Alabama Skye

Callum was dead. There was no arguing this point and no forgetting it, either. If Cheney's own sweat drenched nightmares filled with the image of his lifeless body lying on the floor of their entry way, his blood soaking into the well-tread planks of wood failed to remind her, there were a few residents of Portree more than willing to nudge her memory. She sat at the small round table in her sun warmed kitchen, her frame tall and slight, her back, as always, ram rod straight although her shoulders curled in toward the rest of her body as if to shield herself from an expected blow. The lace sheers covering the window had been pushed open and offered her an unobstructed view of Bank Street and the people that filled it, their faces lifted toward the early summer sun and looking grateful for the unexpected leave of the mist that usually shrouded the shore line. Although Cheney was looking out the window she didn't see Bank Street or any of the people that populated it. Instead, behind her tired blue eyes played a film she had no control over and that seemed to play on a continuous loop. It was quiet yet persistent with a narrative that ran through her mind whether she was asleep or awake, alone or in the busy harbor of Portree just a street away. There was no off switch or volume control on the film that she’d been able to find, and the mental projector never grew tired or weak. Between her age-spotted hands rested a large Highlands stoneware mug, the ceramic mostly white with painted scenery of both the sea and the shore in muted greens and blues. It matched the dozen or so that rested clean and dry behind the cabinet door to her left, this one filled with tea so hot it stung the pads of her fingers and the skin on her palms. Cheney felt neither the heat nor the smoothness of the mug and she didn’t see the twist of gray steam that writhed upward past her unfocused eyes. Instead she saw Callum, as clearly as if he were standing in front of her carrying wood into the main room of the McGillivray’s Blue House, the bed and breakfast the two of them had lived and worked in for thirty seven years. In his strong arms he carried an assortment of cut logs dusted with snow, his face flushed from the clean salt sprayed air and his dark hair peeking out from the cap he wore on his head. Cheney sat there in the quiet of the kitchen the two of them once shared, kept company now by the sounds of the world living life outside her windows and the memories she both cherished and felt tortured by of her beloved Callum. Years before, the tourists that came to visit the largest of Scotland’s inner Hebridean islands, aptly named Eilean a' Cheó by those that lived there, and the Isle of Skye by those who did not, poured off the ferries that carried them from the northwest coast of the mainland and the village of Kyle of Lochalsh. They'd pass the small island of Eilean Bán on their way, catching sight of the Kyleakin Lighthouse, its cottage and the stump of the once proud Caisteal Maol before arriving at the Portree port. Now most visitors bound for the island drove over the Skye Bridge, perhaps stopping on Eilean Bán instead of chugging right past it to visit the long room of the lighthouse cottage and to climb the spiral stairs and two ladders to reach the lantern of the Kyleakin itself. Callum had loved these travelers, their numbers multiplied enormously by the construction of the bridge, although for many years the toll to cross it was very high. When the toll was lifted entirely that cost was distributed elsewhere, usually in the myriad of hotels, eateries and shops selling island trinkets, art and jewelry that populated the bustling town of Portree, including the small, bright blue guesthouse that bore the McGillivray name. The Blue House had not been doing any business at all since the morning Callum died. The small two story structure had remained quiet and desolate in the time it had taken to clear up the mess of his untimely demise. After it was all said and done, Cheney lacked the desire, the energy and the manpower to reopen the doors of the once profitable B & B. For so long the partnership she’d had with Callum, both in marriage and in business, had been her life’s blood. Now that he was gone she knew that catering to those who expected hospitality, clean sheets and warm meals from her was unimaginable. Not here, not within the four walls of this house or even on this small, winged shaped island. She could scarcely take care of strangers when it took every ounce of strength and will power she could muster just to pull herself out of her cold and lonely bed each morning and keep herself going from day to day. Callum had been the life force behind The Blue House. The property, bought back in 1975 after the newlyweds had been married for three years, was in a perfect location for a guesthouse. Its structure was nestled firmly among the colorful array of buildings that brightened the misty harbor of Skye’s largest settlement. Competition in Portree was fierce and tourism was the residents’ bread and butter. Always a realist, Cheney was afraid that she and her new husband lacked what it took to be successful business owners. Callum, sure of their future success, set about proving to his wife that her fears were unfounded. Never a slouch in the kitchen, he gathered up a hefty collection of traditional recipes handed down both from Cheney’s mother, Una and a few he’d salvaged from his own ancestors and set to work. He knew it wouldn’t be hard to please Cheney’s palette, so he invited dozens of their friends to share many a meal with them in their dining room and allowed them to convince his reluctant bride. With Callum in the kitchen and Cheney taking over the maintenance of the guestrooms, toilets and reservations, the two of them slowly built a successful and prosperous business. They earned themselves a reputation for hearty home cooking, decorative, sweet smelling soaps in the bathrooms, warm hand knitted blankets on the beds and a stunning view of the highest point of all of Skye, Sgùrr Alasdair from their guesthouse windows. Over the course of thirty-seven years the list of visitors grew in the collection of guest books that Cheney kept on the shelves in the living room. Names of people who traveled from all over the world and who she and Callum played hosts to were scrawled and printed in blue and black ink in line after line, page after page. Long ago Cheney had happily admitted to her husband that he’d been right all along about their business venture. He was the breath and the life inside the home they shared. The business didn’t work without him. Cheney didn’t work without him.