The Line Tender

by Kate Allen

  “Which grief are you talking about? Mom or Fred?”

  “Both.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I wish your mom were here now, so she could help us deal with Fred,” Dad said.

  My eyes burned. “I know.”

  There was a knock at the front door. I dragged the heel of my palm over my nose, and I looked at Dad. He looked at me, as if to say, You’d better get that because I’m not going anywhere for the next four weeks. I rolled my eyes and went to the door.

  There was Sookie, with two grocery bags from the IGA.

  “I know it’s early. I should have called,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “Come in.”

  We went into the living room, where on the couch, the imprint of Dad’s body was like a fossil, permanent and remarkably accurate.

  “How you doin’ today?” Sookie asked Dad.

  “Fine,” Dad said. “Just wish I could do more.”

  Sookie nodded. “Brought you some things for dinner tonight. I’ll just put ’em in the kitchen.”

  I followed Sookie. He reached in and unloaded everything onto the counter. A rotisserie chicken, a couple of plastic tubs of things covered in mayonnaise, a watermelon wedge, a couple of bottles of Polar Seltzer, and a bakery bag of cookies.

  “It’s like a picnic,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. I just want to help,” he said. “You okay?”

  My skin always turned red when I cried.

  “Yeah, I woke up wrong,” I said.

  Sookie studied me hard and nodded.

  In the living room, Dad had turned on the news. Sookie and I stood, watching a story about a house fire outside Boston. Footage of concerned neighbors looking at the blackened skeleton of a home transitioned abruptly to a grainy image of a dorsal fin sticking out of the water.

  “Another potential great-white-shark sighting this summer,” said the newscaster. “This time off the coast of Maine.”

  “What?” I said.

  “It happens,” Sookie said.

  Apparently, a couple of Mainers were boating a few miles off Wells Beach and they spotted a large shark not far from the boat. Based on the witnesses’ descriptions of size and the shape of the dorsal fin, area experts were trying to identify the type of shark.

  On the TV, a shark expert explained the difference between the dorsal fins of the two huge sharks that were possible visitors to the area: great whites and basking sharks.

  “That’s Robin,” Dad said. “Do you remember? She used to work with your mom.”

  I nodded. There was a bar across the bottom of the screen that read, DR. ROBIN WALKER, MARINE FISHERIES BIOLOGIST.

  Robin had brown skin and black curly hair that was cut above her shoulders, which she pulled back with a wide headband. She was probably ten years younger than my parents and Sookie. She wore glasses and I wondered how she kept them on in the field.

  “The dorsal fin on a basking shark is rounded on top and convex in the back,” she said, making shapes with her hand. “White shark dorsal fins come to a point at the top and are straight on the back edge.”

  “Do you think it could have been a white shark?” the reporter asked her.

  “It’s possible,” Robin said. “There’s been an increase in recorded white sharks off the coast of Cape Cod. It’s possible that some of them are traveling farther north.”

  The reporter said, “Why so many white sharks recently? Are you seeing a migration?”

  “Good question,” she said. “Historically, we’ve seen movement north in the summer and south in the winter. But I think the fact that we are seeing so many lately is largely due to the increasing seal populations.”

  “Do you have any advice for swimmers? For beach-goers?” asked the reporter.

  “I understand the concern. If you see a seal, don’t swim in that area,” she said, emphasizing the word don’t with her hands. “The possibility of being attacked is extremely low. So is getting struck by lightning. But when lightning strikes, don’t run around your backyard and stand next to the flagpole.”

  Sookie snorted.

  I nodded. I liked Robin.

  “Well, I’m sure we’ll have more information in the coming days,” said the reporter. “Thank you, Ms. Walker.”

  “Dr. Walker,” I corrected.

  “Thank you,” said Robin.

  When the story cut out, I was buzzing with adrenaline. I followed Sookie out to his truck. Mr. Patterson was sitting on his porch across the street. It was already about a million degrees outside.

  “What are you doing tomorrow?” I asked Sookie.

  “Paintin’ the boat,” he said. “You wanna help?”

  “No,” I said. “I was wondering if you wanted to come up to Maine with Dad and me?”

  “And do what?”

  “Talk to an old guy about putting tags on great whites?” I said tentatively.

  There was a pause. Sookie knew exactly what I was talking about.

  “The trip might be a waste of time,” I said. “Vern Devine’s memory isn’t so good. But the sharks are coming. Just like Robin said.”

  Sookie was still quiet. “Your dad wants me to come?”

  “Yeah,” I lied. I needed Sookie to come because I wanted him to hear about the tags, but more important, I needed him to drive. My dad was at least four weeks away from being allowed behind the wheel with that plaster boot.

  “I might be able to find someone to help Lester paint the boat,” he said.

  We stood there for a bit. Mr. Patterson came down from his porch and walked across the street to the driveway.

  “Hello, Sookie,” said Mr. Patterson. “It’s been a while.”

  “Hi,” Sookie said, shaking hands with Mr. P.

  “Don’t let me interrupt,” said the old man.

  “No,” said Sookie. “Lucy’s just talkin’ about takin’ a trip.”

