Chapter One
The dandelions almost killed the old man.
Melody Larson hauled her laundry basket out to the clothesline late one Saturday afternoon that spring. The forecast promised a warm sunny day and hadn’t disappointed. A slight breeze curled over the hills to the north-east on Kidney Island and Melody liked to believe it came from the Bay of Fundy and not from those infernal wind turbines about a thousand yards from her farmhouse.
She waited as late in the day as possible before coming outside to hang the laundry so the sun would be higher in the sky and she could avoid the shadow effects the rotating propellers of the turbines cast over the landscape. She didn’t want to step outside the house till then, not that it was any better inside. As Melody began hanging the sheets she had stripped from her bed, she thought how much she desired to slip back under them once they were dry. The seven hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets provided her the most comfort these days. Drying them under the warm sunshine and cool salty air of the island became something she looked forward to after the long winter. The clothes dryer never left them with that same feeling of comfort.
Of course the comfort she pined for under those sheets in her bed pertained to sleep, much to the chagrin of her husband, Myles, who hoped for something more he’d rather enjoy in those soft threads, but it was not what Melody desired. And the sleep she so craved had been difficult to come by these days. The soft grinding as the wind turbines went through their rotation pierced her veil of sleep, leaving her exhausted every morning.
As she clipped each end of a sheet to the rope line with a wooden clothespin, she spied her elderly father in the middle of the backyard and smiled. He still worked as hard on the Darrow farm as she remembered growing up here, even though their agricultural output had shrunk to a fraction of what the old man and his father and grandfather before him had built up on the island. That made her sad thinking of it, but she still managed to smile seeing him tending to the land even well into his seventies.
Tyrus Darrow carried two objects as he shuffled in a slow halting pace across the lawn of the backyard. In his left hand he held a steel pail by its thin handle. His right hand grasped a long metal implement used for digging dandelions out by their roots. Every time he came to an outcropping of the yellow flowered weeds, and there were no shortages of them scattered throughout the green grass, he’d set the pail down and stick the bottom of the tool into the ground around the leaves of a dandelion. He stepped on the metal foothold at the base, allowing the tip to dig into the ground under the plant’s roots. He rocked the tool back and lifted, its prongs pulling up the weed.
Of course, Tyrus didn’t think of the plant as a weed. To him it was sustenance. The greens he’d wash and bundle up to sell at the family farm stand at the end of their property by the road. The yellow heads of the dandelions would go into the barn where he’d put them into the press to make dandelion wine.
It was probably the last bit of joy Melody’s father got out of what remained of their farm, and she watched him with a touch of sadness. The hum from the wind turbines reminded her of what they gave up. Not that the sound didn’t annoy her, but its constant vibration in her ears served as a reminder that it was she who had convinced Tyrus to sell the acreage they could no longer maintain to Aerosource, the energy company that installed the turbines. Her father met her suggestion with reluctance, but at his age she thought it would really only be her future that would be affected by the decision.
How wrong she had been about that.
Melody continued pinning sheets and pillowcases to the lines, this time the bedding from her two kids. She kept one eye on her father, knowing his footing wasn’t quite what it used to be. She always dreaded the possibility of him taking a tumble and cracking his fragile bones. He seemed strong enough to have many years left in him, but still she worried.
Once Tyrus filled his pail to the brim, he brought the bucket over to the picnic table on their back patio, setting it down on top and laying the tool on the ground beside it. She watched as he began separating the yellow dandelion heads from their stems and putting them in one pile, the greens in another.
Melody smiled and reached down to grab another pillowcase. Her gaze only left him for a second. When she straightened up and clipped the pillowcase to the clothesline, she glanced over at the patio. Her mouth opened; her eyes widened.
Tyrus sat at the picnic table with the pile of dandelion heads in front of him. He plucked one yellow flower out of the pile and popped it into his mouth.
At first, Melody wasn’t sure she saw correctly. Maybe he had pulled some kind of snack out of his pants pocket, nuts or something. But as she watched, pausing from her chore, she saw him pick up another dandelion head and stuff it into his mouth, his jaws churning as he chewed.
“Dad?” Melody stood stunned, not comprehending what her eyes observed. Her mind tried reasoning that maybe he enjoyed the taste of dandelions before, or maybe he always sampled the latest crop to make sure it suitable for wine making. But as she watched, he continued stuffing dandelion after dandelion into his mouth, his eyes a vacant stare as if in some kind of trance.
