Note:
This story contains a self-harm scene.
Sugar Island isn't an actual place in the Hudson area. It was made up for plot purposes.
There's a zero-tolerance policy on slurs, bigotry, and political rants in the comments.
This story is not aimed at readers who prefer short-form works.
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(October, 2004 -- May, 2005)
SECTION I: LOWERING SKIES
"I've been crazy, couldn't you tell? I threw stones at the stars but the whole sky fell." Gregory Alan Isakov,
The Stable Song
.
Sugar Island was at its best during off season.
Off season was October to May, when tourists weren't swarming in from the ferries docking at the historic steamboat launch twice per day.
Sugar Island, a patch of land with the Hudson on both sides, was accessible only by boat. It was home to 200 permanent residents but this population tripled in summer with the tourists swarming in from NYC.
Tourists who, in Sullivan's opinion, talked too loud, demanded service be rendered too fast, and whined too much when it wasn't.
Sullivan Rafferty, one of the permanent residents of Sugar Island, walked down the pier towards the historic launch.
It was now October and the tourists had finally left, so all was quiet. Except for the wind. It was brisk tonight. The sky was the color of a bruise, but there was a bright spot--this month's full moon. The Hunter's Moon, shining on him alone.
He was the only soul out here.
Sullivan stopped at the end of the pier, looking out to where darkened water met wounded sky. There, barely visible across this side of the river, was Green Island. Getting there only took a couple of minutes with a bowrider, but it was at least 30 minutes by rowing. It wasn't actually an island anymore, so from there, one could get their wheels on the road--the connection to the rest of New York and the world.
Sullivan gazed into that connection. Wondering, as he often wondered these days, what to do about his wife.
Things had changed between him and Doe. Their intimacy was dead. There were no little touches anymore. They no longer kissed just because. The jokes had dried up. Sometimes, he found himself longing for her even while she sat beside him. Longing for those early days when they were flat broke and so much in love. 17 years ago.
Those had been rough times indeed. Rough, yet filled with laughter and the determination to make it against the odds. It had been just they two. Sullivan and Doe, united against the world.
They'd married fresh out of High School; a declaration of love for each other, and a rebellion against their legal guardians. Her foster parents never had warmed up to him. His foster parents had detested her.
This was the main reason they'd eloped. After graduation, they'd packed one bag each, sneaked out to their agreed meetup spot and run away together. They'd driven 2 days from Tucson to New York City, taking turns at the wheel. A week after reaching New York, they were married.
It hadn't felt like any of the real weddings Sullivan had attended. He and Doe had been wearing jeans and t-shirts, their only witness was court-appointed, there was no cake or reception or honeymoon, and she'd kept her last name.
All that hadn't mattered at the time. The important thing had been cementing their bond. And, of course, flipping the bird to their foster parents.
Having been in the system since he was 7, Sullivan Rafferty had lived under the authority of several pseudo-parents and the State of Arizona. His birth parents had been High School dropouts working minimum wage jobs and only staying together for the sake of their accidental child.
The much Sullivan could remember about his biological father, was that he'd been a peculiar man. Patrick Rafferty had been prone to strange moods and the occasional temper flare-up. He'd never been violent, just distant.
Not too long after Sullivan's 6th birthday, his father 'went out to get milk'. His birth mother had tried to care for him alone but found it too much. Fifteen months after his father's abandonment, she'd taken him to a shelter. She hugged and kissed him with tears in her eyes, told him that she was sorry, that he deserved better, and that she would always love him. Then she'd walked away, never to be seen or heard from again.
Sullivan occasionally still wondered about her. Not enough to bother looking for her now, but she did cross his mind every once in a while.
His wife's childhood had been no better than his. Doe had been dumped on someone's doorstep when she was 5 months old. Her father and mother were unknown. To this day, nobody knew who'd dumped her on that doorstep.
As was true for most kids in the system, Sullivan and Doe had been cycled between foster homes and residential institutions. This went on throughout their childhoods, adolescence and teen years. Never settled. Never secure.
In addition to these, Doe had done a stint in juvie. She'd gone for a man with a dagger, turning his arms and legs and abdomen into Swiss cheese. She'd stabbed him a total of twenty-three times.
On mercy's side, the judge considered that she'd been a mere 14-year-old, that the wounds had proved non-fatal, and that she'd been provoked. But considering the ferocity of her attack and that she didn't have the excuse of insanity, she couldn't be let off with a slap on the wrist. She was deemed criminally responsible and sentenced to serve two years at a juvenile detention center.
