Catch of the Day

by Kristan Higgins

  I laugh grimly. "No. But thank you. I'd like to forget it, actually."

  "We could watch a movie," she suggests, and there's a hopeful note in her voice.

  "I'd love to," I say. "That would be just the ticket." I reach down and give her a careful hug. "Thank you, Mrs. K."

  "Oh, how sweet you are! The Fly is on TNT tonight, and I've been dying to see it again!"

  And so I fix us some dinner, cut the new bunion pad for her as directed and make popcorn. As we watch Jeff Goldblum vomit on and then consume a donut, Mrs. K. reaches over and squeezes my hand. "Things will get better, dear," she murmurs. "Don't worry."

  "I love you," I tell her, and her cheeks flush with pleasure.

  "I love you, too, honey," she says. The Fly goes into commercial break. "Now tell me, dear, when is that handsome man coming back? MacDuff?"

  "Malone," I correct automatically. "We broke up."

  "Oh, dear," she says. "Well. I'm sure you'll work things out."

  "I don't think so, Mrs. K. He's a little too busy hating me to work anything out right now."

  "Well, then, too bad for him, right, my dear? You'll meet someone else and he'll be sorry."

  "Sure." I'm quite certain she's wrong.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE NEXT DAY, Jonah drags himself into the diner. "My God, you look awful," I say. "Hung over?"

  Jonah's groan of misery answers for him. "Just coffee today, Mags."

  "Sure, baby boy." I take pity on him and set the cup gently on the counter. "What's new, buddy?"

  "Oh, nothing. Hey, Maggot..." Jonah glances around. Only Judy is within range, pretending to read a book as she eavesdrops while Rolly gets himself more coffee.

  "Judy," I say. "How about a ciggie break?"

  She scowls. "Fine, fine. I always get kicked out when it's something juicy."

  "At least you won't have to pretend to be working," Jonah offers.

  "I'm not pretending anything, little boy." She cuffs him on the back of the head as she walks past. Jonah yelps, then winces.

  "This is a bad hangover, isn't it? Such are the wages of sin, the Bible tells us," I say with mock seriousness.

  "Save it," my brother mutters. "Maggie, are you seeing Malone?"

  "Um, no. No." My face warms, and I grab a few ketchup bottles for refilling. "Why do you ask?"

  "I don't know." Jonah sighs morosely. "I thought you guys were hanging out lately. Anyway, I heard something about him the other day." His voice trails to a mutter.

  "Oh, really? What was that?" I ask, hoping for and failing to achieve a casual tone.

  "He and Chantal are having a baby."

  "No! No, they're not. What-- Where did you hear that?"

  "Down at the dock," Jonah answers. He takes a listless sip of coffee, then shudders.

  "Well, it's not really my business to talk about this, Joe, but..." Shit, what is the protocol on this? "See, actually, Chantal told me that the father is some out-of-towner. Not from here."

  "Oh." Jonah stares into his coffee.

  "Who told you it was Malone?" I can't help but ask. "I mean, does everyone know Chantal's...you know? Pregnant?"

  "Yeah. Bunch of guys were talking at the co-op yesterday. Johnny French, Dad, Billy Bottoms, Sam...I don't know. But yeah. Word's out on Chantal."

  "You guys gossip worse than a bunch of high-school girls."

  Jonah forces a smile and presses his thumb against his eye socket.

  "Want some aspirin, hon?" I ask.

  "Sure," he says. I fetch the bottle and hand him two.

  "Don't feel bad about Chantal," I say to my brother, remembering his long-standing crush on her. "Maybe the post office has your mail-order bride."

  He gives a halfhearted laugh. "Thanks. Hey, you going to see Mom later?" he asks, standing.

  I sigh. "Yeah. You?"

  "Said goodbye yesterday. Can't believe she's really moving."

  It is a little hard to believe--our mother, she of the Sunday dinners and good china, is moving out of the house she's lived in for thirty years. Both she and my dad are putting a good spin on things...new start, yadda yadda...but there's a sadness to both of them these days.

  My dad's in the bomb shelter when I go over. He's crying as he screws in a perch on a tiny birdhouse.

  "Hey, Daddy," I say, my throat growing tight at the sight of my father in tears.

  "Oh, hi, Maggie," he says, surreptitiously wiping his eyes.

  "You okay?"

  "Well, I guess so. It's just a sad day, you know?" he says.

  "You sure it's what you want, Dad? Are you having second thoughts?" I pick up a tiny scrap of wood shaving and toy with it.

