Kangaroo House

By L. G. Crawford

The charm of the early 20th century provides the backdrop for a close-knit island community on the tip of the Pacific Northwest. A fatherless youth named Bud explores the world beyond his sparse island home. As a relationship with a socialite named Mary grows deeper, he struggles to overcome the challenge of acceptance by her own kind.

For

• Language: English
• Publisher: Larry G. Crawford
• Release date: Feb 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781732863514

Book preview

Chapter One

1914

Hazy shafts of morning sun seeped through crooked orange-barked madrona trees onto the beach. The air smelled of a low tide. Faded and patched clothing draping off his slender frame, a barefoot boy crouched to pick up a flat rock as a retreating wave parted around his ankles. Shaking off a fleeting shiver, he fingered the stone’s smoothness as he sought the warming sun along the water’s edge. Taking a stance, he skipped the rock across the placid water leaving a trail of dimples amongst lazily floating kelp ribbons. The stone’s 12 ricochets nearly equaled his age. The next rock sliced into the water on the second hop. Spying his mother making her way up a rickety dock in the distance, he set off down the beach. Barely five feet tall, not weighing much more than her trailing mail pouch, she wrestled it through the General Store’s rear screen door. Letting it slam, it interrupted the bay’s tranquility scattering a nearby group of skinny legged shorebirds darting to and fro at the surf’s edge.

Damn it, Bud said, knowing he should have retrieved the island’s morning mail. The streaked hull mail boat, sometimes gillnetter, was now abeam of the youth as he waded knee deep to retrieve a wayward wood net float. Prize in hand, he exchanged a wave with the boat’s operator before continuing towards the whitewashed store perched above the beach.

Bud Fowler and his mother Mabel resided above and operated the unassuming island store originally built by his grandfather in the late 1890s. Bud did not remember his father. There was nothing around indicating he had ever been there. The only thing he had been told was that he had not returned from crewing on a tramp steamer.

For the most part, the Shaw Store served a sparse local community other than the odd customer who might venture from a nearby island or a passing boat. At the rear of the store facing the bay, a small walled corner proclaimed itself the United States Post Office. The area was off-limits to everyone except Mabel, the Shaw Island postmistress. A nearby warehouse extending partially over the water on piles stored hay bales and gunnysack feeds.

Scampering precariously up the bedrock at the beach’s end, Bud walked the narrow, worn path snaking amongst soil starved plants. Off to the west was his favorite haunt, Blind Island. The sparsely vegetated rock outcropping was so uninviting that hardly anyone other than himself ever ventured near. Canada lay beyond in the distance.

Stepping onto the porch, he flung the screen door open and disappeared within.

---

Scuffed and chipped paint attested to the fact that the rowboat’s current color scheme hadn’t been her first. Water seeping between the boat’s planked bottom cooled Bud’s feet—a welcome respite from the hot August day. Scarcely a whisper of a breeze, the oar blades dipped through the water leaving a trail of rivulets. The stern settled slightly, triggering a rusty bailing can to wander aimlessly in the bottom of the skiff. Distancing himself from the store, his destination was Blind Island. A leisurely thirty-minute row transported him into the hideaway’s skewed entrance. Undetected by most who might ply the nearby area, he had drifted upon the non-descript inlet fishing for rock cod one lazy afternoon the previous summer.

Stripping off his shirt, giving one last pull on the oars, Bud rolled over the side into the shallows while the rowboat continued of its own accord until it caught the bottom. Emerging from the frigid waters, he dragged the skiff partway onto the beach. Tipping the boat on its side, the accumulated seepage from the row over disappeared into the pebbled surface. Seizing a coiled line attached to the bow ring, he tossed it towards the beached logs in a haphazard effort to secure the boat from the incoming tide. A wood contraption in hand, he set off for one end of the beach where a rocky finger jutted into the cove. Having already baited the trap with the skeletal remnants of the previous night’s cod dinner, he looked forward to taking a bounty of crabs home. Flinging the trap with all his might, it settled slowly into swaying waves of eelgrass. A red streaked wood float bobbed above.

