Student Spotlight: Tim Harkins

Why do you write?

I write because I’m trying to work things out. I see things, feel things, expe­ri­ence things, and I have this com­pul­sion to sort it all out on paper. It’s easier said than done. Also, there is a core element to who I am that just gets a kick out of telling a story.

Is there an author who has most pro­found­ly influ­enced your work?

There have been quite a few authors who have impact­ed me — at varying points in my life, dif­fer­ent authors have stopped me in my tracks. I do remem­ber this one moment, I had grad­u­at­ed from college and was teach­ing a program that sent me to schools around the country every 6–8 weeks. I was in a library and I came upon John Irv­ing’s work, and it was like I’d been struck by light­ning. I gobbled up his books in the same way you track down record­ings from a new musi­cian or band you’ve dis­cov­ered. I just was so taken by the wildly cre­ative ele­ments in his novels that also had such a per­son­al message to me.

Why did you choose Stonecoast?

Stonecoast kind of chose me. Once I made a career change, I was deter­mined to commit myself to writing. I spent a little more than a year working with Susan Conley on an MG novel. Every so often she would prod me to apply. She said, “This is where you’ll find your people.” So I finally trusted the teacher and applied. Here I am.

What is your favorite Stonecoast memory?

I’m a ‘Firstie’ and my res­i­den­cy has been remote, so my mem­o­ries are limited. There have been some moments where I was lis­ten­ing to stu­dents read their work and it was so good I could taste it. Other than that, there is more of an impres­sion than memory asso­ci­at­ed with Stonecoast. When I’m gath­ered with all those tal­ent­ed stu­dents and instruc­tors, and they’re encour­ag­ing and cheer­ing each other on, I feel as though I’ve passed through the wardrobe into another world. A world made up of kind, sen­si­tive, magical, nur­tur­ing folks.

What do you hope to accom­plish in the future?

I want to be able to craft a really good sen­tence. And then one after that. And one after that. Would­n’t it be won­der­ful if this snow­balled and I pro­duced some­thing I can be proud of?

If you could have written one book, story, or poem that already exists, which would you choose?

Too tough. I am always sur­prised and astound­ed by any­thing John Updike wrote, and in recent memory The River by Peter Heller, The Secret History by Donna Tartt, or The Magi­cians series by Lev Gross­man were so com­pelling both in terms of telling incred­i­ble stories and impact­ing me on an emo­tion­al level. But I have to go back to a poem that con­tin­ues to res­onate with me. It would be “Michael” by Wordsworth. Written in 1800, read by me in 1989 or 1990, I still go back to it every so often, and it breaks me down every time.

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Apple Island

by Tim Harkins

Despite what the cal­en­dar said, it felt cold to Ben. Exposed to the ele­ments, his house sat high on a bluff. The tiny home was attached to a light­house that had stub­born­ly stood here since the late 1700s. The granite tower, with its rotat­ing beacon, served as a guide to sailors who sought the clear entrance to the mouth of the river.  With the open Atlantic to its south, and the Sheep­scot River to its west, the house  flexed and popped as it with­stood the gusty winds out of the north­west. The walls were solid, but the windows were thin, and the wooden frames had begun to break down, which allowed the cold air to find its way inside.

              Ben hunched over a cup of hot coffee and lis­tened to the wind whistle and howl. He reached down and ran his fingers through the thick black coat of Mr. Jacks, his great bear of a dog. With deep-set  caramel eyes, and jowls that hung down low, Jacks looked up gratefully. 

There was some­thing to be done today, but at this moment he was having trouble recall­ing what it was. Was there some­thing he planned on accom­plish­ing in the shop? Was it work in the yard?  Or was it the truck?  He tugged on the unruly beard that sprout­ed from his face, and tried to remem­ber. It was in the yard – of this he was sure – he just couldn’t remem­ber what. Another strong gust of wind raised him from his seat. When he stood up, his knee struck the under­side of the table. Coffee sloshed onto the var­nished surface, leaving a puddle of brown around the base. 