  “Where to?” asked Mr. P, looking at me with his eyebrows raised.

  “Maine,” I said.

  He looked surprised. “Who’s going?”

  “My dad, Sookie, and me,” I said, feeling guilty that I hadn’t invited Mr. Patterson, even though the plans for the road trip had only started to solidify twenty seconds earlier.

  “Sookie driving?” asked Mr. P.

  “He’d kinda have to,” I said, looking at Sookie, as if I were asking him formally. “On account of my dad’s foot.”

  Mr. Patterson nodded again. “In the truck?”

  I looked at Sookie.

  Sookie frowned. “I think Lester would need the truck, so he could haul the boat to be painted.”

  I nodded.

  “There’s no AC in your dad’s car,” said Mr. Patterson.

  This was true. It had gone out at the beginning of the summer and getting it repaired had slipped from the priority list to a slot far below “survival.”

  “Your dad’s gonna need AC if he’s gonna ride all the way with that boot,” said Mr. Patterson. “Take my car.”

  Mr. Patterson pointed to the brown Dodge Diplomat, gleaming in the driveway as if it had been recently waxed. It probably had.

  “It rides like a limousine,” he said. “You know how to drive a limousine?”

  Sookie smiled. “I think I could figure it out.”

  I wasn’t sure just how Mr. Patterson’s grampamobile translated to a limousine, but I felt so grateful that we might actually get to Maine that I blurted out, “You wanna come too?”

  Mr. Patterson looked at me. Sookie looked at me.

  “Why the heck not,” said Mr. Patterson.

  That just left telling Dad.

  Later that night, in front of the Red Sox, I sat in the chair beside the sofa. Dad’s leg was propped up, as usual.

  “I am so tired of this couch,�
�� he said.

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” I said.

  24. Road Trip

  Sookie licked dorito cheese from his fingers, as the Diplomat curved onto the bridge over the Piscataqua River. I threw off my seat belt, leaned between the headrests of the brown vinyl bench seat, and slapped my hand on the dashboard.

  “Good Lord, Lucy. What are you doing?” Mr. Patterson asked from the seat beside me.

  “I’m in Maine first!” I yelled, as we passed by the green sign on the side of the bridge that read, STATE LINE—MAINE.

  I bounced onto my half of the back seat and quickly felt restless. I was so hungry that the pungent smell of Doritos made me want to hit someone. And the thing was, Sookie had offered me the chips twice, but I didn’t have anything to drink and I knew I couldn’t swallow them without a lot of liquid nearby.

  As we coasted over the crest of the bridge, I looked out the window at the cargo ships and thought how odd it was to be headed out of state with Dad, Sookie, and Mr. Patterson. I had never been in a car with this particular combination of people. The thought was good material for a postcard to Fred, but I had used up my last card yesterday to tell him how I learned that white sharks have distinctly shaped dorsal fins and to thank him for sending that shark to Maine, so I could work up the guts to organize this weird road trip.

  “I need to use the facilities,” Mr. Patterson announced.

  This seemed to nudge Sookie out of autopilot because he looked at Mr. Patterson twice in the rearview mirror. Maybe he was in disbelief that it was already time for a pit stop again.

  Mr. Patterson pointed out the window. “Right there. Rest area.”

  Sookie looked over his shoulder and pulled off 95 North, toward the parking lot in a wooded area. Mr. Patterson opened his door and swung his legs over the threshold. He rocked back and forth in his seat, gripping the frame of the Diplomat, trying to propel his body out of the vehicle. Isn’t anyone going to help? I wondered. Sookie rolled down the windows, turned off the engine, and just stared at Mr. Patterson. Does he want anyone to help him? I opened my door and went around to meet Mr. Patterson because it was the right thing to do, even if Mr. Patterson was going to yell at me for treating him like a child. Which was what he did. So I returned to my seat.

  Mr. Patterson shuffled down the sidewalk to the little visitor’s shack that probably smelled like a septic tank, Sookie pinched a coin and started rubbing a wad of scratch tickets he’d purchased at the gas station, and I stuck my face between the front seats.

  “You doing okay, Dad?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Luckily, it’s not a long drive.”

  He had pushed his seat as far as it would go, so he could stretch out his legs. This left me with about as much legroom as a one-man submarine, but I didn’t mind. I looked out the window and counted the number of people coming out of the visitor center. Within minutes, Sookie must have flaked enough scratch-ticket snow onto the floor mat to fill a coffee cup.

  “Anything yet?” I asked. No answer.

  “Anything yet?” I repeated.

  “Forty bucks.” He made a fart sound with his lips.

  “That’s good, right?”

  “Not if I spent sixty.”

  “Why did you spend so much?”

  “Something to do,” he said, tossing the tickets on the floor. “You gotta win sometime.”

  “Lucy, you have to use the bathroom?” my dad said over his shoulder.

  “Not here,” I said. I never used public restrooms unless I was absolutely desperate. But I wondered if there were postcards in the visitor center.

  Mr. Patterson came through the door and lowered his body back into the Diplomat. Sookie was checking the mirrors, ready to back out.

