The scent keeper, p.12
The Scent Keeper, page 12
A hand ripped the paper away midsentence. I looked up, stunned, to see Dylan’s face close to mine. His breath smelled like boiled ham and cold French fries.
“Whatcha got there?” he asked. He lifted the page, ready to read.
No. I thought. No. No. No. I didn’t know what else the article would say—all I knew was that Dylan couldn’t have it. I looked around. The teacher still wasn’t there.
“Give it back,” I said, standing up.
Dylan stood up, too. The class turned as one to watch. Dylan moved in closer, his breath all over me.
“Or what?” he asked, and grinned. He lifted the paper into the air, managing to brush my breast on his way.
The feel of his hand cracked something inside me. I hated those hands. I hated his stupid notes, his horrible smells, his certainty that whatever was mine was his. I had dealt with it all for four years. Now I stepped forward and slammed my knee, hard, right into that precious package he always said was waiting for me.
“Shit!” he said, buckling over.
“Fuck you, Dylan,” I said.
“Emmeline?” The teacher had finally entered the room.
Dylan crumpled onto his seat. I yanked the paper from his hand, flew past him and the teacher and all the rest of the gape-mouthed kids. I got to the classroom door and turned left. I could hear the angry clatter of the teacher’s shoes. If she caught me, she’d send me to the principal’s office, or back to the classroom. They’d read the article. They’d make me apologize to Dylan. Just the thought of it filled me with fury. I reached the exit, pushed open the door, and ran.
* * *
It was eight miles back to Secret Cove, but I kept running until my lungs burned. I had to get out of there.
Finally, I realized that people in passing cars were looking at me and I slowed my pace. When I got to the dirt road, I heard the distinctive sound of Colette’s truck. They must have called her, I thought. I stepped off the road and hid in the trees. I would tell her everything later, I promised in my head. But first I had to understand it myself.
Once Colette had gone past, I jogged toward the resort, keeping my steps light and muffled. The cove was empty, the fishermen’s boats still out. Henry’s, too. Dodge was lying on the porch, and he lifted his head when he smelled me. I looked around one more time, then went over and put my arms around him, feeling the warmth of his body. It was the first moment of calm I’d felt since I saw the image of my father’s machine on the screen of the computer.
“What am I doing, Dodge?” I asked. I pulled the paper from the pocket where I’d shoved it, and this time I read the whole article.
The mastermind of last year’s phenomenon, Nightingale, has been reported missing. John Hartfell had been at the center of a firestorm of controversy since the news broke early last month that Nightingale did not preserve scents as had been claimed.
Nightingale has been called the Polaroid camera for smells. It is based on a revolutionary development called Headspace Technology, which made it possible to capture a scent in the wild and re-create its chemical equation in a laboratory.
With HST, Hartfell saw a possibility to build a technology that could capture and re-create a scent in the same machine, preserving it for posterity, just as Polaroid cameras take and develop a photo at the same time. Unfortunately for Nightingale’s thousands of users, the challenge was not met. While a Polaroid picture fades over years, Nightingale’s scent-photos have proved to fade within one.
The outrage has been overwhelming.
Tamara Lewis filed a lawsuit against the parent company, Scentography. “I lost my whole wedding,” she told reporters. “They promised I would have those memories forever. Now I have nothing.”
Reports are also circulating of a class action lawsuit.
Hartfell went missing three days ago, along with his infant daughter. Hartfell’s wife and business partner, Victoria Wingate, went on television on Tuesday, begging for him to return.
“I don’t care what you did, John. I forgive you. Just bring our little girl home.”
Chief of Police Marlin Stern says they are tracking down all leads, but so far have turned up nothing.
* * *
I put the paper down. The magical machine of my childhood was a flawed piece of science. My father was a failure. I had a mother.
It was the mermaids, all over again. Nothing I had known was true. Nothing was real.
Dodge just looked at me with his endless brown eyes. He would forgive me anything, I thought. Dogs are better than people that way.
We both glanced up at the smell of diesel, the sound of a motor. Henry’s boat, we both knew it. I couldn’t talk to Henry, not yet. He would listen; he might not even ask any questions. But in that moment there was only one person I wanted to be with. Fisher. I didn’t know where his house was, but I knew he always took the trail that led up the hill from Secret Cove. If I followed it, maybe I would get lucky.
I looked down at Dodge. He was getting so old. The fur of his face was almost entirely white. I wanted to take him with me up the trail, but I knew he couldn’t make it. I kissed him on the top of his head.
“Don’t tell,” I said, and headed for the path.
* * *
The path was uphill, and my legs were already tired when I began. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but going back to the house for food meant I’d probably run into Henry. Something told me he wouldn’t like where I was going. I breathed hard instead, letting the oxygen power my muscles.
I’d never been so far up the path. I came across a deserted cabin, the roof caved in on itself, young trees growing up through its center. Someone had tried to clear a garden there once, but the woods were reclaiming that space as well.
Keep going, Emmeline, I told myself. Go find Fisher.
I started walking again, but the smells were all around me, full of early September, the woods just beginning to think about sleep, thick with rain and wet dirt and damp leaves.