Bud next wandered the upper tide line in search of any stranded bounty that might have come ashore since his last visit. Grasping a piece of weathered board with traces of blue paint, he turned it over in his hands before discarding it. Spying something out of the ordinary peeking out amongst a collection of seaweed floating nearby, he veered into the water and waded up to his waist to capture the elusive treasure.

Damn, that’s cold, Bud yelled out.

It was a bamboo fishing rod missing its tip. Despite questioning if it was too far gone to ever catch another fish, Bud brought it ashore and headed for a makeshift fort under a lone craggy fir tree. Virtually undetectable, his hideout was an assortment of driftwood spanning a pair of upland logs. Vaulting from log to log towards his encampment, he stopped and back tracked to retrieve a yellowish board similar in size to the one he had rejected previously. For some reason, unlike the earlier find, the board passed muster.

Dropping to a sandy area amongst the last rows of beached logs, he arrived at his destination. Taking little deliberation, the board was wedged on end against the fort’s framework narrowing its entry. Balancing the bamboo rod precariously across the top of the entrance, it fell away as he maneuvered inside. An accumulation of beach finds cramped the cozy interior. Propped above the sand, a derelict deck hatch created a makeshift table. Sitting on the board were some shells, a dried purple starfish and a greenish glass fishing float that had made its way unscathed across the Pacific from Japan.

Doodling with a stick in the sand, he smiled thinking about the night he spent on Blind Island a few weeks prior—an adventure never to be repeated. As the orange and red sunset skies had faded away, an onslaught of sand fleas had rallied. The resulting mayhem drove him to spend a good part of the night entombed in an old castaway blanket trying to defend his barracks before finally retreating to the comfortless accommodations of the old rowboat.

Bud headed back to the beach. Poised atop a recent arrival that still had traces of bark, he jumped off the log’s end with outstretched arms as if taking flight. Tumbling onto the warm beach, he buried his feet in the loose sandy gravel to methodically watch the waves rhythmically pushing and pulling against the shoreline.

Wondering how to while away some time until the bay’s pinched crustaceans were drawn to the trap, he grabbed a handful of pebbles and thrust them out over the placid water. The noisy eruption caused a nearby heron to take flight with a boisterous squawk. Cupping another mixture of gravel, Bud let some of the sand sift through his fingers. Tightening his fist around the remainder, arm arched, preparing to launch, he hesitated. Opening his fingers, a slate-black arrowhead stood out amidst the gray and white stones. Wondering how it had come to be on his beach, he turned the triangular object over and over inspecting his find. Maybe a young Indian brave had also been drawn to the solace of his island haven. Squinting, aligning the arrowhead up against the brilliant sun, the blocked rays silhouetted a near-perfect form. Gazing out across the water, he imagined a make-believe canoe entering the inlet.

A squadron of geese winged above as Bud lay back on the beach. In unison, as if given a command, the gaggle dropped toward the cove. With a slight dip of a wing, their leader made minor course corrections guiding the final approach. Noisily, hordes of webbed feet skimmed atop the water as tucked wings settled them into their customary boat-like position.

Bud’s eyelids drooped. The rumbling noise of a powerful engine broke the stillness. Instantaneously wide-eyed, Bud realized the sound was coming from the opposite side of his island. Then there was silence again.

Springing to his feet, Bud raced across the logs past his fort and up the rocky embankment. Hunched on all fours, he scrambled over the rocks to see who was invading his sanctuary. Perched undetected some ten feet above the water, he saw a man without a shirt and a younger girl in a bathing costume sitting in a runabout drifting in the current. The boat was a glistening varnished mahogany inboard—not the likes of any Shaw Island craft. A small red flag fluttered on her bow.

Bud couldn’t make out what was being said, but the passengers seemed to be in the midst of an argument. The boat’s driver advanced, pulling his passenger near in an attempt to kiss her mouth. Resisting, the girl turned her head away and pushed back. The man was undaunted. Holding her tight with one arm, his free hand began to forcibly explore the girl’s breasts before descending in an effort to pry her legs apart.