              “Christ,” he said, angry at his care­less­ness. His instinct was to call out for Sarah, but he imme­di­ate­ly remem­bered she wasn’t there. He lum­bered to the sink, a rough basin of scratched and chipped porce­lain, and grabbed a damp rag to clean up his mess. Lately, he was accus­tomed to clean­ing up his mess.

              At the sink he gazed at the gray mouth of the river.  Foamy white­caps had formed and the angry waves struck the near shore.  The steady wind lifted the sea and tipped the waves like peaks of cream, then dashed them against the rocks.

              The phone rang. Again, his first thought was of Sarah.

              He shuf­fled over to pick up the receiv­er from its cradle.  “Hello?  Yes, yes.” That was it, he thought — a truck was coming to drop off a load of mulch.  He slowly paced about the kitchen as he talked, the phone pressed against his head so he could hear above the whistle of the wind. “Yes, I’ll be here.  I’ll be here all day.  See you then. Yes, thanks. Bye.”

              Sarah and he had worked the flower beds around the house last fall.  Pulled weeds, planted a few bulbs, and raked some leaves. But they’d run out of time, and weren’t able to mulch. He wanted to get some down before spring­time weeds got the best of him and choked out all the new plantings.

              He replaced the phone and made his rounds to each of the kitchen windows. A watch­man, a watcher, he was always looking for any boat traffic, but there was no one on the water in this weather.  A house­fly buzzed up against one of the panes.  It worked its way across the glass and settled on a mullion.  Without hes­i­ta­tion Ben pressed it dead with a cal­loused thumb. Ben wasn’t quick, but he was sure, and the fly dis­ad­van­taged — cold from the long winter.  Now dead.  He brushed it from the sill onto the floor.

              Ben dropped back into his captain’s chair, the bulk of him settled heavy and hard. He picked up his cup and sipped the last of the warm brew. Coffee dripped from the cup onto the back of his hand. The spill was still there, soaked into spots where the varnish had worn away, and exposed raw wood. He set the cup down and real­ized the damp rag was still on the side­board. He sighed, feeling defeat­ed, and moved a finger through the coffee, tracing a circle, again and again. His eye­sight and memory had begun to fade. It felt like a wet blanket had been drawn across his mind.  This will clear, he hoped. Just need to wake up. A little phys­i­cal labor and sun would do him good. That was it, the compost was coming today. Shovel into the wheel­bar­row, roll to the flower beds, then dump.  Run a rake across it – call it good. That’s good. For so many years he and Sarah had enjoyed this task. They had worked togeth­er, prep­ping the small yard in antic­i­pa­tion of spring and the car­ni­val of color new bulbs would bring. Now there was no Sarah – she had finally packed her things and gone. And he was left alone to do the work on his own. But he was growing old and there was pain asso­ci­at­ed with every move­ment. To bend, to lift – it all required mental activ­i­ty. There was a time when he didn’t even have to give it a thought. What was he now? I’m tired, he thought, that’s what I am. He smiled at this.

              And yet, he recalled, there were times when  he did see things – things she couldn’t see. The vision was there each time they returned to the island. His sight was clear. He pointed it out. There, right there – don’t you see it? he ques­tioned. But she didn’t. At first it fright­ened her, him seeing what she couldn’t, and he could see the fear in her eyes. But it wasn’t long before it became an annoy­ance to her, a frus­tra­tion.  She didn’t have much patience for him anymore. ‘For God’s sake, Ben, there’s nothing there – stop this fool­ish­ness.’ And he did – for a time.

Was she headed back out to the island? Prob­a­bly not now. It was too soon – espe­cial­ly in this weather.  The ground was hard – it wasn’t quite time to dig again. There was a time when they had enjoyed the process – rel­ished the “doing”, admired the beauty along the way. Not now. Now it was all busi­ness for her.  A hurried task that bor­dered on obses­sions. Not so much for him. Even­tu­al­ly he simply had trouble keeping up.