  Dad sighs hugely. "I think we need to try being apart," he says. "Being together hasn't made either of us real happy. Doesn't mean I don't love your mother, of course. I do."

  "I know." I watch as he taps a shingle, no bigger than a postage stamp, onto the roof of the birdhouse. "That's a cute one," I say. "I like the tire swing. Do you think they'll use it?"

  Dad smiles. "You never know."

  Upstairs, my mom is folding some clothes into a suitcase. "Hi, Maggie," she says brightly.

  "Hi, Mom. How are you?"

  "Great. Fine." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "A door closes, a window breaks, you know."

  "Right." I'm going to miss those screwed-up cliches. "Are you scared?"

  "Mmm-hmm." She nods briskly and continues packing.

  "Tell me about your job," I urge, sitting on the bed. It's hard not to cry, but I swallow and try to be excited for her.

  "Well, it's nothing, really. I'll just be answering phones," she says.

  "Still, you got a job at a magazine. That's great," I say.

  "We'll see."

  I look in the box of things she's packing, a surprisingly paltry amount. My mother is taking--for now, anyway--only some clothes, a few pictures of us kids and Violet and some books. She's leaving all the pots and pans, all the Hummel figures, the paintings, all the crap of a three-decade-long marriage, and starting fresh.

  "I think you're really brave, Mom," I tell her.

  She bursts into tears and sinks onto the bed next to me, covering her face with her hands.

  "Oh, Maggie," she sobs. "I'm not. I'm terrified! I have no idea how I'm going to pull this off.... I have this awful image of myself, creeping back here in the dead of night because I just don't know how to live on my own."

  "Mom, don't cry. It'll be okay. You can call me anytime, you know that, right? I'll come right down. It's not like you're going to the moon." I pat her back. "I'll help you pick out new towels and pillows and stuff like that. We can go to the outlets and have lunch. It'll be okay."

  She looks at me hopefully. "You think so?"

  I nod. "Absolutely. And if you do come back, it won't be creeping in the dead of night. It'll be because you want to, not because you have to."

  She sighs, then blows her nose. "I hope you're right." She pauses. "You could come with me, Maggie. The apartment has two bedrooms." There's a touching note of hope in her voice, and I smile.

  "Thank you, Mom. Thanks for asking. But I'm...I'm really happy here."

  "Are you, honey?"

  I think a minute. "Yes. I am, Mom. I know you wanted more for me, but I love what I do. Even if it's blue-collar, even if I've never really lived anywhere else."

  "What about...marriage? Children?" she asks carefully. I can see she's trying not to have a fight.

  "That would be nice. I do want those things," I acknowledge. "But it'll happen when it happens, I guess."

  "I just don't want you to look back on your life twenty years from now, Maggie, and see all the things you could have done," Mom says, blowing her nose again.

  "I think I'll look back and see all the things I did do, Mom," I say, a little starch creeping into my voice. "I'll see that I fed people and welcomed them, I helped them and kept them company...those are good things, Mom."

  "They are, Maggie," she says, standing up
to resume her packing. "But what about you, sweetheart? I want you to have someone to take care of you, too. You deserve that, you know. And if you can't find someone wonderful, someone like Will, then you need to take care of yourself."

  I don't answer. It's hard to disagree with that. "Well," I say, forcing a smile. "You need to be thinking about your own life, Mom."

  "You are my life, Maggie," she says matter-of-factly, not looking at me. "The child who needs me the most."

  "WHAT CAN I GET YOU, girls?" Paul Dewey bellows a few days later. "Will the little mother be drinking tonight?"

  My mouth drops open. "Dewey knows, too?"

  "News travels fast," Chantal murmurs. "How about cranberry juice, Dewey, hon?"

  "I'll have a Sam Adams, Paul," I call.

  He brings our drinks over and sits with us, gazing lovingly at Chantal's breasts, which have grown noticeably in her delicate condition. "So, Chantal, sweetheart, who's the lucky guy?"

  "Most guys in this town have been lucky at one time or another," I quip. Chantal chuckles, but Dewey turns a scowling face to me.

  "That's no way to talk about a lady in her condition, Maggie. Shame on you."

  "I'm so sorry, Chantal," I say. "Please forgive me for stating the truth."

  She laughs, and I feel a rush of more affection than I've felt for her before. Chantal has never pretended to be anything other than what she is, and for that, I admire her.

