4. Kade

Chapter four

Kade

I hesitated before entering the coffee shop. Poetry night appeared to be a tightly knit community event, but Dr. Fellows insisted I take the opportunity to indulge in my literary interests. As I stepped inside Tidal Grounds, the ancient floorboards creaked beneath my feet. They shined with layers of polish and the smoothing impact of decades of foot traffic.

Silas had transformed the cafe for the night. He arranged mismatched chairs in a semicircle around a podium. New artwork, including watercolor paintings of lighthouses and charcoal drawings of weathered faces, adorned the walls.

As I scanned the room, it looked like almost everyone I'd met since arriving in town was there… almost. Captain Hank Lawson, the ferryboat captain who helmed the boat to Stormbreaker Island, sat with a steaming mug of coffee. He was mouthing something to himself with his eyes closed, perhaps the words of his own poem.

Dead ahead of me, Mrs. Eulalie Pinder chatted with a distinguished group of older ladies. She'd asked for my assistance in the grocery, reaching high for a can of cherry pie filling. After introducing herself, she'd welcomed me to town.

She wore a floral muumuu, a riot of color, and the jangle of her bracelets added music to her animated conversation. "I'll tell you," I heard her say, "if that poem doesn't win the Gazette's contest…"

In the far corner, a group of teenagers sprawled together on an old leather couch. I recognized Bridget Chen. She wore a blue streak in her hair, and I'd spoken with her at the arena as she practiced figure skating.

A kind of crackling energy hung in the air. I'd never seen a crowd so eager for a poetry reading, not even the salon night we created in the coffee shop at UNH. I stuck my nose in the air when I caught a whiff of lemon and blueberries. Then, Silas appeared, proudly carrying a tray of muffins.

While looking for an empty seat, I spotted the one person I didn't expect to see—Ziggy. He sat in the second row, leaning in close to Mrs. Perkins, nodding intently at her words. When the bells above the door announced another arrival, he looked up, and our eyes met. I felt something. What was it? Before I could figure it out, he looked away and then returned to his conversation.

"Well, if it isn't our summer guest from New Hampshire!" Silas's deep, resonant voice cut through the surrounding conversations. He nearly swaggered as he wove his way through an adoring crowd. Approaching me, he held out a steaming mug. "Thought you might appreciate my Poet's Blend, designed specifically for our regular readings. It's a dark roast with just a touch of lavender. Hopefully, it can at least inspire one short verse."

I graciously accepted the mug. When the aroma hit my nose, I sighed happily. Silas took coffee to the next level. "Thank you. Who would have expected such a crowd for a small-town poetry reading?"

A warm smile spread across his face. "We've got a raft of surprises. Keep those eyes open. If you let your guard down a notch or two, you might even find yourself enjoying your summer." He offered me an empty chair. "Come on, settle in, and remember, snaps or claps are welcomed, but heckling is prohibited unless it's in iambic pentameter."

I'd barely taken my seat when Rory Blake approached the podium, and we were underway. The mic squealed briefly, and everyone tittered. Rory tapped it until it quieted down. He clearly took pride in his emcee duties.

"Welcome all word-lovers to this hallowed place." A ripple of applause spread through the crowd. "Tonight, we have another wild journey through original and well-traveled verses for you. On the list, we offer you a villanelle, a sonnet, and abundant free verse." He pointedly gazed around the room. "But, to kick things off with something entirely different from those, a modest haiku about lobster traps from our harbormaster."

I leaned back in my chair. The harbormaster, with skin like tanned leather, and blue-gray eyes the color of the best faded denim, approached the podium. After a single cough, he recited:

"Wooden lattice dreams, Brine-soaked hope sinks in darkness, Claws scrape new fortunes."

Snaps and scattered clapping erupted from the crowd. Something about the few words uttered by a man with a lifetime of experience struck me in the gut. I nodded my appreciation.

Next in line was a teenager with abundant enthusiasm excusing a lack of nuance. A retiree followed, speaking in measured tones with words about life as an older person. The poems were like windows into the inner workings of the small town. It was all an experience with more depth than I would have ever expected.

I glanced at Ziggy between the readings. He concentrated intently on the presentations. Once, when he looked around the room, our eyes met again. Did I detect a hint of a smile? It all happened so quickly that I didn't know for sure.

Rory had his own poem to offer. A hush fell over the room. He started:

"Roots reach deep in rocky soil Wings ache for southern skies The heart is split like a pine struck by lightning One half anchored, and the other longing for flight."

The poem continued to unfold with indelible imagery examining an uneasy balance between a settled soul and emotional yearning for something else, a tug of war between home and the rest of the world. I leaned forward, letting the words tug at my heart. They found a longing that I never quite knew was there.

When the applause for his work wound down, Rory broke the spell by announcing a brief intermission. Animated chatter took over the space. I stood to join the line and wait for a refill of my coffee. Behind me, I heard a familiar voice.

It was Ziggy having an animated poetry discussion with an older woman. He painted vivid pictures in the air with his waving hands. "Rory's imagery reminded me of Seamus Heaney. It was so solid, almost earthy. He took abstract ideas and made them real with that tight, physical language."

I nearly forgot I was standing in line. Hearing him speak with such passion about poetry knocked me for a loop. I'd discovered an entirely new part of him, like landing on the dark side of the moon.

Before I could stop myself, I surrendered my spot and walked up to Ziggy as the older woman faded into the crowd. "Heaney fan?" I wanted to kick myself—no sense of propriety, barging in like a bull.

Ziggy's head snapped around, and he stopped speaking mid-sentence. "Yeah," he responded slowly, like a man testing the waters with his toes. "Do you know his work? Color me surprised."

