The Line Tender

by Kate Allen

  “Like what?” He turned over a card and it went straight to the discard pile.

  “Jokes. Things I see,” I said. “I just mailed him a card. I told him I spoke to a biologist about tagging white sharks. And that I thought I heard someone’s inhaler puff when I rode by the bus stop and I almost fainted.”

  His eyes narrowed, quizzically.

  “Fred had asthma. The noise made me think he was here.”

  Mr. Scanlon nodded. “And you felt panicked?”

  “Yeah, when I realized it wasn’t him.”

  Mr. Scanlon nodded deeper, almost like a shallow bow.

  “Anyway, I write these thoughts on postcards and drop them into a mailbox.”

  “Do you expect to get a reply?” he asked.

  “No,” I said, which was sort of a lie. “I just like writing them.”

  “Was there a question you had about the postcards?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Is there something wrong with writing them?”

  I picked up the five of hearts and said, “Gin!”

  Mr. Scanlon spread his cards on the bench.

  “Not bad,” I said.

  Mr. Scanlon rested his elbows on his knees and half smiled again. “I think you’ll write postcards until you don’t feel like writing postcards anymore and that’s okay. There is nothing wrong with sending postcards to Fred,” he said.

  “Mr. Scanlon?” I said, my stomach flipping. I wanted to leave it alone, but I had to know if I was not okay.

  “Yes?”

  “I kind of pretend that every great white that I see on the news or read about in the paper is a message from Fred to me. I know wherever he is, he probably can’t talk to me, but I’m not ready to deal with that. Am I crazy?”

  He looked out at the ocean.

  “From what I’ve heard from the staff, it seems like your friendship with Fred was devoted and meaningful. It will take some time to get used to him not being here,” he said.

  “‘Devoted and meaningful.’ What does that mean?” There was an edge in my voice, but I didn’t care.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know either of you well. And certainly not well enough to try to describe your relationship.”

  “I don’t know how to describe it either,” I said.

  “Do you want to talk more about that?”

  “I’m not sure what to say. Up until recently, I thought I knew everything there was to know about Fred. Then this summer, there were just all these new things. Fred growing his hair, listening to different music, jumping in the quarry.” I pulled the necklace out of my shirt. “And this.”

  Mr. Scanlon studied the pendant and, then, my face.

  “I get that our friendship was meaningful, but I’m so confused as to what it meant in the end.”

  He nodded. It was just quiet for a bit.

  “Maybe writing to him will actually help you figure out your own feelings. And maybe he is talking to you through sharks. Who am I to tell you you’re wrong?”

  29. Lobster Dinner

  Dad had reached the point with his cast where it was more of an itchy annoyance than anything else. He had started sleeping in his bedroom again. He cleaned the bathroom, cooked dinner, and even cut the grass. Since he still couldn’t drive, Sookie got into the habit of airing him out once a day. When he was done fishing, Sookie drove Dad to the IGA, to the Building Center, or wherever Dad wanted to go. And if there was something in it for me, like gummies or art supplies, I came along.

  One day, we drove by Bass Rocks, and Dad said, “Pull over for a sec.”

  Sookie parked the truck on the side of the windy road, and Dad looked out at the waves.

  “What are we doing here?” I asked.

  “Just looking,” he said.

  I realized he was watching the dive flags bobbing on the surface, missing one of his old spots. There were only a couple of things he couldn’t do with a cast: drive and get wet. Not being able to get wet was a problem for Dad. He liked to quote JFK, who apparently said once that the percentage of salt in our blood is the same as what’s in the ocean and because of this connection we always come back to the sea.

  That was my parents, exactly.

  * * *

  ° ° ° °

  One night, Dad asked me to peel potatoes for dinner.

  “That’s a lot of potatoes,” I said, looking at about five pounds of dirty stones on the counter. “What are we going to do with all this?”

  The doorbell rang and Dad called, “Can you get that?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  Sookie stood in the doorway, holding a Styrofoam chest with a six-pack of Moxie on top.

  “Where’d you get the Moxie?” I asked.

  “Cumberland Farms!” he said, as though it was unheard of. Dad took the six-pack and led Sookie into the kitchen.

  “What’s in the cooler?” I said.

  “Dinner.”

  Sookie stopped and lifted the lid, presenting a pile of crustaceans, writhing like leggy bugs.

  “Lobster!” I cried. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”

  “It was a last-minute invitation,” he said.

  Lobster had always been one of the meals that my dad had prepared on his own. He’d put on a wet suit and go scavenging off Back Beach, bringing home lobster in his mesh bag. He’d boil them in the large pot that was used only for this occasion. At the table, Mom and Dad would dissect them with precision, leaving no meat to waste. They’d drop the soft claws and tails into my bowl of melted butter, as though they were feeding the queen. Even after Mom died, there had always been lobster dinners in the summer, though this summer had been different.

  Looking into Sookie’s cooler, I thought about the choking factor of the rubbery meat, but lobster was one of my favorite meals. There had to be a way to get it down. Sookie replaced the lid and hefted the cooler onto the counter.

