise on the porch in the scattered sunlight with her pant leg pushed up, a bag of frozen corn on her swollen knee, lulled by the whisper of leaves and the hum of bees on the hydrangeas.
Her battered legs stretched out before her brought to mind Beck's, circa 1965, toned and tan in a pink mini-skirt. Beck had just returned to their home in New Jersey from her freshman year of college, gorgeously aglow with newfound poise. Ginny and her boyfriend of three years, James, both rising college seniors, had greeted Beck at the door, Ginny subdued in a knee-length skirt and old blouse. James—Ginny's first real boyfriend, the only one who had ever mattered. The three of them had talked about their vacation plans. All had gotten summer jobs in Maine.
There was no way Ginny could have predicted what happened between Beck and James that summer. At first they had tried to hide it. It was obvious there were misgivings. But Beck always got what she wanted, and what she wanted, it turned out, was James.
********
The setting sun was beginning to spread like peach butter across the water when she heard the crunch of tires on gravel. A silver SUV followed the curves of the long driveway, laden with bikes. She took a deep breath, washed her hands and went out.
"Ginny! Hello there!" Beck jumped from the car with the energy of a much younger woman. At 75, she was still vivacious: well-cut ash-blonde hair, just the right touch of makeup, a trim waist. Her clothes—khaki skirt, oxford blouse, bright cardigan—were neat and pretty, even after a long car ride. She gave Ginny a cool hug, clear green eyes taking in her sister's thin gray hair and faded work clothes.
"Girls! Come say hi to Aunt Ginny," Beck called to the granddaughters, who were emerging from the car. Her tone was light and fun. James, perhaps to give himself more time, was taking bags from the trunk. He moved more tentatively than the last time she'd seen him.
Here was the younger girl, Julia...was she ten or eleven now? All smiles. She kissed Ginny sweetly, handed her a tin. "Cookies!" she said brightly. A pleaser, Ginny thought. A mini-Beck.
"And you remember Bella." Beck's smile took on a more determined cast as she looked toward the older girl, who was pulling her backpack from the car.
"Of course. You spent the whole week drawing birds, last time you were up," Ginny said, but Bella didn't look away from her phone, walked pointedly past the others and straight for the dock.
"Bella, come say hi first," said Beck, her voice suddenly shriller and more strained. "Bella!"
So that's what can rattle Beck, Ginny thought. A rebellious granddaughter.
James approached, his smile tired but his eyes warm. "Ginny," he said, "it's good to see you." He put out his hand and she shook it.
This had been their way for the past fifty years. They had not embraced since the day he had told her, tears in his eyes, that he would be marrying her sister.
********
Only four of them sat at the oak table on the screened porch for dinner.
"How many meals and puzzles and games happened at this table?" mused James, running his hand over the worn grain as he sipped his wine. Beck, passing dishes, didn't answer, although she had used the table more than anyone. She had been the indoor sister, helping in the kitchen, making crafts, ironing her clothes in preparation for social events, while Ginny was rarely in the house in the summer. She would be fishing with her father and boy cousins, biking or sailing. She had been sailing when she met James, just barely edging him out of first place in a sailboat race on the bay, and he had congratulated her with a huge grin, as if he had wanted her to win all along.
Bella had declined multiple requests to come to the table but Julia was pleasant, complimenting the bread. After dessert, Ginny told her that she was welcome to go down to the dock to see the sunset.
"There's a family of loons this summer," Ginny said. "They'll be out soon. You'll probably see our heron. And if you're lucky, an eagle."
But Julia stayed in the living room, watching something on her laptop.
"Good pie," said James.
"But I know this isn't your crust. I'd know yours anywhere," Beck couldn't help pointing out.
"You're right," said Ginny. "It's the pre-made kind from O'Donnell's."
Then Beck excused herself to check on the girls, and James and Ginny were alone. The bigtooth aspens rustled; the sun was halfway down.
"Gin," he said, "That was a first-rate dinner." She thanked him, hating how happy his compliment made her.
They talked briefly about the books they were reading and the PBS shows they liked, as was their custom. Then:
"The place looks good," he said. "How has everything been around here?"
"It's fine. Great, actually. A good summer." The steps to the dock were crumbling, most of the ceiling fans didn't work and some of the old windows didn't close all the way anymore. No doubt James had noticed, but he wouldn't hear any of it from her.