  “Hold it!” I said. I grabbed my wallet out of my backpack and ran for the visitor’s center. Next to the rack of maps and brochures, there was a collection of postcards that were so ugly the visitor center should have been giving them away. But they were five for a dollar, so I paid for a random assortment. On the way back to the car, I flipped through the stack, shaking my head.

  “What did you get?” Dad asked.

  “Postcards,” I said.

  “We’re not staying that long, Lucy,” he said.

  I shrugged and cranked out a note to Fred in the back seat.

  The pine trees along the side of 95 North grew dense and overwhelming past Kittery and Kennebunk. The majority looked like battered combs that were missing teeth. Thick, jagged greenery only covered the top quarter of the trees. It fit Maine. Rough, honest, make-do-with-what-you-got.

  Past Portland and the first exits for Freeport, Dad helped Sookie navigate a series of country roads overgrown with bushes and trees that blocked my view to the water. Finally, we spotted a mailbox that read 227.

  “That’s it,” I said.

  Sookie turned onto a long driveway that led to an old, white house. He stopped the car in front of a weathered barn and turned off the engine. We sat there, looking at the house, and I had a hard time remembering why we had come in the first place.

  “What now, Lucy?” Sookie asked.

  Through an arbor, I could see a deck off the back of the house with a view of a cove that belonged in a summer camp for rich kids.

  “I have no idea,” I said.

  “Don’t keep the man waiting,” Sookie said, pulling the keys out of the ignition and opening his door in one motion.

  I got out of the car and helped Dad out, holding his crutches as he pushed himself off the seat. He wore a plaid button-down shirt with chino shorts, and I thought about how long it had been since he’d worn clothes that could not be classified as either pajamas or underwear.

  I stood on the gray slate stoop in front of him. The wooden screen door bounced open softly with each of his knocks, and a breeze churned the leaves on the big oaks surrounding Vern Devine’s yard.

  “Coming,” said a voice inside the house.

  She came into focus behind the wire weave of the screen. We stepped back as the door swung outward. The woman had short gray hair and wore a pale pink blouse. Reading glasses hung around her neck on a brightly colored, woven cord, the kind from a global imports shop. I bet she knew how to meditate and made her own soap.

  “Lucy?” she asked, looking at me.

  “Yup,” I said.

  “I’m Marion.”

  “Thanks for inviting us,” I said.

  She smiled and introduced herself to my dad. Sookie and Mr. Patterson were making their way up the path.

  “This is Sookie. He’s a fisherman who my mom had asked to tag the sharks.” I gestured to Sookie, who yawned before shaking Marion’s hand. “And this is Mr. Patterson.”

  I left it at that because I had no idea why Mr. Patterson had joined us.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Mr. Patterson said, offering his hand to Marion.

  “I’ll take you inside. Vern is just waking up from a nap in his chair.”

  We walked into the house, following Marion. It was old, and the woodwork and creakiness reminded me of my house. I liked that Vern’s walls were covered with artwork, mostly landscapes. We passed a telephone table, headed for the living room at the back of the house. There was a faint smell of urine that was erased by the breeze rolling through the window screens.

  Outside the doorway, Marion stopped. She extended her arm, motioning us inside the room. In the corner, Vern sat in a reclining chair, covered in a large, baby-blue blanket. He was a small man with a round face and giant glasses. His big eyes, magnified, blinked and stared at us, searching, though he smiled peacefully.

  “Vern,” Marion said. “Helen’s daughter, Lucy, is here. You remember Helen, your student. The shark lady.”

  “Of course. Come in,” he gurgled, clearing his throat.

  I figured I was delusional in thinking I might
make sense of my mother’s last research project by coming to this house. Vernon Devine seemed more frail than I had imagined. I moved closer to the recliner.

  “Professor Devine, this is my dad, Tom, and my friends, Sookie and Mr. Patterson.” The men all shook hands.

  “It is good to see you again, Vern,” said Dad. “I’m Helen’s husband, Tom.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said, though I got the sense that Vern did not recognize my dad. He looked down at Dad’s cast. “You look like you’re in a bad way.”

  We were all quiet until Mr. Patterson said, “Tom is a rescue diver. He broke his foot in a very difficult rescue effort.”

  Vern looked at the boot again and then he scanned our faces.

  Marion went over to a comfortable-looking chair in the room and motioned for my dad to come sit down.

  “It’s a recliner,” she said. “Come put that foot up.”

  Dad settled into the soft chair and she popped the footrest.

  Vern blinked, flashing his enormous brown eyes. “Where are you from?”

  “Rockport,” I said.

  “Rockport?” he asked. “I was born in Rockport. Come sit down.”

  I was confused, but then realized that maybe he was confused.

  He pointed to the couch and to another chair by the coffee table. Mr. Patterson took the chair, while Sookie and I sat on the couch. Marion stood.

  “My oldest brother was born in 1891. The year Rockport split from Camden.”

  Where the heck is Camden?

  “You mean Rockport, Maine,” Sookie said.

  “Sure,” said Vern Devine.

  “We’re from Rockport, Massachusetts,” Sookie added.

  “Really? Would you like a soda?” Vern asked, looking around at his guests.

  “We have ginger ale and Moxie,” Marion chimed in.