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Chapter 21: Song of the Storm

The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift.
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz-stones lift,
And the hoofprints vanish away.
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend their bloom in vain.
Come over the hills and far with me,
And be my love in the rain.
- Robert Frost

Wednesday, October 5th, 1988

A line of clouds lay across the lake on the far horizon, like kernels of popcorn strung along the edge of the world. Above was an otherwise flawless sky of blue, and the waves glittered under the midday sun. From her perch below the lighthouse, Daisy watched the tide crawl towards her before rolling back into the deep.

The day was hot, but not too hot - nothing compared to Georgia's late summer humidity which made one feel like a limp, wet rag stretched out over a barbecue pit. She curled her toes in the cool sand and wondered if Superior ever got warm enough for swimming. Maybe on the other side of Whitefish Point, in the the bay where the water was shallow.

The rhythm of the water was making her sleepy, and she let her eyes slip closed only to be startled by someone calling her name. She turned to see Doc Fletcher and his wife, Beulah, waving at her from the promenade which led from the parking lot to the pier. She shaded her eyes against the sun and grinned up at them.

"Hey y'all!"

Tamarack, like Hazzard, was small enough that after a while you began to see the same people no matter where you went. The Fletchers had been up to the cabin the morning after she arrived, loading her down with so much food that she'd had to press Joy into taking some off of her hands. They had stayed long, chatting about everything and nothing, until they seemed like old friends. The sun was high before Doc had looked at his watch and said if they didn't get moving, they were going to miss their grandson's hockey practice. With hugs and instructions to call them if she needed anything, the couple had left, and in the span of two short hours Daisy felt like she'd been adopted.

"How's the water?" Doc asked.

"Cold, but at least the sun's hot."

He laughed. "It won't stay that way for long, ya' know. It's already October."

Doc and Beulah hadn't been the only ones to check in on her. Word flew fast in the little town and before long, half the residents had come to visit the 'girl from down south'. After the initial shock of finding herself a local celebrity, she was grateful for their company. Meeting actual strangers was a relief after the year of forgotten Hazzard friends. In three weeks, she had been swept into their community as though she had always been there.

Despite the attention showered on her by the locals, there was one person who was conspicuously absent from her daily routine. Oh, he came by the cabin occasionally (usually when she was out to the store with Joy) to do laundry and take a shower, but she rarely saw him, and if she did it was only in passing. He would nod and ask how she was in a voice as unerringly polite and stiff as a shirt with too much starch, and she had resigned herself that nothing would change before she returned to Hazzard.

"...men will be back home in no time."

Daisy focused back on Doc and nodded, trying to hide the fact that her mind had wandered off.

"Say, you were asking the other day about places to go site-seeing nearby," he continued. "The Saint Genevieve lighthouse isn't very far. It's been abandoned for years, but lately there's been talk of restoring it and making it into a historical site." He pointed west, opposite the bay. "Just follow the lower road on around the coast about three miles and you can't miss it."

"Thanks, I might do that."

"Better go this week," warned Beulah. "They're saying we might get our first snow after this storm comes through."

"Snow!?" Her own memory of it was vague. Even in the foothills, Hazzard rarely saw more than a few inches, and those usually melted by the next day. "I don't know if I oughta be scared or excited," she confessed. "How much snow do y'all usually get up here?"

He pointed towards the gift shop. "You see that light over the front door? 'Bout up to there." He laughed at her expression. "Don't worry, girl, the first winter's the worst. Just ask Enos. We'll make a Yooper of you, yet."

She stayed another hour after the Fletchers' car pulled out of the parking lot, watching the horizon grow darker beneath the far-flung clouds and a long cargo ship crawl slowly across the bay on its way to the Soo Locks and Lake Erie.

The thought of snow found her again, and she wondered if Doc had been pulling her leg about how much they would get. So far, the temperatures had been comfortable, though the nights had grown noticeably cooler. Two mornings ago, she had awoken to a thin layer of frost on the windows. It had melted in the rising sun, but before long, she'd have to ask Enos about lighting the cabin's fireplace.

The wind turned suddenly, blowing from the water instead of the land and bringing with it a stench of rotting fish. She picked herself up and dusted off, slipping her feet back into her shoes and wheeled the old 10 speed which Joy had loaned her through the sand and up the bank to the parking lot. The road Doc had pointed out lay to her right, sloping down from the Point's higher elevation and towards the coastline until it disappeared around a clump of trees. It was early afternoon, but if she got a ride there, Daisy thought she could walk back to the cabin before it was dark. She pushed the bike onto the road towards the Sheriff's Department, hoping to catch Joy before she left for home.

Unfortunately, she was on her way out the door when she got there. "Sorry, Daisy, I'd be happy to if I was going straight home, but I've got to pick up the twins from gymnastics since Bruce had to work late."

"That's alright, I'll just go tomorrow. Unless - " Daisy walked over to the desk where Enos was pouring over some old dusty book that looked dreadfully boring.