Stop! the struggling girl screamed in terror.

The boat was a mere 25-feet from Bud’s roost and drifting closer.

Hugging the earth, Bud’s pulse pounded.

Suddenly the man stood up in the cockpit and began violently tearing at the girl’s attire stripping her to the waist.

Wildly fighting back, the girl’s teeth found his arm and bit down.

You bitch! her assailant yelled in pain.

Viciously wrenching her loose, he grasped her auburn colored hair and torn bathing costume and flung her over the side. Dunking her underwater, obscenities raged from his mouth.

Bud knew he had to help the defenseless girl. Audibly emitting quick labored breaths, his unsteady hands raked the surface around him until his fingers grasped a rock the size of his palm. The sharp rocky surface biting into his flesh through the holes of his pants, Bud rose to his knees and hurled the projectile. Ricocheting off the bow’s deck into the windshield, a volley of glass shards exploded across the cockpit.

Wrenching back in disbelief, the assailant released his prey. Quickly regaining his wits, he calmly craned up at Bud. If looks could kill, his expressionless dark eyes would have ended the island boy’s life that very instant. Bud held his ground.

Gasping, the girl flailed at the side of the boat trying to stay afloat.

Sizing up his predicament, looming above his prey, he seized her arms and dragged her back aboard. He then nonchalantly swept the glass from the seat with his shirt and started the engine with a deafening roar. Whimpering, the girl cowered in the stern attempting to cover herself with the tattered pieces of her swimwear. Hauntingly, she locked her eyes with Bud’s.

The craft began to maneuver away. Struggling, the girl stood as the boat accelerated rising out of the water. Her horror-stricken face searching Bud’s, she launched herself off the stern into the kelp entangled waters. Gaining speed, disappearing around the island, the driver seemed unaware his passenger was gone.

Teetering at the cliff’s edge as the girl surfaced, Bud yelled out, Can you swim?

Yes, the frightened girl responded struggling through the kelp. Help me!

Bolting back to the beach, he cried out with all his might, Hang on!

Racing down the bank, stumbling along the way and cutting his ankle, Bud crossed over the logs onto the beach. Frantically grabbing the bow of the rowboat, he wrenched it around into the water with unaccustomed strength. Vaulting aboard, fumbling to slot the oars in their locks, he strained with all his might as the blades dug in. Clearing the cove entrance at a record pace, he rounded the shoreline and had the girl in sight.

Gasping for life, clinging to the barnacle encrusted rock face below where Bud had made his stand, the wide-eyed girl watched her rescuer’s advance.

I am almost there! Bud yelled.

Barely audible, she whimpered, I can’t hold on much longer.

Bud furiously closed the distance between them—40 feet, 20, ten, the rowboat slammed against the rocks near the girl.

Exhausted, scraped and bleeding from the sharp barnacles, the girl went limp as Bud grabbed her arms pulling her to the boat.

I don’t think I can climb in, she moaned.

Likewise, Bud was unsure he could lift the girl into the boat without her assistance. He also wondered if the boat might tip with both of their weight concentrated along one edge.

Taking her delicate hands in his, Bud guided her around to the back of the boat and placed her fingers on the stern rail.

Now hang on. I am going to tow you.

The girl nodded.

Aware the water temperature of the Sound was bone-chilling 50 degrees, Bud pulled steadily and swiftly back to the cove.

Leaping from the boat before reaching the shore, Bud found he had misjudged the water’s depth. Stumbling for footing, he plunged beneath the surface for a split second before resurfacing.

Take hold of me, Bud said reaching out to the girl.

Her bathing costume partially torn away, she threw her arms around Bud’s neck as he dragged her through the shallows. Their bare skin against one another, Bud felt the girl shivering wildly.

Over there the gravel is warm, Bud said softly in her ear as he hauled her up the beach. Crouching, he placed her on the sun warmed pebbles trying not to look directly at her nakedness.

Attempting to rake her torn bathing suit up across her snow-white skin, the girl rolled into a tight fetal position.

