Rule number one: An islander does
not ask another islander over for dinner. We already know far too much about each other to open ourselves up to the possibility of revealing what few mysteries there might be left. So aside from the occasional potluck supper, there isn’t much social life. The suppers tend to be pretty quiet, with one faction on one side of the hall and the other faction on the other side. If you like casseroles, Rice Krispy treats and a knot in your stomach, you’re in for something special. Conversation is kept at a pretty low burn . . .

When I can’t sleep I take long, late-night walks, mostly in the winter when I’ve got the place to myself. On quiet nights I usually head down Broadway past all the unlighted sleeping houses of people I know now and those I used to know, to the pier where the boats are sleeping, too. I stand perfectly still, listening to the sound of the faint gentle kiss of piling and rail, the strain of the stretching line, the barely audible lullaby of breeze through rigging.