  "So, Chantal, you gonna come clean with old Dewey? Who knocked you up, girl?"

  "None of your business, Paul," Chantal says coyly.

  "Well, I heard a rumor," Dewey says.

  "Oh, really? About little old me?" Chantal asks.

  "Ayuh," Dewey says. "About you and a certain someone who hasn't been around much lately. Afraid to show his face, apparently."

  Chantal and I exchange looks, her smile fading. "Really," she says. "Spill, Dewey."

  Dewey does. "Malone. Is he the father?"

  I choke on my beer, lurching forward in my seat as tears swamp my eyes and nose.

  "No," Chantal says firmly. "It's not Malone. I never even slept with him, Dewey, and that's the truth."

  "Well, that's not what I heard," Dewey drawls.

  "And yet, wouldn't I be in a better position to know?" Chantal hisses, eyes narrowing, as I continue to splutter.

  "Word on the street is that Malone won't own up to being the daddy. That he won't take a DNA test so he can avoid paying child support. Well, don't you worry, Chantal, honey. We'll make sure--"

  "Dewey, this is the stupidest thing I've ever heard," I wheeze, still coughing. "If Chantal says it's not Malone, it's not Malone."

  "And it's not Malone," she confirms.

  "Sure, sure, darlin'. If you say so." Dewey hauls himself up and lumbers to the bar.

  "Shit," Chantal mutters, patting my back. With her uncharacteristically straight answer, Chantal has cemented the idea that Malone is indeed the father of her baby. "Where did he hear that? Maggie, you didn't--"

  "No!" I protest. "No, I didn't tell anyone anything." I consider for a moment. "Well, I told Christy what I thought, but she wouldn't tell anyone. I'm sure of that."

  "Huh. Well, screw it. Someone else's name will come up in about five more minutes." She takes a sip of her juice and rubs her stomach unconsciously.

  "Chantal," I ask. "Are you sure you shouldn't tell the father? Doesn't he have rights and stuff like that?"

  Her face falls. "Maggie, it's not that simple. It would completely screw up his life. We only did it once, and I'm not going to saddle him with a kid."

  "Is he married?" I whisper.

  "No," she says. "But he's... Look, I'm just not going to tell, okay? Oh, look. Malone just came in."

  My physical reaction is immediate and dramatic. My face flushes lobster red, my legs go loose and watery, and my heart rate doubles. Malone sees us--it's hard to miss the only two females in the bar, especially when you're accused of impregnating one and have slept with the other--and gives a characteristically curt nod in our general direction. Then he sits at the bar and waits for Dewey to notice him.

  Dewey ignores him.

  "Can I get a beer?" Malone growls after a solid minute has passed.

  "Not in my bar, you can't," Dewey answers.

  "Dewey!" Chantal yelps. "Are you being an ass?" She pushes back from our table and sashays up to the bar. "Hi, Malone," she says.

  "Hi," he grunts.

  "Dewey, is there a problem here?" Chantal asks.

  Malone stands up, glances at me and grabs his coat.

  "No, no, no," Chantal says. "Stay, Malone. Dewey, what's your problem?"

  "If a man can't acknowledge his responsibilities, honey, he can't expect people not to care," Dewey begins. "And I'm not the only one who thinks so. Heard you got some lines cut, Malone."

  Oh, shit. A gear war against Malone. When a lobster trap's lines are cut, the trap sits on the ocean floor and rots. Up here it's a shooting crime to tinker with someone's pots. But the men of Gideon's Cove feel very proprietary toward Chantal, who has given many of them a happy night or two, and if they think Malone is shirking his duties, they're bound to take action. Malone remains silent.

  "I already told you, Malone's not the father!" Chantal barks. "I never slept with him, and it wasn't for lack of trying. My trying. Okay?"

  "Don't worry about it, Chantal," Malone says. "See you."

  Without any thought backing my movement, I'm up and across the bar in a heartbeat. "Hi, Malone," I say.

  "Maggie." He gives me a quick once-over, then stares off over my shoulder. "Have a good night," he says.

  "Malone, hang on." I put my hand on his arm to stop him, swallowing. Perhaps I should have thought before I acted, but apparently it's not my way. "People are saying you're the father of Chantal's baby," I announce pointlessly.

  "Yeah, I picked up on that. Wonder where they got that idea."

  It's hard to look him in the face, but I do. The scowl lines are in full force. "I didn't tell anyone what I thought, Malone. Well, except Christy. But she wouldn't say a word."