“Dad!” she cried, running across the yard, calling out again though he acted as if he didn’t hear or see her. By the time she got to the picnic table, she had no idea how many of the dandelions he had stuffed in his mouth, but the pile in front of him had been nearly depleted.
He began choking.
“Dad!” she screamed at his side, taking hold of his right arm, which tried to reach out and pick up another dandelion despite his gagging sounds. “What are you doing?”
His head turned, face still gripped in a dazed expression and becoming flush as he looked up at her. His face bulged out like a squirrel whose cheeks were stuffed with nuts, his mouth opening to reveal a yellow morass coating his lips and tongue. He tried to speak, but only emitted choking sounds. His eyes looked glazed.
Melody began shaking him. “Spit it out!” she cried, no, yelled at him.
He sputtered, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the floppy skin of his neck. He attempted to cough, but only a muffled sound came out. His face drained of color.
“Jesus, Dad!” she squealed. Panic took hold of her. She pounded on his back and he hunched over but the choking sounds persisted. Melody got behind him, bringing her arms around him and making a fist with her right hand and wrapping her left hand around it. She felt around for the middle of his paunch and then leaned into his back. With all her strength, she pulled her arms back, driving her fist into his gut.
His body lurched up off the seat from the force, but the gagging sounds persisted.
“Please God,” she said in a less-panicked voice. Please help me. She pulled her fist in again. His body jerked and she thought she heard a gurgling sound from his throat. Again, she thought, bracing herself, worried if she didn’t get his airway cleared, he would pass out and topple off the table, taking her with him.
She tugged hard, ramming her fist into his gut with all her might.
A sound erupted from his open mouth followed by a geyser of a yellow sticky coagulated substance that spewed across the top of the picnic table.
Tyrus Darrow’s shoulders slumped, and as Melody relaxed, the muscles in her arms, back and legs that had been bracing herself behind him let go; the old man pitched forward, his head falling to the tabletop, his face landing in the gooey yellow mess.
Behind them, the sound of the wind turbines continued to whirl and hum.
Chapter Two
Oscar Basaran pulled into the driveway of the Darrow farm on Haven Road late in the day. He felt weary after the long journey from Boston to Kidney Island, but after a short afternoon nap at the Tides Hotel to shake off the road lag and also settle his stomach from the ferry ride, he decided to get to work without wasting time.
The sun began its descent, dragging some of the August heat with it, but as soon as he stepped from the air-conditioned rental car into the hot air, he started to perspire. As a kid, he’d been used to the hot air growing up in Turkey, but thirteen years of living in Boston enabled his reliance on air-conditioning in the summer and his body adjusted.
The farmhouse looked old, as many of the houses he’d seen on the drive. But just before he reached it, he’d passed a new development under construction, Pickett Fences Estates, with several homes completed, and the shells of half a dozen homes underway and signs advertising many additional lots available. It surprised him since all the information he researched showed the population declining on the island. And now with the Aerosource concerns, there might be more reasons for the development to be in jeopardy.
But that’s why he had been sent here, he thought as he strode to the front door, to get to the bottom of the problems and see if there were any justification to the complaints. Aerosource didn’t think so, but he didn’t work for them. Not exactly.
* * *
One month earlier, he sat in Mason Helleson’s office on the seventeenth floor of the Aerosource building on Seaport Boulevard in Boston. The firm, one of the leading companies of wind turbines in the Northeast, established wind farms across upstate New York, throughout Massachusetts, off Cape Cod and several other places, including Kidney Island in the Penobscot Bay off the coast of Maine.
Helleson stood tall, his head topped with short white hair, his creased face belying a man in his late sixties, shoulders broad. He kept in shape for a man more than twice Oscar’s age and it made him somewhat intimidating as Helleson stood by the expanse of glass windows looking out over the Seaport district. Oscar sat nervously in a seat before the man’s desk waiting to find out why his insurance company sent him to one of its biggest clients.
The older man cleared his throat.
“Renewable energy is what everyone wants,” Helleson said. “It’s what the world needs.” The man turned to look at him and Oscar nodded. “Wind power is the most affordable zero-emission energy source available. But while we’re trying to do what’s best for our planet, there remain stumbling blocks.”
“I’m sure,” Oscar said, though he wasn’t really. He felt like he needed to hold up his end of the conversation.
Helleson strode over to his oversized desk and sat down behind it, but in no way looked any less imposing than when he stood. “You have no idea why you were sent here, do you?”
The man’s teeth when he smiled ratcheted up Oscar’s nerves. “No, Mr. Helleson, I don’t.”
