Now that the postcards were purchased and written, his coffee almost finished, Greg sat back and thought about how strange it was to see pictures of such familiar places sold as shots of an exotic land.

The Spotswood.

Ladytress Falls.

Even that famous view of old trees above Deep Gertie…

Tourists had been visiting the Island since he was a boy, but it seemed to him there were more than he remembered this time of year. He took off his reading glasses and sighed.

Maybe air travel had increased their numbers — or maybe more people had money these days, and more leisure.

Whatever the reason, it was changing things. When he’d offered the girl who sold him the postcard two peppermints in lieu of small change, she’d been scandalized. He’d ended up having to dig in his pocket for pennies. And Derek told him the waiters at the Spotswood wore pirate hats during weekend lunch. Pirate hats, for God’s sake.

Greg had noticed one or two of these off-islanders pointing out The Castle. One had even taken a picture. God only knew why. The thing was an ulcer on the landscape. Maybe they thought it was some celebrity’s vacation house.

No reason to look at it now. He’d be visiting the place soon enough. Greg gathered up his postcards, tossed back the last swallow of coffee.

“Grandmere’s changed,” Liana had told him last night on the way from the airport. “Talk to her. You’ll see. She just wants to make her peace with you.”

Everyone said she was dying. Liana had told him so, and Derek, and Laney. And Laurette. And Leon.

She said she was dying. Or at least, that’s what her letter had implied.

“My son,” it had begun. “I am troubled. I think I have not been as loving a mother to you as I should have been…”

The cards needed stamps. Surely the old post office remained at Stubb’s Stop?

At first it was as he remembered it, nice little general store with fruit in the front.

Inside were rows of shelves carrying anyone someone might want to grab on the spur of the moment, hardware, night clothes, cans of vegetables and soup. And yes, in the back still the little window with the bars — heavens, was that Madame Peskin?

No, of course not. She’d be over a hundred by now. Somebody else, someone he didn’t recognize. The lady took his postcards and stamped them, smiling absently at him.

So where to go now? He’d had his coffee. He’d mailed his postcards. His unread copy of Cahiers Du Cinema was rolled up neatly in his inside pocket. It was still morning, and he had long, unfettered hours ahead of him before his obligations truly began to close in.

He walked.

Could this really be Mordechai Road?

This was why he didn’t like coming here. He kept seeing new things and objecting to them, the voice of the codger deep inside him rising up to complain. “Alter kocker,” Hannah would say. “Everything is different! Why must everything be different? I can’t even tell where Moffat’s Topper’s used to be!”

Stupid old man. Did he expect mouldy, out-of-date buildings to stand forever? Especially in this climate?

After another block or two, he realized where he was going. He stopped.

Well, why not? It would be “a fine and private place,” as the poet said. Reflective.

As soon as he stepped through the gates a silence seemed to fall inside him. Here, at least, little had changed.

He’d noticed on the walk up the hill the neighborhoods were encroaching just a bit, houses beginning to lap gently at the edges, but the cemetery still seemed splendidly isolated. When he stopped and listened he didn’t hear cars. He heard birds. The sea.

He could remember a time on the island when… Ah well, no point in those kinds of thoughts.

Papa’s grave was on the other side, Maman’s plot next to it. He considered walking over, visiting his father, but the thought of the space waiting beside Papa’s grave made him uneasy.

Here was the plot Tel had bought for himself and Felicia.

As always, his brother had known exactly what he wanted and chosen well. Lovely spot with the water behind it, a bench for ‘Sha and Marion and whoever else might want to visit.

Greg continued walking to a part of the graveyard he hadn’t visited in years.

The less expensive section.

Her grave wasn’t neglected. Felicia likely saw to that, and the orchid was Liana’s. She’d mentioned leaving it last night, a rather pointed hint to him about paying his own respects. Suddenly he longed for something to lay there, some token. A bunch of clover flowers would be nice. Felda had loved clover. But then, of course, she’d never liked cut flowers.

What could he offer that would be right?

If he sat beside her and read his magazine… If he dared to read a passage out loud, raise his head and ask her, just one more time, after all these years, “What do you think?”

Imagining the silence that would follow made him feel a little sick.

This was a mistake. He was starting to bleed inside.

Greg rolled the magazine back up and slid it into his pocket. Well, where would he like to be?

It happened so quickly that for a moment he was confused. Then he realized where he was.

Swede’s Hill.