              He stood up, walked over to the counter, and poured the last of the pot into his cup. What else to do but wait for the truck?  He con­sid­ered reach­ing under the counter for a bottle and pouring a slug into his mug, but he refrained.  He con­sid­ered how often last fall he and Nat had sat outside in the warm, autumn sun and loaded up on the brandy and coffee until they had trouble extract­ing them­selves from the Adiron­dack chairs over­look­ing the beach. Two old men acting like a couple of high school boys, laugh­ing and drunk before noon­time. A couple of fools, Sarah had said. Not giving a damn what someone might think. It was if they were getting away with some­thing. They chuck­led and reveled in their secret and poured another one. But now Nat was gone; he had passed over the winter. And without Sarah, Ben missed his friend des­per­ate­ly. These days it seemed rare to find another soul to relate to, to share with, to be com­fort­able with. They had toyed with the idea of getting back out to Apple Island: an easy, safe adven­ture for two broken-down old men. But it didn’t happen.  Ben won­dered, with a touch of guilt, how much their day drink­ing had led to the quick decline of his friend.

              BANG!  A sudden thump against the side window brought him to atten­tion. Although star­tled, he knew imme­di­ate­ly what it was. The bird feeder was posi­tioned by that window, and he had watched the chick­adees and nuthatch­es flit back and forth greed­i­ly all morning. They were hungry from a lean, long winter. Too often Sarah had scolded him for not moving it further from the house, but Ben loved to watch the birds come and go while he had his morning coffee.  Every now and then a bird would strike the glass. An occa­sion­al loss was the price he was willing to pay. Yet each time he heard that thud his heart sank.

              “C’mon, Jacks, let’s go outside.”  The dog raised his tremen­dous head from his paws and gazed at Ben with his watery, choco­late eyes.  Then with a little effort he raised himself from the floor and moved toward the door.  I’m not the only one who’s getting old, thought Ben.

              He grabbed a shabby blue fleece from the wall and stuffed his thick arms into the sleeves. 

              He and Sarah had chil­dren – two girls and a boy, but they had fol­lowed his example and were now scat­tered about the coun­try­side, far away, chasing their own adven­tures.  How long had it been since he had seen them?  Those mem­o­ries, too, were dimin­ish­ing.  Like water in a tub, he had once immersed himself in the rich expe­ri­ence of his chil­dren, he had soaked up all their good­ness — their smells and their touch.  But now all that had passed down the drain, leaving him empty and cold.

              He won­dered, had Sarah once been a child too?  Of course she had.  Her body, so very long ago, had once been soft and wiggly in someone’s arms.  He won­dered, had she been pre­co­cious or docile? Pre­co­cious, of course. 

              At one time his mind had felt like a seed pressed into wax – encased and fully engaged. He had been aware of every­thing. Now his mind felt more like the last wooden match in a box, rat­tling around, echoing and empty.

              Ben and Mr. Jacks walked around the house, Ben leaning heavily on his walking stick. One knee was not coop­er­at­ing. Turned into the wind he was a little unsteady. His thick salt and pepper hair blew in a furious mane around his bearded face. The sound of the pound­ing surf carried up the point and sounded like thunder. Around the corner of the house, at the base of the kitchen window, he found the chick­adee. It was lying on its side, stone dead. One wing was cocked to the side and its tiny head was twisted in a hard way. He just stood there and observed the small crea­ture. One moment it had been fre­net­ic with life, dashing back and forth in a fury of feath­ers. Now it was impos­si­bly still. Ben leaned over and care­ful­ly slid his thick fingers under the bird. Mr. Jacks tried to force his nose into it all, but Ben nudged him away with his thigh as he scooped the bird up.

