Unfinished Symphony (Logan 3)

"You did wonders with him," Cary said as we drove away some two and a half hours later. We left Kenneth eating some warm food and promising to rest and stay off the whiskey for a while.

"I don't know how long it will last though," I said sadly. "He's come to the point where his art isn't enough. He needs someone real to love and to love him."

"I can understand that," Cary said, reaching to squeeze my hand softly.

"Yes, me too."

As we bounced over the beach road, I gazed back at Kenneth's house. Ulysses had come to the gate, but he didn't, as usual, follow the truck most of the way down the beach road barking after us. Cary gazed in his side mirror.

"Ulysses is showing his age, huh?"

"Yes," I said sadly. "And he's the only companion Kenneth has."

During the drive back to Grandma Olivia's we watched the clouds blow in from the north, creeping over most of the sky. By the time we turned into the driveway, it had begun to rain.

"What are you doing about the lobster business?" I asked Cary as we came to a stop in front of the house.

"Roy's been running it. Theresa's been helping him, too. She asks about you often."

"She turned out to be the nicest girl at school, as far as I was concerned. I don't care what the snobs think of the Bravas."

Cary laughed. The Bravas, as the half black and half Portuguese residents of Provincetown were called, weren't easily accepted by the girls Grandma Olivia considered of respectable lineage.

"I've got the c

ranberry crop to worry about now anyway. Because of the warmer weather this year, they're a little ahead of schedule," Cary said. "Most of the berries are already a bright red. Usually, we don't begin harvesting until October, but I think we'll be at it by the third week in September this year."

"This will be my first cranberry harvest. What do I need to know so that I can help you?"

"Well, these cranberries will all be for juices and sauces so we do what's called a 'wet harvesting.' First, we flood the bog until the cranberries are completely covered with water. Then we bring in fattired trucks called 'water reels' or 'eggbeaters.' They're driven through the bog and the spinning reels on the machines loosen the berries from the plants and they float to the surface. That's when the hard work begins."

"What do you mean?"

"We assemble a corral using boards and canvas hinges, and encircle the cranberries, drawing them to one end of the bog. A pipe is placed just beneath the surface of the water, and this pipe leads to a pump on shore which sucks the berries into a metal box called a hopper. The hopper separates everything and then the berries are loaded into trucks."

"You sound like you know exactly what to do," I said. "Maybe, but I've never done this without Dad."

"You'll do fine, Cary, and I'll be there beside you." He laughed.

"You'll be in school," he said.

"I'll take some days off," I promised.

"Play hooky? You have a chance to be class valedictorian, don't you?"

"It's not as important to me," I said, "as helping you."

He smiled and leaned over to kiss me. It was a short, sweet kiss, and when he pulled back, I looked so deeply into his green eyes that I felt I was really connecting with him, with his soul, with who he was. His eyes were like magnets. I moved my lips toward his again and we kissed, only this time longer, harder, embracing each other tightly.

"I'm glad you're back," he whispered. "I had nightmares that I would never see you again."

"Fill your head with only good dreams, Cary. I'm back and I won't ever leave you again," I promised.

He was so happy it brought tears to his eyes. We started to kiss again, when I looked out over his shoulder at the house and saw a window curtain move on the second floor. I was sure it was Grandma Olivia gazing down at us.

"I better go in, Cary, before it really starts pouring."

"Right. When should I come by tomorrow?"