Bud sprinted back to the water to capture the drifting rowboat. Pulling it ashore, he snatched the shirt he had discarded earlier and raced back to the girl.

Put this on, Bud directed as he placed it over her bare shoulders.

Paying no attention to her naked torso, the girl moved her arms, so Bud could help align her hands through the sleeves before pulling the shirt around her.

Thank you, the girl whispered in a trembling voice.

Not knowing what to do or say, Bud blurted, My name is Bud Fowler and live over at Shaw.

I’m Mary, she said with glistening green eyes.

Finally, the girl spoke again, My parents and I are visiting the Rosario Estate on Orcas Island.

Bud sat down near her and said, Move over a bit. The gravel won’t be wet and will be warmer.

The girl chose to push up against her rescuer instead of moving further away as he had anticipated. Bud clumsily placed his arm around her shoulder and pulled her even nearer for added warmth.

After a few more minutes had passed, Mary’s shivering subsided, and she said, My cousin was the one who attacked me. I owe you my life.

Unsure how to acknowledge her declaration, Bud said, I’ll take you over to Shaw. My mother will find a way to contact your folks.

Standing, streaks of red marking her scraped hands and legs, Mary silently followed.

His passenger seated in the stern, Bud positioned the bow to his liking then pushed away. Jumping aboard, the drifting skiff headed towards the wood float with nary a course correction. The caged crabs clambering about exhibited their displeasure as Bud hauled them from the watery depths.

Rowing steadily towards Shaw, the couple sat in close proximity with their legs overlapping in the confined space. Little was said. Eyes welling, Mary looked directly into Bud’s face as if wanting to say something but unable to form the words. Noticing Bud’s bleeding ankle, she bent over and dabbed the torn flesh with the tail of Bud’s shirt.

Bud rowed with a sense of urgency. From time to time, both looked around—silently fearful the cousin would reappear. Sweat beading off his face, his arms tiring, he maintained an unwavering steady course. Stealing glimpses, he thought Mary might be a bit older even though they were of similar height. Her auburn hair, greenish eyes and lightly freckled face radiated a beauty that was unfamiliar. He wondered if maybe they might become friends.

Pointing, Mary called out, Is that the store?

No need to make visual contact, Bud said, Yes.

Finally within a few hundred yards of their destination, Mary, seeming calmer, the first indication of such, said, Bud, I think you can slow up. We should be safe.

Reaching the store float Bud hastily tied up the rowboat. Mary remained seated until Bud beckoned her. Walking briskly up the planked incline to the sanctuary of the store, they bolted through the door. There was no one there. A note scrawled on the small blackboard next to the store counter said, Gone to make a delivery. Back soon.

Bud handed Mary a candy bar. She accepted it without reservation, Thank you.

He then found a piece of gauze to wrap his ankle, slowing the blood to a trickle. Mary declined any first aid since most of her cuts and scrapes had stopped bleeding.

Considering the awkwardness of the circumstances, time passed slowly. Intending to leave Mary in the store, Bud started for the door, I’m going to run upstairs and find you some other clothes to wear.

I don’t want to stay here alone, she replied catching up to him.

Outside on the stairway landing at the top of the stairs, Bud said apologetically, It’s not much, but it works for my mom and me.

Bud was able to find a well-worn pair of his pants and one of his better shirts. Handing them to Mary, he said, You can go in my room to change.

They had made their way back down to the store when Bud’s mother appeared through the feed warehouse door. Realizing that something unsettling was gripping the room when neither her son nor the nameless girl said anything, she was about to ask when Mary rushed to her in tears. Instinctively Mabel held the girl noting she wore the shirt she had given her son on his last birthday. Your son saved my life. Can you help me contact my parents at Rosario?

While Bud quietly stood nearby, Mary detailed the horror of the day’s events. It was then that Bud learned that she was nearly two years older than him. She was almost fifteen.