“Call me Mason.”
Oscar nodded, but wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that.
Helleson’s brows furrowed as he eyed Oscar. “Oscar isn’t your original given name, is it?” he asked.
“No,” Oscar said, squirming a bit in his seat. “I Americanized it when I became a naturalized citizen. It’s originally Ozgur.”
Helleson reflected on this for a moment and smirked. “I’ve been informed by your firm that you are one of their best insurance investigators.”
“I’m glad they think so.”
“This should be a fairly routine inquiry,” Helleson said. “A handful of interviews and that’s about it.”
Oscar leaned forward. “And whom am I interviewing? And what am I asking them?” The mystery of the assignment annoyed him.
Helleson chuckled, but it didn’t have a cheerful sound. “Ever hear of ‘shadow flicker’?”
Oscar leaned back in his chair. “No.” Didn’t sound familiar to him.
“Not surprised,” Helleson said with a wave of his hand. “It’s mostly nonsense. But the people living near our wind turbines on Kidney Island seem to think otherwise, and they’ve hired an attorney to represent them in a claim against Aerosource.”
Now it began to come clear to Oscar. He nodded, but waited for Helleson to continue.
“Shadow flicker is what’s being termed the effect of the shadows and reflections cast over the land by the propellers of the turbines. Residents who live nearby claim it’s affecting their health and that the combination of the shadow flicker and the noise vibration contribute to headaches and sleep loss and a myriad of other symptoms.”
“And does it?” Oscar asked, wary of the response.
“Nonsense.” The old man leaned forward on his desk as he spoke, but now settled back in his chair. “This comes up with every turbine we place throughout the Northeast. There’s always some neighborhood group that wants to gripe about it. It’s more a case of NIMBY if you ask me.”
“Not in my backyard,” Oscar uttered to himself.
“Research and studies have been done over the years about this issue and it’s never been determined that there is a direct link between the turbines and health issues. Hell, fossil fuels are the real health problem, with carbon dioxide, sulfur, nitrogen. Everyone’s worried about climate change, and our company is doing something about safe energy, and a handful of complainers in a few locations try to stir up trouble.”
“So where do I come in?” Oscar asked, wondering why his own firm didn’t apprise him of what they expected of him.
“Because of this claim filed by the attorney, we need an independent investigator to interview the residents who live near the turbines. Find out what health issues they really believe are happening.” He put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “That’s all. Fairly simple.”
* * *
And as Oscar knocked on the wooden front door of the Darrow farmhouse, that’s what he hoped it would be. Simple. He didn’t know at the time how far from that it would be.
When the door swung open, he was greeted by a dark-haired woman who would under most circumstances be considered attractive, even if not for the silver strips of hair, like dull tinsel, that streaked through the very dark locks that fell to her shoulders. But weariness clung to the features of her face, leaving creases, bags and a blotchy complexion that staunched her good looks.
“Yes?” she asked, looking at him through droopy eyes.
“I hope I’m not bothering you, m-miss.” He had been about to say ma’am but corrected himself in time. “My name is Oscar Basaran. Would you happen to be Melody Larson?”
“Yes.”
“I hope I haven’t caught you at an inconvenient time.”
She held tight to the door, almost afraid to yield it to him.
“I’m from the Freedom Insurance Company and I’d like to ask you some questions if you don’t mind.”
“Questions?” She eyed him with suspicion. “What kind of questions?”
“I’m conducting an investigation about the health concerns you’ve been experiencing.” Standing at the doorstep he could still hear the hum of the turbines and sympathized with its annoyance. “Because of the turbines.”
Realization settled on her face. “Oh, yes, of course.” The door opened a bit more.
“Would this be an okay time?”
She nodded. “Yes, yes. Do come in.” She swung the door wide and gestured with her arm. “Forgive the clutter.”
He entered into a small hall. A coatrack with a bench stood up against one wall, muddied boots and sneakers piled under the bench. A couple of yellow rain slickers hung from wooden pegs above the bench.
“I’m sorry to show up unannounced, but I’ve kind of had this case thrust upon me without much notice.”
Melody tried to smile, but only managed a less than valiant attempt. “I’m just glad someone wants to listen to us.” She wiped a hand across a furrowed brow. “It’s just been so frustrating.”
“I understand.”
She led him down the hall and into the kitchen and to a small round dining table where she offered a seat. He set his briefcase down, opening it and retrieving a yellow legal pad and a pen.
“Would you like some coffee?” she asked.
“Oh, not necessary,” he said. “But don’t let me stop you from having some.”