"No."

"You don't even know what I was going to say!"

"You're looking for a ride to St. Genevieve."

She scowled. "That book looks like it's been around a good hundred years," she told him. "I'll wager it'll still be here tomorrow."

He sighed and looked up at her. "It's gonna storm tonight. You'd be better off going tomorrow when you had more daylight."

"Will you take me tomorrow?"

"Sorry, I've got to meet with the State Police in the morning."

"Figures." The man had a bag full of excuses he used to avoid being around her.

"It's not that far," he said. "Why don't you just ride your bike there tomorrow? Then you can take a picnic and stay all day."

"Yeah, I guess so," she resigned. "Doc said it was gonna turn cold after the storm, though. I didn't really want to go when it was cold."

He shrugged, sympathetically. "There'll probably be another warm day before winter."

"Maybe."' She gave up and turned to go. "I'll see you later." Whatever response he gave was cut off as the door shut behind her.

She walked the bike across the gravel behind the station and past the courthouse up to Main Street and stopped, looking down the empty road. Going straight would take her back to the cabin, but the day was so nice and warm, it felt a shame to waste it. It was still early afternoon and if she started now, she should still have time to ride her bike there and back before dark. After all, it was only three miles - not much further than Hazzard Pond from the farmhouse, and she'd walked that plenty of times.

Straddling the bike, she glanced up at the sun which still shone brightly in the clear sky, then headed down the road towards the coast.

Daisy made good time for the first two miles. The breeze had picked up, pushing her along as the road sloped gently down towards the lake. Closer to the Point, the coast was jagged and rocky, a conglomeration of granite and basaltic boulders so tall that she couldn't see the water from the road. As she put Whitefish Point behind her, the outcroppings dwindled and the road turned closer to the water until she was rolling along beside a flat beach. She slowed her pace, watching the sun flash on the wet rocks.

Setting the bike on its kickstand, she kicked off her shoes and walked down into the surf to get a better look. Ever since that first day she had arrived at the Point with Jim, she'd become something of an amateur rock hound, scouting for agates and Petotsky stones amongst the millions. So far, her collection contained several pretty rocks, but nothing very special.

She scoured the beach, meandering slowing through the water, enjoying the relaxing activity and the menotonous white-noise of the tide. The sunlight dwindled and by the time she realized she needed to get back to the road, the breeze was a wind and whitecaps were forming on the tops of the waves. The sky was still blue above her and the day still balmy, but a line of dark gray had stretched across the middle of the lake.

Figuring she still had at least two hours before any rain began, she decided to keep going. She'd stay just long enough to see the lighthouse, and then head back. It couldn't be much further.

Around another turn, a wide beach opened up with a gravel parking area to her left. The St. Genevieve light sat on its own little island a short distance away from the shore, just big enough for the tower and a keeper's station at its base. Beside it stood the rubble of a building which had fallen long ago.

Leading from the beach to the island stretched a causeway with a steel railing on either side. Wheeling the bike across the rocks, she took off her shoes and started across the narrow concrete bridge as the waves crashed against the barrier and their foam rushed over her feet.

Now up close, she saw that the keeper's station was in dire need of a new roof and part of the building's outer brick had crumbled inward. The steps from the rocks to the door had rotted away so that its entrance sat three feet above the ground. The light tower itself looked to be in good shape, although the elements had scrubbed away most of the white paint on the side facing the lake.

She leaned the bike against the building and hoisted herself up into the station, putting her shoes back on and picking her way across broken glass bottles and bricks to the arched entrance of the tower.

Had she ever been in a lighthouse? She couldn't remember. It looked like something out of one of the picture books her aunt had read to her. One about a princess held captive in a tower.

Putting on her bravest face, she started up the metal staircase, around and around, until it opened on a small landing with a broken window where bird droppings and leaves littered the floor. The brick walls, open to the elements, were stained black and green by mildew and lichens. Beneath the casement, a rotten desk stood on three legs.

Past the second floor, the stairs grew dark and the air cool and stale. She came to what she thought was another landing (she could hear a diffence in the echo of her footsteps), but it was pitch black without a window to let in the light. She added a flashlight to the mental list of things she should bring next time she came.

She ran her hand along the railing, following it past a level part of the floor and back to the stairs. The only sound was her footsteps, clanging against the metal. Even the never-ending sound of the water was silent. Thoughts of what might be hiding in that darkness almost made her stop and turn back, but she knew there were more windows further up. By the time she saw a faint light filtering down from above her, she had told herself each time that this turn would the last.

The light grew brigher until she reached the top where the stairs ended at a window next to a wooden door. The knob turned easily and she swung it open, expecting it to be like the second floor, weathered and old with broken windows and inhabited by winged and furry critters. Instead, she found herself in a tidy little room furnished with a table and chair, an old potbelly stove, a massive curved secretary, and a steamer trunk. Four unbroken windows filled the room with light, and across from her, a ladder bolted into the wall led up to a locked trapdoor in the high ceiling. A massive iron pole ran down to a geared contraption in the center of the floor.