At his mother’s direction, Bud headed down the bay trail to fetch her brother Frank. His uncle worked as a deckhand aboard the steam driven tugboat Lorne. A bit crotchety, living alone, the solace of the water seemed to shape his very existence. Like his sister, Frank had thick dark hair with barely a trace of gray. Only Frank’s weathered face and telltale salt and peppered beard gave light to the fact that he was the oldest sibling.

Frank moored his 22-foot working class boat at the store float. The boat didn’t get used all that much, but provided him with an option to putter about, go fishing or whatever struck his fancy when not onboard on the tug. A heavy wood planked boat, what it lacked in speed, it made up in reliability—the two-cylinder steam engine never missed a beat.

It had been Mabel’s initial intent to have her brother run Mary over to Rosario. But while they waited for Frank’s boat to build up a head of steam, Mary clung to Mabel making it evident she needed the reassurance of a woman until returning to the security of her parents. Once all were assembled on the float, Mabel said, Bud, it’s almost closing time. Lock up at 5:00. I’m going to ride along with Frank and Mary to Rosario. Find yourself some supper.

Mary looked gratefully towards Mabel.

Before boarding Frank’s boat, Mary stepped to Bud. Hugging him, she said, I owe you everything. I have no way to repay you for your kindness. Hopefully, I will see you again. Good-bye for now.

Slightly embarrassed, Bud bid a reserved Good-bye.

Noting the caged crabs in the rowboat, Mabel added, You’ll also need to tend to your catch.

Bud remained dock bound until he could no longer make out the steam-boat’s trail of wispy smoke.

---

Rosario, the huge estate built by Robert Moran, was named after the strait that separated the islands from Canada. A distinguished shipbuilder in Seattle, he purchased the former lumber company on Orcas in 1905 and began its transformation into his personal residence. He spared little expense during its reconstruction. The dominant feature of the palatial setting was a five-floor mansion. The interior was a lavish mix of marble, dark paneling and ornate rugs cast upon highly varnished wood floors. Leaded-glass windows invited gentle breezes laden with the scents of the season into opulent fireplace-adorned rooms. Influenced by the owner’s ship building days, highly detailed millwork and brass castings lent just a hint of a nautical flavor. A nearby lake with a dam powerhouse furnished the estate’s sizable electrical needs.

The estate had become a destination point for Moran’s wealthy and powerful guests—the socially privileged. The kind of place or wealth the Fowlers or other island inhabitants knew little about.

Billowing smoke announced the coming of the Shaw Island craft long before it reached its destination. Drawing the attention of estate employees, they watched near the boat basin wondering who was intending to land. The Fowlers and Mary were still a hundred feet or so away when a man and woman approached the sloped gangway to the dock. Seeing her parents, tears surfaced in the corners of Mary’s eyes and crept down her cheeks.

Mary, are you alright?! hailed the woman as she saw her daughter arriving with strangers and wearing unfamiliar clothes.

Mary choked, unable to form words in response.

As the craft slid alongside the pristine wood planked float, Mary sprang from the boat and into the arms of her mother.

Mabel followed while Frank remained in the boat.

Where’s Jonathan? Mary’s father asked in a concerned voice.

Mary looked at Mabel for help.

Let’s find a place to talk, Mabel suggested.

Mabel, Mary and her parents walked up the freshly whitewashed gangway to a benched seating area located just above the beach. Mary recounted the happenings at Blind Island and the help she received from the Fowler family. Mary’s mother cried while her father became enraged.

Jonathan Pickard, the cousin, had not returned to the estate since he and Mary had left hours earlier. The twenty-year-old had come to visit his relatives from his family home in Olympia, where his father, Mary’s uncle, was a judge.

After a time, Mabel stood to bid her farewell indicating that her son’s clothes could be returned at another time.

Mom, can we find something for the Fowlers to eat before they head home? Mary asked.

That’s okay. Another time, Mabel replied.

No, please stay, Mary pleaded.

Yes, do stay. We haven’t eaten either, Mary’s mother said shooting a disapproving glance at her husband.