"It must be a lot, though, for someone our age." They had been born the same year, with birthdays just a month apart. She remembered a birthday cake, the names Ginny and James in yellow icing, right here at this table. For a moment they shared, silently, the bizarre fact of their advanced years.
She flexed her leg slightly, repositioned her sore knee. Kept her voice light. "It's no problem at all. I've got Dave down the road to help. And there's still some money in the house fund."
"I know. And I know how much you love it here." He smiled, and raised a finger in recognition of the first loon call of the evening. Then continued: "It's just that we worry about you. Beck in particular. She's afraid, with you so far away, and all of us getting older..."
Their eyes met fully for the first time that day. His, behind wire-rimmed glasses, were smaller and vaguer, but their humble intelligence had not aged. They still disarmed her. She looked away first.
"I don't care what Beck thinks. This is my home." She tried to keep the edge off.
"Ginny, please don't take offense. I'm certainly not—" But he was cut off by Beck's return. In her hand, a baggie full of something earthy and brown, which she thrust at James.
"Bella was not in her room. But her stash was," she said.
James sighed, looking tired again.
Grandchildren are overrated, Ginny thought, not for the first time.
"Ginny, I do apologize," James said. "There's no excuse for this. But it's a bad time for her."
"It's always a bad time for her, and I've had it," Beck said. She poured a glass of wine, her third.
"Beck didn't think we should bring her, but I thought it would be good for her. I'll find her and talk to her."
"No, leave her! She can stay out all night if she wants to. I really can't stand the sight of her right now," said Beck.
For the first time in years, Ginny felt a pang of sympathy for her sister. As a parent, Beck had been unequivocally calm, cool and in control. But Bella was proving to be kryptonite to Beck's superpowers.
Beck paused suddenly, as if remembering the task at hand, and inhaled a more serene face. "Did you two have a chance to talk?"
James remained silent. Ginny stood quickly, stiffening her face against the pain. "I think I'll take a walk and watch the sunset," she said. "We can do the dishes later." She forced her bad leg forward.
From the kitchen she heard Beck say, "Did you tell her?" and heard James answer something in a low voice.
Then Beck again: "This has gone on way too long. Did you see her limping?"
Picking up her father's hand-carved walking stick at the door, and putting a flashlight in her pocket, Ginny made her way across the yard to the Point Path. How many times had she walked this path with Beck when they were children? What had they talked about, so long ago? She passed the spot in the yard where they had buried family pets, and an image came to her of Beck, nine or ten, face wet with tears, placing a stone marker. Three of Ginny's dogs rested here as well; she'd buried her most recent, a steadfast shepherd named Lucky, just last fall.
The sunset had bathed the woods in clouds of coral. Grasping the guide ropes that Dave had installed, she moved slowly forward, hand over hand. The woods were filled with end-of-day birdsong and squirrel chatter, and she could hear a low hum of traffic from Somerset Bridge. The hills and dips beneath her feet were so familiar that she barely looked down. The crisp scent of balsam relaxed and centered her.
She came to the clearing that opened onto Trespass Point, a string of granite boulders spilling into Somerset Bay. From pale pink to deep gray, the rocks curved toward the horizon like rough gems in a bracelet, creating a shallow cove. On the far side was deep water, clear and cold, small boats docked in the shadows. The cove itself was brackish; downed trees bobbed in the current as the tide went out.
Trespass Point had been nicknamed by her father because her family hadn't originally owned it, but couldn't resist sneaking onto it on summer evenings to watch the sunset. It was on the point that James and Ginny had first kissed. Her head had come to just below his chin.
In 1958, Ginny's father had purchased the point from its city owner, who hadn't set foot on it in years, and made a Christmas surprise of it to the family. The name remained, and with it, for Ginny, the memory of her father: quiet, kind, a lover of nature. She could often feel his calm here, just as she still felt her mother's warmth in the old family kitchen.
********
Bella was sitting on the granite bench that had graced the point for a century, its straight lines hacked from the local quarry. She was looking toward the mountains. You could see the national park from here, winks of fading light on glass as tiny cars ascended and descended its highest peak.
As Ginny drew closer, she saw that the girl's hair was dyed a dull black and her eyes were outlined in smudged kohl. Her pale skin was rough and blemished. She must be fourteen or fifteen. A miserable age, Ginny thought.
She lowered herself to the bench beside Bella, forcing the girl to slide over. Bella did not look up. Ginny could smell the smoke on her. She had never minded the smell, like woods on a damp day.