When I was young, my father used to tuck me in every night. He’d climb up the ladder to my loft, wrapping his big warm arms around me and arranging the blankets. I always thought fall was like that, nature tucking everything in. Nothing had ever felt so safe.
Who were you, Papa?
The article had given me a name, but bigger questions were hammering in my brain now. Why did you take me? Did you love me? Why did you keep me from my mother?
I was so deep in my thoughts that I almost tripped when the path stopped suddenly at the edge of a dirt road, about as wide as ours, but more deeply rutted.
Which way?
I stood there, scanning back and forth, hoping for a clue. All I saw was a mass of trees and a road that had as much chance of going in the wrong direction as the right.
Follow your nose, Emmeline.
They were my father’s words, but the voice in my head was mine.
I inhaled, shallow, then deeper, letting the scents of the woods and the road come to me. That was when I smelled the alderwood smoke. The scent was coming from my left, so I turned in that direction, walking on the flat parts of the road between the ruts.
Ten minutes passed before I saw the house, a forlorn-looking thing, its once yellow paint peeling and faded, the porch sagging on one side. There was a rusted car in the side yard, and the surrounding trees grew close to the walls and roof, as if trying to hide it. The smoke coming out of the chimney held that alderwood scent, though. I was in the right place, even if it felt wrong.
As I started up the short driveway, I heard the sound of a car coming up the road behind me. At almost the same time, the front door opened and a woman came out on the porch. She was too thin and too pale, but I could tell she’d been beautiful once. Her eyes were the same incredible green as Fisher’s, her hair a faded version of his red. She saw me and stopped, uncertain. Stuck between her gaze and the approaching car, I had nowhere to hide.
The woman said nothing. The car rounded the bend and I saw it was actually a big red truck. Fisher’s father was at the wheel, with Fisher next to him in the passenger seat. The shock on Fisher’s face when he saw me made me wish I’d stayed back at the cove with Dodge. I’d come here for me; I hadn’t thought what it might do to Fisher.
They pulled into the driveway.
“What’s this?” Fisher’s father asked, getting out of the truck.
Fisher’s mother shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I just saw her when I came outside.”
Fisher’s father turned to me, looked closer.
“You’re that friend of Fisher’s, aren’t you?” he said.
I nodded. There was no point in lying; we’d met.
Fisher had gotten out of the truck and was standing behind his father. He smelled of fish.
“Maridel,” Martin said. “You’re always complaining we don’t have company, and here it is, delivered to your door. You should ask the girl to dinner.”
“Colette will be expecting me,” I said, glancing at the strained expression on Fisher’s face.
“You must be hungry,” Martin said. “We’ll give Colette a call; I’m sure it will be fine.” He started into the house, confident that I would follow.
Fisher’s eyes met mine.
I’m sorry, I mouthed. He shrugged, and in that motion I saw a memory—my father, folding into himself when winter came.
THE DINNER
Once inside, Fisher’s father walked straight toward the back of the house.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he said. “I’ll be ready by dinner.”
Fisher’s mother went to the kitchen and returned with a beer, heading off in the direction Martin had gone. I heard a shower turn on, smelled water—cool, then warm, then hot. I looked around the living room at the lumpy blue couch, the red and yellow woven rug on the floor, all of it faded, all of it meticulously clean.
On her way back through the living room, Fisher’s mother showed me the telephone on the table by the couch.
“You should call Colette. She’ll be worried.” Her eyes flicked over me, to the hall, to the kitchen. She was a fragile, birdlike person, all red hair and green eyes and constant, vigilant movement.
Reluctantly, I picked up the phone and dialed, watching as Fisher followed his mother into the kitchen. He hadn’t said anything yet and I tried to read him as he passed—the smell of him, the expression on his face. All I got was fish and emptiness.
“Hello?” Colette’s voice came through the receiver.
“It’s me,” I said.
“Thank God,” Colette said. “Where are you? The school called; they said you ran out in the middle of the day. Nobody knew where you went.”
“I’m at Fisher’s.”
The flow of her sentences stopped abruptly. “What?”
“Can I stay for dinner?”
The silence on the other side of the line was long and considered.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes.” No.
“We need to talk, Emmeline.” Her voice was firm. “What happened today—”
“I know.”
A pause.
“I’ll have Henry come pick you up at eight,” she said.
“Okay.” I could almost smell her through the phone line—cinnamon, overlaid with the scent of worry.
* * *
I hung up and went to stand in the doorway of the kitchen, watching Fisher and his mother. They worked automatically and in silence, Fisher helping his mother with an easy efficiency. No wonder he’d made such a good cottage-cleaning companion. They handed each other utensils without words, their movements small and careful, no clattering of knives, no banging of pots. They were a team, and in a way it made me jealous, although I knew I had no right to the feeling. Besides, this was a different kind of team.
The shower was still going.
“Maridel!” We all jumped at the sound. Fisher’s mother opened the refrigerator, got out another beer, and disappeared.
“Are you coming back to school?” I asked Fisher when she was out of the room. I needed him to talk to me.