“Back,” he said. The bird weighed less than nothing. Ben kept his eyes on it, if only to remind himself that he actu­al­ly had some­thing in his hand. It was hard to believe that a crea­ture so small had the same cobweb of veins and vessels that he had. There was a heart, a tiny little heart – no larger than a pumpkin seed — inside the feath­ered puff that func­tioned just as his own great heart did.  It didn’t seem possible. 

              The ground was still hard, and he wasn’t up to scratch­ing up a hole to bury the poor thing in.  No, he’d walk it down to the dock and give it a proper burial at sea. Even Sarah would approve of that.  He was about to make his way toward the river when some move­ment caught his eye.  He peered down toward the beach and saw three figures making their way along. They were boys – he could tell by the hap­haz­ard way they wove along the beach. They pushed and shoved as they walked, bumping shoul­ders and tempt­ing fate as they edged toward the incom­ing waves, then they quickly swerved away at the last moment.

Like sand­pipers the boys gath­ered and huddled togeth­er, then dis­persed, each making their own way along the sand.  It seemed as though they were looking for some­thing – shells perhaps?  Every so often one would bend down and pick some­thing up, but he couldn’t make out what it was. He smiled.  Or at least he was smiling until he real­ized they were headed toward his beach. There was a cable drawn between a few posts and signage marking ‘No Tres­pass­ing’. Christ, he dealt with these fools all summer long – encroach­ing on his space. But now it was April. And it was boys. He watched. They approached the cable. They hes­i­tat­ed, but he knew better. He knew boys. One of them just lazily clung to the line, swing­ing his arm back and forth, but he wasn’t letting go until he was on the other side. Bad idea, boys, thought Ben. Bad idea. 

              Ben stood there, one hand absent­ly turned up, palm open, cradling the small bird.  He forgot that that hand was out as he studied the boys while they waited at the line.  With his other hand, he rested the walking stick on his side, and reached into his pocket and felt for the arrow­head. When his fingers con­nect­ed with the jagged, cool edge of the arti­fact, he smiled. Just like the boys, he was fond of  search­ing, too. He and Sarah had found this piece so many years ago. They had spent a number of years scour­ing Apple Island for rem­nants of an old Abenaki set­tle­ment.  Most of the objects they found ended up in a museum or in their own private col­lec­tion, but the arrow­head was dif­fer­ent. Ben kept it close, on his person, nearly all the time. It was a good luck piece of sort. He believed it created the visions that Sarah was unable to see. As Ben watched the boys, his mind drifted to the good times he and Sarah had had digging on Apple Island.

              A gust of wind rushed over his shoul­der and roared into his ear. Its bitter bite caught his exposed neck and sent a shiver through him. Damn, it’s cold. Sud­den­ly, he felt some­thing stir in his open hand. For just a moment he’d for­got­ten he was even holding the bird, it was so light. But now the feath­ers brushed lightly against his fin­ger­tips. He lifted his arm a little and raised his hand. He looked down, almost expect­ing to see the crea­ture stand up and perch itself on one of his fingers.  But it had been only the strong breeze that ruffled the chick­adee. Just as he had found it, the bird was lying on its side, eyes closed tightly, its beak like two needles pressed togeth­er. He frowned. The bird wasn’t coming back.  Once dead, nothing comes back – who was he kidding? His friend Nat wasn’t coming back, his mind wasn’t coming back, and it appeared as though Sarah sure as hell wasn’t coming back either. Once things go, they’re gone, and the thought that there might be some magic in this world was simply fool­ish­ness. With his other hand he returned the arrow­head to his pocket.

              He tipped his fingers and watched the bird slide to the ground. Then he brought his atten­tion back to the boys. They had crossed the cable, just as he sus­pect­ed, and were headed for the point. They scam­pered like colts, flirt­ing with the inrush­ing tide. Ben pulled his fleece tight around his body, zipped it closed and walked toward the short white fence that lined his prop­er­ty above the beach. When he approached the edge, he leaned his big head back and released his fury – shout­ing down at the boys below, despite the fact that the wind was howling and no one was listening.

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