Arms entwined, Mary and her mother walked ahead of her father who lagged trying to shoulder the burden of the ordeal. Distancing themselves, out of their element, Mabel and Frank trailed the others up to the huge covered veranda that encircled the mammoth residence. Once assembled, Mable again suggested that it might be best if her and Frank just headed back to Shaw. After spotting Mary’s pleading eyes, Mary’s mother declined the Fowler’s offer.

At the fringe of other guests gathered about, the solemn group found a table while Frank sank into a nearby cushioned chair to peruse the mansion’s details.

Dinner was a nice sampling of salmon, freshly baked rolls and salads in addition to the availability of both red and white wine. The spread was likely typical for the mansion’s daily fare, but extraordinary for the Fowlers. To Mabel’s embarrassment, her brother was not bashful about consuming his share, and then some, of the bottled spirits.

Towards the end of dinner, word came that the estate’s sleek runabout was moored at the public dock on the other side of the island. After further inquiry, Mary’s father learned the young man who arrived in the boat had promptly boarded a passenger ferry bound for Seattle – his fury towards his nephew would have to wait.

Mary excused herself to change out of Bud’s clothes. Returning, she handed the borrowed attire to Mable and exchanged a warm hug. Before departure, Mabel received a less enthusiastic imitation from Mary’s mother.

Mary and her mother remained on the porch while her father prepared to accompany the Shaw Island outsiders back to the boat basin. Frank had already started down the steps not wishing to spend any time with formalities.

Give Bud a hug for me and thank him again, declared Mary.

Of course, I will, responded Mabel.

Sensing Mrs. Pickard’s reserve, Mabel stepped down the stairs near Frank and said, Mr. Pickard, please stay, we can find our way.

The Pickard family watched from the veranda as Frank opened the steam valve to the engine and navigated his launch away from the float.

Bud had the crabs cooked, cleaned and had already eaten his fill upon hearing the sharp shrill of the steam whistle. Running down to the dock to greet his mother and uncle, he helped secure the boat. Frank extinguished the boiler fire and released the remaining pent-up pressure in a steamy hiss.

Over the next months as the summer warmth faded away, Bud often thought fondly of Mary.

During those reflections, he envisioned the nakedness of their bodies touching as he helped bring her to shore.

Chapter Two

1915

The winter of the following year arrived early as measured by the return of the winged coots that frequented the bay. Over a year had passed since the encounter on Blind Island.

Rising each morning as the night shadows retreated, Bud braved the cold to revive the embers of the store’s potbellied stove. Always prepared for the morning ritual, split and stacked kindling stood at the ready near the stove from the previous evening. Sheltered overnight from the woodshed’s dampness, the dry wood brought the previous night’s embers back to life. The crackling fire rekindled the spirit of most all who ventured near – hypnotic flames casting a spell beyond the warmth.

Regardless of the season, there were always regulars who gathered in the store’s curved-back spindle chairs scattered near the stove. If for no other reason, it was a place to go. They were drawn to Mabel’s coffee as well as to catch up on the island grapevine. An empty soup can, its label peeled away, sat on a nearby table with an assemblage of mismatched coffee mugs. Throughout the day, a few coins would appear in the can to help offset the cost of the dark brown liquid flowing from the speckled porcelain pot reigning atop the stove. Those who made the trek would often leave with a few goods, contributing to the store’s well-being.

Once the stove was stuffed with wood, Bud made his way to the chicken coop to feed the feathered flock and gather their eggs before making his way back up to a filling breakfast. On this particular morning, he was greeted with fried eggs and leftover dinner cod. Once the morning dishes were washed and left to dry, Bud and his mother descended to the store to prepare for another day of activity, not unlike the day, week or month before.

It was nearly time to be leaving for school. After stacking more wood, Bud lingered by the stove’s radiating warmth.

Bud, you better think about heading off to school or you’ll be late, his mother cautioned.

I know. Let me take a minute to warm my coat, he answered, caressing it over the stove.

See you later, mother, echoed back as Bud closed the door behind himself and stepped into falling snowflakes.

Sounds of fresh snow crunching under his boots broke the stillness as he set