The weight of water - Anita Shreve [57]
Rich turns the Zodiac around. He has wanted to observe the ocean on the unprotected side of the island, and he has seen enough. He maneuvers back into the harbor and puts the Zodiac up onto the narrow dark beach of Smuttynose, a beach I left only the night before. I dry my glasses on the inside of my sweatshirt and inspect my camera bags for any signs of wet.
“How do you want to work this?” he asks as he is tying up the boat. His T-shirt has turned a translucent peach. “You want me to go with you and hold things? Or do you want me to wait here.”
“Wait here,” I say. “Sit in the sun and get dry. Rich, I’m really sorry about this. You must be freezing.”
“I’m fine,” he says. “I’ve been wet before. You do what you have to do.” He smiles. “I know this is hard to believe,” he says, “but I’m actually having a good time. The truth is” — he gestures to indicate the expanse of the ocean and seems to laugh at himself— “I usually have to go to a lot of trouble to be able to do this on my days off.”
“I’ll try not to be long. Thirty, forty minutes at the most. And if you do get cold,” I say, “give a shout, and we’ll get out of here. This isn’t worth getting sick over.”
I bend to collect my camera bags. When I stand up, Rich is wrestling with his wet T-shirt. He takes it off and wipes the top of his head with it, and then squeezes it out. I watch him walk over to a rock that is in the sun, or what is left of the sun, and lay the T-shirt carefully out to dry. When I was in Africa, I observed the women there drying their clothes in a similar manner — by laying them flat on top of long grasses over a wide field, so that often you would come upon a landscape of bright cloth. Rich glances over at me. Perhaps because he has almost no hair on his head, the thick dark chest hair that spreads across his breast draws the eye. I turn around and walk to the interior of Smuttynose.
The defense waived its right to cross-examine Ingerbretson, at which point the prosecution then called Evan Christensen to the stand. Christensen was asked to identify himself and to talk about his relationship to Smuttynose.
“In March last, I lived at the Shoals, Smutty Nose, in John Hontvet’s family; I had lived there about five months. Anethe Christensen was my wife. I was born in Norway. Anethe was born in Norway. I came to this country with her after I married her.”
Yeaton asked Christensen what he was doing the day of the murders. Christensen answered: “During the night my wife was killed I was in Portsmouth. I arrived at Portsmouth about four o’clock the night before.”
“Who was with you when you arrived at Portsmouth about four o’clock that night?”
“John Hontvet and Matthew Hontvet. I was at work for John in the fishing business.”
“Was anyone else with you that night?”
“No, sir.”
“Where did you spend the night at Portsmouth?”
“I was on board till twelve o’clock; after that went up to Johnson’s house and baited trolls.”
“Baited trolls the rest of the night?”
“Yes, till six or seven o’clock in the morning. John Hontvet was with me when I baited trolls.”
“When did you first hear of this matter at Smutty Nose?”
“Heard it from Appledore Island.”
“Where were you then?”
“On board Hontvet’s schooner.”
“Who were with you at that time?”
“Matthew Hontvet and John Hontvet; it was between eight and nine o’clock in the morning.”
“Did you go ashore?”
“Yes; got a boat and went ashore on Appledore Island.”
“Where did you go from Appledore Island?”
“I went first up to Ingerbretson’s house. After I left there I went to Smutty Nose. When I got to Smutty Nose, I went right up to the house and right in.”
“What did you see there?”
“I saw my wife lying on the floor.”
“Dead or alive?”
“Dead.”
“What did you do?”
“Went right back out again.”
The light is flat and muffled, colors indistinct. Thin, dull cloud