I nodded, and more words came tumbling out. "His Postscript . Oh man, I read it over and over last year. I think it helped me through some rough moments. There's that excitement about visiting the ocean. You Mainers—" I bit my tongue and inhaled noisily, blinking my eyes.

Ziggy's eyes opened wide, and he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "You sure you're not yankin' my chain? That poem's wicked good. He makes an ordinary drive into something you'll never forget." He shook his head, and a small smile appeared. "His Casualty . Have you read that? It felt like I had to look up about every other word to get the Irish slang the first time through, but after that… grief, tragedy…"

"And obligation. Haunts you, doesn't it? Wow, and I thought I was the only young guy in a radius of a hundred miles who loved Heaney."

For a few minutes, we were fellow poetry fans, and the rivalry disappeared, washed out to sea. I couldn't take my eyes off Ziggy's face, green eyes sparkling. There were details I'd missed before. He had a light scar along the jawline on his right side. Probably a hockey injury. We all had them.

He raised his right hand in front of his body, and it held a worn paperback. I recognized another name.

I pointed at the book. "You're a William Carlos Williams fan, too?"

"Are you kidding? The Red Wheelbarrow was the first poem I memorized that didn't have hockey or lobsters in it."

I laughed. "Guess we both did that. Did your English teacher make you recite it in class?"

"Worse than that. To help out, Mom photocopied it out of the book and stuck it up on the refrigerator. I read it every morning when I went for the OJ."

I shook my head. "You've got to be kidding. My mom stuck it to my bathroom mirror."

We stared at each other for a few seconds, our shared appreciation drifting like a cloud between us. The Tidal Grounds background noise was miles away while we met each other in our own little world of poetry appreciation.

It all shattered into bits when a voice behind me asked, "Hey, Kade, how's that fancy summer apartment? You sitting there all cool and happy? Must be nice to have that sweet AC in the heatwave."

I turned and recognized the face, but I couldn't place a name. He had blue-rimmed nerd glasses, and I'd seen him hanging around Ziggy at hockey games during the college season. He looked from one of us to the other. A smirk played at the corners of his mouth.

The words lingered in the air, heavy and accusatory. I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came out. What could I say? That I'd give up the AC in a heartbeat if it meant I could keep talking poetry with Ziggy?

I glanced at him, hoping to recapture some of the connection we'd shared just moments ago, but his eyes had already changed. The spark of enthusiasm was gone, replaced by an already familiar guarded wariness.

Ziggy shifted his weight, taking a small step back. It was barely noticeable, but it felt like he'd moved miles away at that moment. "I should find my seat," he mumbled, his voice low and flat.

"Ziggy, I—" I started, not sure what I was going to say, but desperate to salvage something from our conversation. He turned, leaving me standing there, thinking about where our discussion could have gone, left to its own devices.

Rory called the second half of the evening to order. He said something about the next reader, but I missed it. I found it hard to focus. Ziggy was only a few seats away, his shoulders squared. He ignored my presence for the rest of the night.

When the final poem ended amid a sea of snaps and claps, the crowd began to leave. I hung around and helped Silas collect mugs and rearrange chairs.

He grinned from ear to ear. "It was a night, eh? These readings always make me think. When the idea first came up, I thought these would draw maybe ten diehard friends of the readers. I couldn't have been more wrong."

I nodded, unable to come up with any words to add. Silas clapped a warm hand on my shoulder. "I've got this to say. I might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I think sometimes the most important part of these poems isn't the words. It's the spaces between them, what the poet didn't say." He tilted his head slightly to the right as he stared at me. "Same thing about people, I reckon."

I stood. "Well, guess it's time to head home." I walked slowly toward the door.

When I was only a step away, Silas called out, "How about one last cup before you head out? Got a fresh batch of Moonlight Roast that needs tasting."

I hesitated, but I didn't have anything to get home early for, and Silas was good company. "Sure, why not?"

He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Pull up a stool. This brew's best enjoyed with a side of talk."

As he busied himself brewing the coffee, I settled onto a worn leather stool at the counter. The cafe was quiet, save for the gentle ticking of a lobster-shaped clock on the wall.

"So," Silas began, sliding a steaming mug in front of me. "What'd you make of our little literary gathering?"

I wrapped my hands around the mug, inhaling the rich aroma. "It was... unexpected. I've never seen so many people excited about poetry before. We couldn't even do that in the coffee shop at school."

Silas chuckled, a low, rumbling sound emerging from deep in his chest. "Ayuh, we're full of surprises here in Whistleport. Folks think just 'cause we haul traps and gut fish, we can't appreciate good words. I think it's a natural here. There's poetry in the patterns of the tides and the calls of the gulls."

"That's one way of looking at it."

Silas leaned across the counter. "So, I saw you chatting with Mr. Ziggy Knickerbocker. He's working a few evenings for me this summer. You two were thick as thieves, talking about poetry like you'd known each other for years."

I shifted uncomfortably on my stool. "We just... have some common interests, that's all."

Silas nodded sagely. "Ayuh, and a moose is just a big deer with a funny nose."

He refilled my mug without asking, the rich aroma of coffee filling the air once more. "Don't be afraid to indulge. If you take a second look, there might be more there than you first dared to see."

I took a sip of coffee, letting his words sink in. "But what if... what if the person I'm seeing has a giant chip on their shoulders?"

Silas let out a bark of laughter. "Yeah? Says who? The lobsters?" He shook his head, still chuckling. "Listen, Kade. In Whistleport, we've got a saying: 'The straightest course isn't always the best one. Sometimes, you gotta zigzag a bit to avoid the rocks and find the deepest channel.'"

I stared into my coffee, watching the swirls of cream slowly merge with the dark liquid. "I'm not sure I know how to navigate that way."

Silas's voice softened. "Nobody does, at first. But that's the beauty of it. You learn as you go. And you've got more people in your corner than you might think."