“Coffee I don’t need,” she said, taking a chair opposite him. “I’d be up all night.”
He sensed frustration in her comment.
“My lawyer didn’t mention anyone would be coming by to take a statement,” she said.
Oscar paused. He could have continued and thought it would make things much easier to let her believe her attorney sent him, but his conscience got the better of him and he didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot.
“My insurance firm wasn’t hired by your attorney,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand.”
“My insurance firm represents Aerosource.” He braced for reaction.
Her face stiffened. “You work for Aerosource?”
“Not exactly,” he tried to correct. “My firm is the insurance carrier for Aerosource. I’m here to evaluate your health claims.”
“You want to know if I’m making this all up?” She pursed her lips.
“Oh, no.” He shook his head. “That couldn’t be further from the truth. My firm just needs me to document your concerns, so we have a better understanding of the issues involved.” He doubted he assuaged her feelings.
“My father nearly died,” she said, her voice stern.
“Died?” Oscar didn’t know what she meant.
“Did the other man tell you what happened this spring?” Her hands clamped together.
“No,” he said, not sure what other man she meant. Was she talking about Mason Helleson? No, he couldn’t imagine someone in his position would have actually reached out to her or her attorney. He’d have people for those tasks. “I don’t know anything about that. All I know is that you and some of your neighbors are having health concerns you feel are related to the wind turbines and this thing they call ‘shadow flicker’. And I’m here to find out what those concerns are.”
Melody drew in a deep breath.
“My father is an old man,” she began. “But he always had all his faculties.” She paused. “Until they put up those damn turbines. Ever since, he’s had problems.” She leaned forward in her chair, her eyes narrowing. “We’ve all had problems. But his scare me.” She leaned back.
Oscar felt the need to write something down, but she hadn’t really told him much. Still, the look on her face and the tone in her voice made his hands sweat, and the pen felt slippery in his grip.
“The doctor in town said my father is starting to exhibit periods of dementia. But I don’t believe it.”
“You don’t.”
“No. He’s been having sleepless nights and bouts of forgetfulness.” She shook her head. “That man used to be sharp as a tack. But, now...” Her eyes drifted off.
“And you don’t think the doctor’s assessment is accurate?”
“This spring, my father sat down outside and began eating a bucket of dandelions till his mouth was so crammed he couldn’t even breathe.” Tears formed at the corners of her eyes and she wiped them away.
“But he’s okay now?” Oscar asked, concerned.
She glared at him. “I don’t think he’ll ever be okay.”
He jotted this down. “And you think the turbines have had this effect on him?” He didn’t get the correlation.
She pounded a fist on the table, causing him to jump. “It’s every goddamn day!” Her voice hitched.
Oscar gave her some time to compose herself.
“When the sun comes up in the morning, no one wants to go outside. It’s like torture.”
“Because of this flicker?”
She nodded. “Have you ever seen it?”
He felt ashamed he hadn’t done more research beforehand. “No, I confess.”
“It’s a nightmare. I get the most awful headaches. I can’t sleep. And that constant hum. It never goes away.” She leaned in again. “Even when the blades stop turning, which is rare, I swear I still hear the sound in my head.”
Oscar began to wonder if something else wasn’t going on with Melody Larson.
She slumped in her chair. “It exhausts me, dealing with it. I can’t imagine how a man my father’s age manages.” She shook her head. “It’s not dementia he’s suffering. Or if it is, it’s been brought on by those damn turbines.”
“I’d like to talk to the rest of your family,” he said. “If that’s all right with you.”
She eyed him with caution, trying to judge whether she should trust him.
“My father is resting right now,” she said, “And I don’t want to disturb him when he does get the chance to sleep. My husband’s working. He picks up shifts down at the beverage store because….” She paused. “Well, this farm doesn’t make the money it used to. It’s fallen on hard times.” She laughed, or rather chuckled, but it made a sarcastic sound. “That’s the reason we sold a lot of our land to Aerosource a couple years back, to help us get out from under our financial problems.” She looked at him with distant eyes. “How’s that for irony? We gave them the land they needed to build those damn turbines, and look what it’s doing to us.”
This was another fact Helleson never mentioned to him.
“I’d like to come back when this shadow flicker takes effect, if that’s okay?”
She smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant smile. “That’s the only way to understand what I’m talking about.”
He put his notepad away in his briefcase and stood. “Then I won’t bother you any more today, but I can come back in the morning.”
She escorted him to the front door. As he was about to leave, he remembered something she said earlier and turned.