They sat, an old woman and a very young one, and watched the water. Both had chosen outside air over other humans.
After a moment Ginny spoke. "Your grandmother owns half this land. She doesn't care for it."
Bella didn't respond. Ginny wondered if the girl knew the family history—how, after James and Beck's wedding, Ginny had suddenly married a man she didn't love, then ended the marriage, childless, a few years later. How she'd fled to the family summer house in Maine and been here ever since. That all other men had been held up to James, and found lacking. Most likely the story would die when Ginny did.
Ginny shifted her legs and continued. "I think you feel something for this place, though. I think you get it." Bella was as still as the granite beneath them.
Ginny looked at the girl's hands. Bella's nail polish was black and chipped, and a ladder of silvery scars climbed her forearm. Ginny weighed, and decided against, the option to touch her.
"This place is yours too, you know. For whenever you need it," Ginny said. Her knee throbbed and burned, her head ached. Suddenly she needed her bed.
"May I borrow your shoulder?" She leaned on the girl, dug in her walking stick, found her balance. Switching on the flashlight, she turned toward the house, whose windows hung like framed gold beyond the trees. Inside, her family was talking about the problem she had become.
She was a few steps down the trail, picking her way along the flashlight's beam, when her grandniece spoke for the first and only time.
"Aunt Ginny! The heron!"
She turned in time to see the dark silhouette rising skyward, awkward legs trailing majestic wings.
********
Ginny woke late, and hurried to dress. Her wound had bled onto her sheets in the night, but had formed a soft scab. Her knee was stiffer and more swollen.
The family had taken out the canoes; Ginny could see them bobbing in the bay from the kitchen window. The dishes had been washed and put away. She stripped the beds, loaded the washer, made a quick potato salad with leftovers.
The four of them came in from the water flushed and windblown, Julia laughing about how they had almost tipped. Bella was quiet, but this time she sat at the porch table and ate a sandwich. James told stories about his own family's summer house on the bay, which had been sold years ago and torn down to build new homes.
"These fancy new ones are just boxes. Shoddily built, no character whatsoever. I miss that old place," he said.
Beck said nothing in response. She tried a couple of times to change the subject, but James was unusually talkative.
After lunch, the family packed up their belongings for the ride down to Providence, where they would be staying with friends for a night on the way home.
Ginny helped James carry bags to the car.
"You're bleeding. Just a little," he said quietly.
She looked down at the rusty stain that had soaked through her pants. Too late to change; Beck and Julia were crossing the driveway toward them, laughing, arm in arm. Again, Ginny was struck by how similar they were.
"Ginny, it's gone so fast!" Beck said. Her face wore the controlled Beck smile now. "It was lovely to be here, to see you. I know the girls loved it too."
Ginny watched her take note of the blood stain. She looked around for Bella, who was standing on the dock facing the water. Ginny knew what the girl was thinking: Goodbye, bay.
"Ginny, we need to talk," said Beck. In her hand was a large yellow envelope.
All her life, Beck had been seen and heard, appreciated and understood. Now she locked eyes with Ginny, spoke firmly and confidently. Professionally, even.
"I know you love it here, but James and I have decided there has to be a change," she said. "This arrangement just isn't working. I think you'll agree that—"
"No," said James, coming up behind her.
He smiled gently, almost apologetically, at the sisters, put a hand on his wife's shoulder.
Beck's mouth was still open. She glanced from husband to sister and opened her mouth wider, but James continued.
"No, Beck. It's okay. It's all good." He turned to Ginny.
"Thank you for a lovely time," he said, taking her hand in his again. "We'll be back."
Beck looked confused. "But the papers," she began.
"No, Beck," he said again. "Bella told me this morning she wants to spend more time here. At her family's house. It's the most she's spoken to me in months. So we'll be back."
He nodded at Ginny, then put his arm around his wife. "Ready to go?"
Walking toward the car, Bella slowed slightly when she saw Ginny and straightened her hunched shoulders. She didn't speak, but her smudged eyes, a deep blue-gray not unlike Somerset Bay, met her great-aunt's for a moment. Ginny smiled at her.
"See you soon, Bella."
When they were gone and the sounds of the woods and water were the only sounds, Ginny started down to the dock to see her birds.
This story won the 2023 Verdi L. Tripp Fiction Award and was published in the Joy of the Pen online literary journal.