She was released at 16, enroled at a new High School, placed in the care of experienced foster parents, and kept under the close surveillance of a parole officer.
It was at that school, that Sullivan first crossed paths with her. In a word, it was
magic
. She was the first human being he formed a genuine connection with. The first he opened his heart and mind to. They had confided in each other and cried in front of each other, because they both understood what it felt like to be born a reject.
Both pairs of foster parents had disapproved of their friendship, lecturing them about how they 'couldn't help but be a negative influence on each other' and would only 'egg each other on.'
"Why can't you make level-headed friends who'll calm you down and teach you better habits?" Sullivan's then-foster mother had demanded. "There's Carl who lives next door. He's a straight-A student. He'll help you with your grades if you're nice to him. And there's Jordan Jones whose mother is on the PTA. Jordan's a nice girl. So sweet and quiet, and she likes you. She'd be thrilled if you asked her out on a date. Instead you spend all your time with that bad girl who has a prison history. Why, Sullivan? Why can't you just stay away from that girl?"
Why? Because he fucking loved her, that was why. As soon as they graduated, they'd flipped their straight-laced foster parents the bird by running off together.
They'd struggled financially for several years. They'd even come close to splitting up a few times, but had ultimately found their footing. The empty pockets and growling stomachs hadn't won. Talking about their dreams had gotten them through it. Holding close, they would whisper late into the night about getting married all over again, this time at a church altar. She would wear a floofy white dress with ruffles and a tiara. He would wear a tailored suit. They would have good friends watching, happy for them. And they would have beautiful children of their own, raising them in a home filled with warmth and laughter. None of them would ever feel unsafe or unwanted again.
But now? Those whispered dreams still hadn't come true.
They were both 35 now. They had good friends, were earning good money and had been settled here on Sugar Island for the past decade. Their savings account was healthy. They had enough disposable income to spend as they pleased--without getting too crazy, of course.
But the formal remarriage hadn't happened yet. There were no children to give the love and security that they themselves hadn't had.
It wasn't because Sullivan hadn't tried to make these things happen. He had tried many times. But each time he asked her to stop taking the pill, she gave him some reason why they should wait a little longer to have children. Every time he 'proposed' by broaching the subject of their remarriage, she had no shortage of reasons to delay it.
Sullivan stood on the deserted pier, his gaze fixed on that barely-visible connection in the horizon. His head had a dejected tilt. After all, was there anything as pathetic as a man whose own wife said no when he proposed to her?
She hadn't even changed her last name yet. They'd been married 17 years but she was still Diana Cleary, the name assigned her by the State of Arizona.
Her legal forename was Diana. Doe was the nickname he'd given her when they were seniors in High School. She'd finally broken down and revealed what had earned her those two years in juvie, upset as she told him the gory details because she feared it would change his feelings.
It hadn't. Sullivan's honest reply had been: "To me, you're as harmless as a little doe."
He'd playfully called her 'doe' a few times after that. She'd loved it so it stuck. Sullivan also loved the nickname because of what it meant to them. He liked her legal name, too. Diana. It was only the
Cleary
part that bothered him.
She should have been Diana Rafferty long before now. Not that he was a sexist pig for wanting her to take his last name. In several ways, he enjoyed bucking traditional norms. He did the cooking and cleaning for one thing. And he'd never begrudged her having a stereotypically masculine job. All he asked was that she become Mrs. Rafferty. Was that so wrong? Was that small nod to tradition too much to ask of her?
Sullivan sighed.
His doing the cleaning had somehow just happened, but the cooking was intentional. He'd handled that from the start because she was terrible at it.
Doe's cooking was a crime against humanity. She'd since given up on going near stoves, but early in their marriage, she'd tried a few times. "I want to cook for you," she'd insisted.
But the results were never edible; hence, a waste of the precious little food they could afford to buy. Until he tasted her cooking, he hadn't known that mashed potatoes could be crunchy and soggy at the same time, or that chicken thigh could taste like a lump of depression-era dough.
Once, after her disastrous attempt at kidney-bean stew, he'd said: "Look on the bright side. It must be a talent to be this bad at something. You suck so much, it's an achievement."
In response, she'd taken off her flip-flop and thrown it across the kitchen at him.
He'd ducked reflexively. The flip-flop had sailed over his head and hit the wall behind him. "That's the best you can do?" was his taunt as he'd straightened. "What happened to my juvie girl? You hit like an anemic grandma now. You're
