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campus in time for his Reading Poems seminar. The Reading Poems course was always a mix of pleasure and pain. Pleasure because he did still passionately love poetry and the course covered a range of poetic practices and a variety of media. Pain because most of these kids read anything but their own work very badly.
    There are few things in this life more bamboo-under-fingernails than good poetry read aloud badly—unless it is bad poetry read aloud badly.
    Swift suffered stoically through renditions of Browning’s “My Last Duchess” and Lowell’s “Patterns”, and the minute the classroom was empty, locked the door and bolted for the parking lot.
     
    It was still raining as Swift’s Jeep pulled slowly off the Casco Bay Lines ferry onto the sandy beach at Orson Island and headed up the winding road that led to the bungalow.
    He’d inherited the bungalow from his father. Norris had lived there for several years before he met Marion Gilbert. It was on Orson Island that he’d written two of his most famous plays, Name Dropping and Broken Bells .
    Technically, Orson Island was part of the city of Portland, Maine. It had a year-round population of 60. During the summer months the population swelled to 150. Swift’s original plan had been to live on the island year round as part of his staying-clean strategy, but the ferry commute had proved too difficult, and though he liked his privacy and the idea that his father had intended that refuge for him, the island was too isolated.
    Now days he used it for a vacation home or when he needed time on his own.
    There were no paved roads on the island, but the dirt roads were hard-packed and wide. Swift drove them easily, despite the rain sheeting down. White sand, white skies…the only color came from the trees lining the road, scarlet and gold foliage fading into the autumn mist.
    Nothing gold can stay…
    How very true.
    In the early 20th century the island and its quaint, cozy inns had drawn summer folk, but these days there were no hotels. Orson Island was not on anyone’s Top Ten Vacation Getaways. A number of homes were seasonal rentals. Few people lived on the island year round. The only real public services were a post office located in Sandy’s General Store and Café, a strictly volunteer fire department and a one-room local school. As far as luxury amenities, the island boasted a community hall, a lending library and a tennis court.
    Swift turned off the main road onto a loose gravel drive which led to the bungalow. He could see the rooftop and chimney through the flame-colored trees. By now Tad would know he was coming. He’d be able to hear the car engine from a mile away. The island was very quiet, as Swift knew from his own experience, and this time of year the only sounds to break the silence were the rush of waves, the wind through the trees, the cries of gulls.
    At last the bungalow swung into view. It was a 1920s bungalow, gray and white clapboard with a screened porch overlooking the bay.
    Swift parked in the circle of shell and pebbles, and went up the stairs. The scent of autumn and burning leaves sharpened the damp air.
    He knocked. There was no response from inside the bungalow. He gave it a few seconds and then knocked again.
    When there was still no reply, he unlocked the front door and stepped inside.
    He knew at once that Tad was not there. The tobacco-brown curtains were drawn across the windows, the fireplace was cleaned of all ash and laid in readiness, the dust on the tabletops was undisturbed.
    “Tad?” Swift called against the sinking sensation in his gut.
    The bungalow smelt cold and clammy and empty as seaside places did after being uninhabited for a month or two. Wherever Tad had gone after leaving Swift’s office the previous afternoon, he had not come here.
    Swift walked through the rooms, footsteps sounding troublingly loud in the extended silence. The paneled interior had been photographed many times, and as usual he had that odd