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uneasily; and here, in our tall house at the end of Main Street, something was happening, to Minnie and to me. That may have been the time I should have rushed back downstairs; I could have returned to the parlor, thrown my arms around Minnie and wept with her, I might have borrowed her handkerchief and asked for some comfort. If I had gone back, Minnie might have confessed some bad dream, and when her new tears washed over me I could have dried them.
    There was nothing I wanted more than sleep; I would not have even minded dreams. But I couldn’t seem to erase Minnie’s tears, or the sadness that had lined Michael Finn’s face. If I could have drifted off beneath the heavy feathered quilt Minnie had sewn years before I had ever come to Fishers Cove, I might not have been overtaken by a terrible feeling of being alone. There was no point counting sheep, and not even warm milk and honey would have helped; what was to happen had already begun.

ON ICE

ONE
    T HE NEXT WEEK THE HARBOR froze solid. Sailboats and sloops were caught until the spring thaw, the ferry to Connecticut would not sail again until April. Winter settled, the tulips and orange day lilies seemed buried forever beneath the soil. Slowly the temperature began to drop; and on the day I told Carter I knew who had bombed Angel Landing III, there was the threat of the first snow.
    Carter was recuperating from the demonstration he had organized; protesters had been forced back by barbed wire and mace, and Carter had been one of a dozen members of Soft Skies who had been arrested. The protesters had been released after forty-eight hours, on bail posted by one of Carter’s attorneys. When the other Soft Skies workers had gone home, to New Hampshire and Manhattan, Carter stayed on, planning the next attack on the power plant and nursing the wounds barbed wire had left on his skin. That morning I arrived at the Soft Skies office at eight-thirty; I unlocked the door with my key and found Carter still asleep on the mattress on the floor. He had slept in his clothes, and because the radiator in the office was faulty he had wrapped himself in two army blankets. When I sat down next to Carter on the mattress I noticed that he had forgotten to remove his glasses.
    â€œCarter,” I whispered, “wake up.”
    Carter opened one eye; his glasses were smudged, he smiled slightly. “Waffles,” he guessed. “You brought me waffles.”
    â€œWhen did you eat last?” I asked. The office had no refrigerator or stove, and Carter usually ate potato chips and cottage cheese. Occasionally he heated a can of soup or beans over the flame of a cigarette lighter.
    â€œI’m glad you’re here,” Carter said, pulling me toward him.
    â€œIt’s eight-thirty,” I said. “I have to be at work in fifteen minutes.”
    â€œThat’s enough time,” Carter nodded. “Come into bed.”
    â€œListen to me,” I whispered. “I know who the bomber is.”
    â€œDid you bring your diaphragm with you?” Carter asked.
    â€œI’m serious,” I said. “I’ve set up a meeting for you with the man who bombed the power plant.”
    Carter sat up and adjusted his glasses. “You know who the bomber is?” he asked.
    â€œI do,” I confessed, embarrassed that I had known for a week without telling Carter. But something had kept me from sharing Finn with anyone, including other workers at Outreach, and Minnie, and most of all, Carter.
    â€œThe bomber just happened to come to you?” Carter asked. “He just walked into Outreach and said, ‘I have to talk to someone’?”
    â€œThat’s right,” I nodded.
    â€œHoly shit,” Carter said. “I’d better hurry.” He jumped up and started looking for his shoes.
    â€˜You can’t meet him until four-thirty,” I said.
    â€œBut that’s not for hours,” Carter said.
    â€œI can’t