“You mentioned something about another man?”
She nodded. “Yes. Someone came around earlier this summer. Same as you. Said he was investigating our claim against Aerosource. Asked a lot of the same questions you did. Said he’d come back and talk to us some more.”
“And did he?” Oscar asked.
“No. We never saw or heard from him again.”
Chapter Three
As dusk fell along the north side of the island, Barrett and Letty Granberry began the process of herding their cows into the barn. The old couple maintained a small herd and mostly sold their milk products to one of the big plants over on the mainland. It gave them a modest income as they advanced into their later years.
Barrett was not quite as old as Tyrus Darrow and for now considered himself fitter than most men in their late sixties. Letty too held her own while helping her husband out on the farm. There was a time when the farm stretched out farther than the acreage they owned now, but they too had sold a small strip of land to Aerosource to provide an access road to the turbines. The Granberrys also sold a bigger chunk of land to the developer building the new houses along Haven Road, though progress had slowed on that front, and Barrett blamed the wind turbines.
Barrett heard them now, the soft whisper as their blades turned and the droning hum their motion created. Letty didn’t hear so well these days, so it didn’t bother her, but it nagged Barrett in the back of his head no matter how hard he tried to block it out.
His border collie, Butch, used to run to the back of the lot and bark at the machines first thing every morning till Barrett would have to get out there and hush him before the damn dog woke up the neighbors. Not that there were any close neighbors. Up the road lived Miss Gallagher and her family, and farther on up was the Darrow farm, where Tyrus, Myles and Melody Larson lived.
The Larsons were the ones who sold the major portion of their property to Aerosource, and if that didn’t irk Barrett and Letty. His wife kept telling him the only reason it bothered him was because he didn’t get to sell off first when the energy company was scouting for property for their turbines. Barrett knew what a chunk of change they were throwing around, and he sure would have liked to have gotten in on a bigger piece of the pie. As it turned out, he managed to settle for the little strip he sold that provided the access road. Not as big a sum of money, but it helped offset the losses the farm endured.
He felt fortunate to be able to sell his land south of Haven Road to the housing developer, and he was lucky the sale went through when it did. That project ground to a halt after the turbines went up and all of a sudden that gorgeous country plot of land didn’t have the same appeal with those whirling blades in the distance.
And the flicker effect.
Damn! That always spooked Barrett’s cows. And Christ if their milk production didn’t show it. Of course Letty said how the hell could they be sure that was to blame, and she might be right. It could be just a coincidence, but Barrett didn’t think so. That’s why he agreed to talk to the attorney fellow Melody Larson wrangled up. As much as he distrusted lawyer folks, he didn’t want to miss out on another opportunity to help his farm out. And him and Letty. They weren’t getting any younger and he wanted to make these last years as easy as possible.
Letty waved to him from across the field as the cows filed along like orderly students heading in from recess.
“Here she comes,” Letty hollered.
The she was Myrtle, the only pregnant cow they had in their herd. With the lack of milk production, they felt the need to increase the herd a bit, so they hired one of Hubert Mace’s bulls to come over and mingle with the ladies, but Myrtle was the only one who got impregnated. Barrett blamed that on the damn turbines as well.
Letty liked to baby Myrtle and Barrett appreciated that. There was a time when Letty didn’t want to keep Myrtle, when she was first born. Myrtle was the only red-and-white Holstein calf they owned and at first Letty wanted him to get rid of it. Generations ago, the red-and-whites weren’t accepted by some farmers who felt they were inferior and shouldn’t be mixed with the black-and-whites. Letty said they weren’t pure because the red-and-white coloring of their coats came from breeding with several different types of dairy cows.
Letty said it was a bad sign for their farm when the calf was born, that it was an unnatural breed. Something was amiss, she warned him. But he convinced her they needed to keep every cow they had to maintain the farm, and eventually Letty came to appreciate Myrtle, especially when she became pregnant.
Letty nurtured her and wanted to make sure everything went smooth come delivery time, and that wasn’t far off. The fat cow sauntered down the field heading toward the barn and Barrett drew up alongside it. He walked with Myrtle while Letty made sure the last of the stragglers headed this way.
The barn door stood open as the cows filed in with little prodding. Sometimes Barrett thought they couldn’t wait to get away from the whine of the turbines too. As he and Myrtle approached the barn, the cow veered to the left, almost bumping into him.
“Whoa missy,” Barrett said, patting her lightly on the rump to redirect her.
But the stubborn cow seemed to have a mind of her own, ...
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