"Hello?" Her voice echoed off the walls. She wasn't sure who she expected to answer - a gnarled old witch, perhaps, to complete the fairytale?

Everything was turn of the century or older, except for the padlock hanging from the trapdoor. She supposed with the windows intact there was nothing to disturb it - a perfectly preserved little museum, and it would have been next to impossible to get the furniture down the staircase. It was probably one of those spots that locals knew about but didn't put into the travel brochures.

She went to the window, wondering if she could spot the red metal roof of the Whitefish lighthouse from here, but the Point was hidden behind a bank of trees where the coastline curved inland. Below, the waves had grown tall and angry, rushing like a boiling kettle across the beach to break against the guardrail of the road and spray over the asphalt.

Hoping to make it back before the rain began, she left the room as she'd found it and hurried down the steps.

By the time Enos left the station, the wind was strong enough to whip bits of sand into his eyes as he fumbled for the keys to his truck. The sky was a thick mass of clouds and though still early evening, the encroaching storm had darkened it to a timeless gray. The National Weather Service had upgraded them to a gale warning, and chances were good with the high winds and waves battering the lower coast road he would be needed to coordinate with the DNR and county services in the morning if they had any downed trees or powerlines.

Until then, it had been a month of Sundays since he'd slept in his own bed, and Daisy or no Daisy, he was exhausted. If there were any problems, he had his radio and Pete was at the station. Also, a powerful guilt had taken hold of him the last few hours, on account of how he'd brushed Daisy off. He needed to apologize. She was just bored. Maybe Saturday, if the lake was calmer, he would offer to take her over to St. Genevieve. The world would keep turning for for one day without him at the station, and he needed to stop avoiding her. She didn't - couldn't - understand why he stayed away, and unless he cared to explain it to her, he needed to find a way for them to coexist.

Just think of her as a cousin, he told himself. Again.

The day had turned nasty quickly and the thermometer outside the bank read 53 degrees. He reminded himself to grab a jacket before heading out in the morning. That first temperature drop was the one that hit him the hardest, when the cold of winters past haunted his bones and dredged up the memory of every ache and pain they'd ever known. Better take a couple of aspirin with him tomorrow, as well.

The streets were empty as he left the valley and started up the winding road to his cabin; there was little to do in Tamarack when the weather turned sour. The leaves blew down in a hail of confetti, sticking to his windshield in the dying colors of fall, and he wished that he had made more time to enjoy them when they were beautiful. Tomorrow, the trees would look like half-plucked chickens.

He parked the truck and ran up to the porch to find the door locked. He knocked and waited. And waited. Cupping his hands over the glass in the window, he peered in and saw that it was dark. Thinking maybe Daisy had taken a nap and tired of standing out in the wind, he found the spare key where he'd hidden it beneath the steps and opened the door.

"Daisy?"

There was an emptiness to the cabin which he hadn't felt in weeks, and he worried that his callusness earlier had upset her more than he thought it had. If she'd left to stay with Joy, he wasn't sure he wanted her back. Maybe that would be the best thing for both of them.

He picked up the phone and dialed Joy's number to make sure Daisy was over there.

She wasn't.

"She asked me about taking her to St. Genevieve," she reminded him. There was a long pause. "You don't think she went anyhow, do you? She knew there was a storm coming."

"Even if she did, she wouldn't understand storms are plum dangerous up here on the Lake," he realized, "and she'd have taken the road along the coast. I've gotta go, Joy!" He hung up the phone and grabbed his jacket from its hook as he ran out the door just as the rain was beginning to fall.

Enos swung the truck around the way he had come, backtracking all the way to the Point before turning down the road Daisy would have used to get to St. Genevieve. The larger waves were breaking against the headland, their spray raining down over the boulders which stood twenty feet high at the shore to crash onto the roof of his truck. He turned his lights and sirens on and hoped no one else was using the road - even using his wipers at full speed, he was blind under the deluge.

He was forced to creep along, stopping each time he was hit by a wave. At last, he cleared the rocky coastline and was able to see far enough ahead to drive on the opposite side of the road, avoiding the worst of the water, but the open coast meant he was now at the full mercy of the wind. It buffeted the truck as if it were no more than a child's toy and roared so loudly that he couldn't hear his siren.

The further he got, the more he feared what he might find - or might never find. Surely Daisy would have enough sense not to ride a bicycle through this? Even with the heavy 4-wheel drive truck, he was going against the very safety rules they taught kids up here from the time they were little. You NEVER, EVER, EVER get too close to the shore during a gale warning. All it would take was one rogue thirty foot wave, and he'd be swept into Superior - truck and all. He very much doubted anyone would make up a song about him.

He finally made it to the wide turn off by the old lighthouse only to stop dead in his tracks. Daisy's bike was laying in the middle of the road.