I couldn’t say the other thought in my head.
Are you going to be okay?
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“But that’s not fair.”
“No,” he said flatly. “It’s not.”
* * *
“I was already a fisherman when I met this woman here.”
We were midway through a dinner of roasted chicken and mashed potatoes, the comforting smells turned brittle by the strain in the air. Fisher’s mother passed the bowls often, always making sure her husband’s plate was full. Fisher’s father was on his fifth beer. He seemed to be the only person in that room who wasn’t counting the empty cans.
“Maridel was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen,” Martin went on, leaning back in his chair. “That long red hair, those big green eyes. I saw her standing on the side of the road; gave her a ride into town. She told me she loved the sea, too—could help me fish. She was the perfect woman, I thought, and I’d found her, like in a fairy tale.”
He told the story with great relish, his hands and face moving, filled with energy. It was hard not to stare.
“So we got married,” he said. “But when we went out in the boat, she threw up every time we left the cove. The only thing that woman ever caught was me. And the fish went to shit. They know when a liar’s been on your boat.”
“Martin,” Fisher’s mother said quietly.
“It’s true,” Fisher’s father said. His eyes narrowed. His upper lip raised, just one side. Contempt.
I knew what to look for; Fisher had taught me. Nothing good comes from half a face.
“You know the kicker?” Fisher’s father shifted his weight forward, closing the distance between us. “My son always said he hated the ocean, too. I took him out once and he acted like I was trying to kill him the whole time. Fisher,” he said, and laughed. “That name sure didn’t work.”
He took a long swallow from the can in his hand. The three of us waited.
“How was school today, Emmeline?” Fisher’s mother asked. Fisher shot her a quick look.
“I wasn’t even sure if he was mine sometimes,” Fisher’s father went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. “I mean, look at him.”
Fisher’s mother sat up straighter in her chair. Fisher went still. They were mirror images of each other; Fisher’s father was right about that. There wasn’t a bit of his dark eyes or hair in Fisher.
Martin kept his gaze on me while he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, chose one, and lit it. He inhaled and blew the smoke out across the table.
“But a vow is a vow,” he said. “Besides, it turns out Fisher likes the water just fine. Now that we’ve got that cleared up, I’ve finally got me a real helper.” He turned his gaze toward Fisher, and the look was so cold it crackled.
Fisher tensed.
“What about school?” I blurted out. Fisher’s father turned back to me and I instantly wished I’d kept my mouth shut.
“Fishermen don’t need school,” he said. He took another pull on the cigarette. “They just need to know fish.”
“Martin.” Fisher’s mother again.
“What?” The word snapped like a branch in a storm.
Fisher leaned toward me. “Doesn’t Colette want you home by seven?” he said.
I nodded, grateful for the lie.
“Can you drive her, Fisher?” his mother asked.
“We’re low on gas.” Martin’s face was set.
“We can’t just send her off into the woods,” she murmured.
Fisher stood up. “I’ll walk her down,” he said. Martin started to rise.
“Fisher,” he said, and I saw his right hand flex, once.
Fisher turned to him, his eyes hot. His mother leaned forward, her chair scraping on the wooden floorboards. Fisher stepped back.
“Let’s go, Emmeline,” he said, and pulled me toward the door.
I looked back at Fisher’s mother as he tugged me away, but her eyes were on her husband.
* * *
We stood in the driveway, Fisher fiddling with a flashlight, trying to make it work. The air had turned chill while we were inside, and the sky was dark with clouds.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “This is my fault.”
“It’s not,” Fisher said.
From the dining room came the sound of a plate dropping on the floor.
“We should go,” he said. He gave the flashlight a hard knock and it flared to life.
We walked down the road in silence. The trees loomed on either side, thick and dark. I would have walked right by the trailhead, but Fisher turned down it without needing to look. Within three feet we were in total darkness, and Fisher reached the flashlight behind him so it illuminated the trail for me.
“Don’t you need it to see?” I asked.
“I’m okay,” he said.
I let the words hang in the trees for a moment, white lies tangling in the branches.
“Are you?” I asked.
“Yes. No.”
“What was that back there?”
“That was my father.”
The pieces were falling into place now, so much later than they should have. Fisher’s long sleeves, his absences from school, his flares of anger. “But can’t you do anything? What about the police?”
He pushed a branch out of the way. “She’ll never take a stand against him, Emmeline.”
“But…”
“Let’s just get you home,” he said.
The longing hidden in that last word broke my heart.
We walked in silence, my mind whirling. I’d made Fisher go out on the boat with Henry and me; I hadn’t listened to what he was trying to tell me. Then I’d come to his house because I needed him. By thinking only of myself, I’d set a match to a pile of tinder I hadn’t known existed.
And yet, I had known. That was the thing. I’d been raised on fairy tales, stories about fathers who left their children in the woods, and evil stepmothers who talked to mirrors. All the pieces were there. But even with everything I’d seen since I’d left the island, I hadn’t had the imagination to let those characters walk off the pages into real life. I hadn’t wanted to know.