  He just stares at me.

  "That's probably why your lines got cut," I say stupidly.

  "You think?" The contempt in his eyes stings.

  "So what are you going to do, Malone?"

  He shrugs. "Nothing. If Chantal doesn't want people to know who the father is, that's her business."

  "Do you know?" I ask.

  He looks at me and doesn't answer, choosing instead to pull on his coat. Chantal is still in a heated argument with Dewey. "Take care," he says, heading for the door.

  "Malone?" I call, taking a step in his direction. He doesn't stop, doesn't even turn his head, just pushes open the door and heads out.

  "Oh, great!" Chantal huffs. "He left! That's just great, Dewey. Come on, Maggie, let's get out of here. I'm very mad at you, Paul."

  "Chantal, honey, I was just--" Dewey attempts, but Chantal is riding a wave of moral outrage, and out we go.

  "Poor Malone," she murmurs as she takes out her keys. "Well, I'm kind of tired anyway, Maggie. See you Thursday?"

  Her day for lunch at the diner. "Sure."

  I go back to my lonely, too-empty apartment. It's looked strange since I purged my little collections; Dad's birdhouses and pictures of Violet are the only decorations I have left. Colonel dying has left a huge void, too. I click around the TV, too distracted to think about any one thing in particular.

  At 2:00 a.m., I jolt awake. I did tell someone. By accident, of course--Billy Bottoms. That day at the dock, I was talking to myself. I didn't realize he heard me.

  Shit.

  Sleep is ruined for the night. I assure myself that Billy didn't hear me that day. And this is a tiny town. Malone and Chantal have spoken at Dewey's any number of times, so there's no reason to think that this rumor is my fault. Chantal is generous with her affection, she flirts with Malone (as much as it's possible to flirt with Malone, anyway), so there you go. Billy didn't hear me
. I'm sure.

  I still can't get back to sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  A FEW DAYS LATER, I walk to St. Mary's in a gentle, steady, cozy rain. I miss Colonel so much it aches...The past few days have been so quiet, both at the diner and in my personal life, that I'm a little stir-crazy. The diner is closed for the day, the baking done. It's not my night for Meals on Wheels, and I've spent so much time at Christy's lately that she told me outright to give her a little space. Clearly, it's time for me to find another dog.

  So. The high school had a dance in the church basement this past weekend, and I decide to go over and clean the kitchen, which always suffers during this type of event.

  As I cross the street, I see Bishop Tranturo walking out of the rectory. Father Tim stands in the doorway, his arms crossed on his chest. He sees me and lifts his hand in a wave, then goes back in, closing the door behind him.

  Bishop Tranturo has been around forever. He's not often seen in these parts, as we are a tiny parish, but I remember his round, jolly face from years past. When making his annual visit to confirm Gideon's Cove's Catholic teenagers, he usually stops by the diner for breakfast. In fact, he presided over my own confirmation.

  I wonder what he's doing here. I wonder--

  "Hi, Bishop," I call out, splashing across the street as he's about to get into his car.

  "Hello, dear," he says. "I'm sorry, you are...?"

  "Maggie. Maggie Beaumont."

  "Oh, yes," he says, recognition lighting his cherubic face. "You're Maggie, from the diner. Of course. Nice to see you." He smiles and waits.

  "So how are things?" I ask. "How's everything?"

  "Just fine, dear. And you?"

  "I'm fine. I'm...so. We love Father Tim around here. He's great. A great priest." My stomach cramps with anxiety.

  Bishop Tranturo nods and looks over my shoulder.

  "Is he leaving? Is that why you're here?" I blurt, glancing back at the rectory. "Is Father Tim...?"

  The bishop sighs, his breath fogging in the cool air. "I think I'll let him tell you that himself, dear," he says. "Take care. God bless you, my child."

  "Okay, yes. Thanks. And you, too," I say manically. "Drive safely. Bye."

  I step back and let him get into his car. The rain is falling harder now, but I barely notice.

  Father Tim is leaving the priesthood.

  My heart pounds sickly in my chest and my legs feel weak and shaky. Lost in thought, I drift into the church and slide into the last pew.

  It's empty in here, the smell of lemon oil and candles soothing and welcoming. The door clicks shut behind me, and I am alone in this haven of stillness. The rain patters against the small stained-glass windows, and below me, the furnace kicks on. The candles in the front flicker in the drafts. Only one light is on, shining gently on the cross that hangs over the altar.