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Joy of the Pen The Online Literary Journal of Topsham Public Library Menu Journal Joy of the Pen Submissions About News Gallery Judges Authors Prizes and Sponsors Archive Journal Joy of the Pen 2023 The Verdi L. Tripp Fiction Award: Juliana Delany for Trespass Point Fiction Honorable Mention: Betty Culley for Widow Maker Margaret F. Tripp Poetry Award: Ann VanVolkenburgh Chang for After Poetry Honorable Mention: Poetry Honorable Mention: Cora Kircher for Ark Richard F. Snow Nonfiction Award: Jean Konzal for Searching for Jenny Nonfiction Honorable Mention: Fred Cheney for Brit Nonfiction Honorable Mention: Bonnie Wheeler for Grandpa’s Porch The Crowbait Short Play Award: Josh Gauthier for Last Call The Crowbait Short Play Honorable Mention: Brian Daly for I’m Leaving My Body to Science Verdi L. Tripp Fiction Award Trespass Point by Juliana Delany Nothing was broken. She’d gone down to the dock to see the heron. The rocks had been slick with algae and her feet in her worn hiking boots had bolted out from under her with astonishing force. Leaning on a stick, she’d made it back up the hill, stopping every few feet to press on the wound with a bloody tissue. In the kitchen, she saw under her mother’s old brass magnifying glass that the damage was really just one deep gash on her knee and some surrounding scrapes. Her thin skin had ripped like wet paper. There was swelling, and there would be bruises. Beck would be horrified. But Beck would never see. Ginny cleaned the wounds, dressed them, replaced her shorts with a baggy pair of gardening pants, and got to work. Her younger sister, Rebecca—called Beck since their school days—would be here in a matter of hours for dinner and an overnight, with her husband James and their two granddaughters. To show the girls the house again, and to catch up, Beck had said. But as the other owner of these five acres in Somerset, Beck had more on her mind. She was ready to sell. She had told Ginny as much in her last Christmas card. By the way, we’re thinking it’s time to let the family place go , she had written in her pretty cursive, after recapping her family’s marvelous year. (A daughter had made vice president, a grandson was heading to MIT, and the whole family had gathered to celebrate Beck and James’ golden anniversary. Oh, and there was a new dog.) J ust so much cost and upkeep, and Somerset is so far north . We know you’d be more comfortable somewhere smaller and closer to family. Ginny had not replied. She no longer sent Christmas cards, let alone replied to them. Now she limped around the kitchen mixing bread dough and setting it under the blue tea towel to rise, marinating pork chops and slicing potatoes, making a salad with greens from the garden. She would give them no I-told-you-so moment, no weakness to whisper about. No evidence to support their theory that she was too old for life alone on this rocky coast. She leaned against the old Formica counter and eased her weight off of her knee for just a moment. Through the wavy glass of the kitchen window, open to catch the July breeze, she watched the gathering of birds on the rocks below. Seagulls, cormorants, and ducks were settling in the sun. The heron stood apart, dignified and alone. She thought—and it was a comfort, not a threat— I will die in this house . ******** After lunch she slowly scaled the stairs, her knee pounding with its own pulse, and made up the east-facing guests rooms—the green room (Beck’s as a girl) for Beck and James, the yellow one (her childhood room) for the two girls. The patterned quilts on the twin beds, made by Ginny and Beck’s grandmother, were worn silky and threadbare, but two on each bed did the trick nicely on a cool night. Both rooms were serene at this time of day, their dormers facing a grove of birches and pine saplings carpeted in lush ferns. She would cook for her sister, and clean. Her mother had taught both daughters the art of gracious hosting; it was what you did for family. And though Beck, with her magazine-worthy home and packed social calendar, had taken the idea much further ( to extremes , Ginny thought), making others comfortable was the way both sisters honored their mother’s memory. But still, Ginny had her limits. She would not give up her room at the front of the house, her parents’ old room, with its big oak bed and its wide view of water. Not for Beck and James, not for anyone. Most of her chores done, she stretched out on a chaise on the porch in the scattered sunlight with her pant leg pushed up, a bag of frozen corn on her swollen knee, lulled by the whisper of leaves and the hum of bees on the hydrangeas. Gazing at her battered legs, she was reminded of Beck’s, circa 1965, toned and tan in a pink mini-skirt. Beck had just returned home for the summer from college, gorgeous, blonde, and aglow with newfound poise. Ginny and her boyfriend of three years, James, had greeted Beck at the door, Ginny subdued in a knee-length skirt and old blouse. James—Ginny’s first real boyfriend, the only one who had ever mattered. Who had accepted her shyness, understood her awkward social manner, shared her love of fresh air and birds and books. There was no way Ginny could have predicted what happened between Beck and James that summer. At first they had tried to hide it. It was obvious there were misgivings. But Beck always got what she wanted, and what she wanted, it turned out, was James. ********** The setting sun was beginning to spread like peach butter across the water when she heard the crunch of tires on gravel. A silver SUV followed the curves of the long driveway, laden with bikes. She took a deep breath, washed her hands and went out. Ginny! Hello there!” Beck jumped from the car with the energy of a much younger woman. At 75, she was still vivacious: well-cut ash-blonde hair, just the right touch of makeup, a trim waist. Her clothes—khaki skirt, oxford blouse, bright cardigan—were neat and pretty, even after a long car ride. She gave Ginny a cool hug, clear green taking in her sister’s thin gray hair and faded work clothes. Girls! Come say hi to Aunt Ginny,” Beck called to the granddaughters, who were emerging from the car. Her tone was light and fun. James, perhaps to give himself more time, was taking bags from the trunk. He moved more tentatively than the last time she’d seen him. Here was the younger girl, Julia…was she ten or eleven now? All smiles. She kissed Ginny sweetly, handed her a tin. Cookies!” she said brightly. A pleaser , Ginny thought. A mini-Beck. And you remember Bella.” Beck’s smile took on a more determined cast as she looked toward the older girl, who was pulling her backpack on. Of course. You spent the whole week drawing birds, last time you were up,” Ginny said, but Bella didn’t look up from her phone, walked pointedly past the others and straight for the dock. Bella, come say hi first,” said Beck, her voice suddenly shriller and more strained. Bella!” So that’s what can rattle Becky , Ginny thought. A wayward granddaughter . James approached, his smile tired but his eyes warm. Ginny,” he said, it’s good to see you.” He put out his hand and she shook it. This had been their way for the past fifty years. They had not embraced since the day he had told her, tears in his eyes, that he would be marrying her sister. ************ Only four of them sat at the oak table on the screened porch for dinner. How many meals and puzzles and games happened at this table?” mused James, running his hand over the worn grain as he sipped his wine. Beck, passing dishes, didn’t answer, although she had used the table more than anyone. She had been the indoor sister, helping in the kitchen, making crafts, ironing her clothes in preparation for social events, while Ginny was rarely in the house in the summer. She would be fishing with her father and boy cousins, biking or sailing. She had been sailing when she met James, just barely edging him out for first place in a sailboat race on the bay, and...