I called Tuck from the ferry landing at lunchtime.

I told him about Lucas’s hand. “I’ve been trying to talk to him,” I said. “But he won’t listen to me.”

“Don’t even try to talk to Lucas,” he said. “Wait until I get there. I’ll come right after work.”

I tried to follow this advice. I walked around and around the island, staying away from the house. I was overtired from the night on the highway, overemotional from my confrontation with Lucas.

I wandered down to Tame Jaw Beach. It was chilly, and I buttoned my sweater up to my neck. I heard splashing in the shallow water, but I couldn’t see anything. Then there were footsteps behind me.

The man with the cat was barefoot, traversing the beach, the cat stately on his shoulders, face into the breeze. He stopped when he saw me, and we nodded politely at each other.

“Thinking about ghosts?” he asked.

I laughed, a short intense laugh, the kind that is bottled up for too long. “Kind of,” I said.

“That’s what people do,” he said. “They look at the water and think about the dead. Good day.”

I looked at the water and I wondered, how do you tell the difference between the ghosts of the mind and the ghosts that are truly hanging around?

Finally, I stood and brushed sand off my legs, feeling stiff and cold. On Clara Day Street, the bouncer stool was empty outside Jack’s. I went to the front window and cupped my hands around my face. My breath made a white circle on the glass. The place was full of islanders. Their heads were bent together, and they were talking softly.

Gordon and Sebastian and some of the other fishermen were lining the bar. I went in and stood behind them for a minute, studying their profiles. Gordon’s skin was smooth-baked. Not wrinkly the way Martha the librarian’s was, nothing that delicate. His wrinkles were broad folds of smooth skin. They drank beer and talked to each other and took little notice of me.

“Are there ghosts?” I said finally.

They all turned and looked at me. There was a long pause during which my ridiculous question hung in the air like a balloon that wouldn’t rise and wouldn’t sink.

“Hell, yes,” Gordon said finally.

“Everywhere,” Sebastian said.

“I had one put a pink pebble in my mouth while I was sleeping,” Gordon said. “When I woke up, this pebble comes tumbling out. Smooth and flat and shiny.”

“What’d you do with it?” I asked.

“Gave it to my grandkids.”

“There are ghosts all over this island,” Sebastian said. “They’re always walking the widow’s walks. They’re still waiting on their husbands, but their husbands are ghosts out at sea.”

“My granddad used to visit a ghost whorehouse,” Sebastian said.

“My granddad did, too,” Gordon said. “The one in New Bedford.”