  “Given any more thought to tagging sharks with Robin?” I asked. I had already bothered him about it twice that week.

  He nodded. Looked me in the eye and said, “No.”

  “She said it pays big bucks,” I said, knowing that Robin was being sarcastic.

  “What do I need money for?”

  I thought of Sookie rubbing a stack of scratch tickets in Mr. Patterson’s car and I shrugged. The screen door bounced closed again and I walked back to the foyer to see who it was.

  “Hello, Lucy,” said Mr. Patterson.

  “What the heck is going on?” I asked.

  “It’s a dinner party. Your manners are lacking.”

  “Are you surprised?” I asked.

  In the kitchen, Sookie handed Mr. Patterson a can.

  “Oh, goody!” Mr. Patterson said, cracking open the Moxie.

  “I’ll get the knife,” I said to Dad, eyeing the cooler.

  There was a time when Dad used to throw the live lobster in the pot, potentially suffering a horrible, slow death. But shortly before my mom had died, Fred had come over for dinner one night. And he’d spoken up.

  “Tom,” Fred had said. “Could you kill the lobster before you cook it?

  Dad had looked at Fred for a moment. “I cook lobster the way my mom did,” he finally said, holding the lobster, and he’d gestured like he was going to throw it into the pot.

  Fred moved closer to Dad and the squirming shellfish.

  “Let me do it,” he said, reaching over the top of the writhing legs for the body.

  We all watched Fred carry the active lobster over to the silverware drawer, like it was as lifeless as an eggplant. Even though there had been rubber bands around the claws, I would have never picked it up. Fred slid open the drawer. He pulled out a large knife.

  “What are you doing there, buddy?” Mom asked.

  Dad looked at Mom and shook his head.
Mom looked at Fred and stretched out her hands.

  “Okay, we’ll take care of it,” she said.

  Fred passed her the lobster and the knife. From then on, Dad never boiled a lobster alive. At least not in front of me.

  One by one, he pulled the lobsters out of the cooler, and laid them out on the cutting board. BAM.

  I washed the pencil off my hands at the sink, so I didn’t have to look.

  “Why do you bother with that?” Sookie yelled over the noise. “It ain’t necessary.”

  Dad didn’t answer.

  “Getting ready for school, Lucy?” Mr. Patterson asked, taking a sip of Moxie.

  “No. I have three weeks left,” I said. “But I did play gin rummy with the school shrink the other day and I beat him.”

  “I told you those skills would come in handy,” Mr. Patterson said.

  The doorbell rang. Dad beat me to it. I heard him say her name before I saw her small frame.

  “Maggie,” he said. “Come in.”

  Fred’s mom entered the house, in her usual uniform—sweatshirt and shorts. She looked small and pale, a little greasy. Her brow furrowed, and she smiled a complicated smile when our eyes met. There was a shoebox under her arm.

  Maggie heard voices in the kitchen. “I didn’t know you had company. I just wanted to talk to Lucy for a minute.”

  Dad and I exchanged glances. I shrugged to let him know it was okay with me.

  “Come in,” he said again. “I’ll check on the lobster.”

  “Fancy,” said Maggie.

  I walked her into the living room. She settled beside me on the couch and rested the shoebox on her knees. “How have you been?” she asked.

  “Okay. Today was a good day.”

  “Oh?”

  “I worked on the field guide. I’m having lobster for dinner.”

  “That’s good,” she said. Her brow was still creased.

  “How have you been?” I asked.

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ve been better.”

  “What’s in there?” I asked, remembering Fred and the birds, toads, and mice I’d seen him carry in shoeboxes.

  Without a word, she lifted the lid, revealing a heap of postcards. I saw the Japanese wood block of the ocean waves and shifted the loose stack with my fingertips. There were loons and moose and a few I had picked up in town. My own handwriting marked every card. I hadn’t given much thought to where the cards would actually end up. At the worst, maybe they’d land in a wastebasket at the post office. But Maggie ending up with the postcards was such an obvious conclusion.

  “I wrote these to Fred,” I confessed.

  “I know.”

  “How did you get them?”

  “The postmaster delivered the stack. He wasn’t sure what to do with them. They were all unsigned.”

  I put my face in my hands and cried. Maggie hooked her arm around me and pressed my head into her chest.

  “Did you read them?” I asked.

  “Most of them. I’m sorry, Lucy. I couldn’t help it. Did you think he would write you back?”

  “No.” But I thought he’d been sending me sharks.

  I dragged my arm across my wet nose. “I just had all these things to say to him and he wasn’t there. I didn’t know where to put those ideas. I need to keep talking to him. I need to feel like he’s still there.”

  She rubbed my back. “I get it. One morning last week, I went into his room to wake him up.” Then Maggie started to cry. “Don’t feel bad about sending postcards. That’s a lot healthier than the way I cope.”

  “I ran into the school counselor in town,” I said. “I think I’m gonna see more of him in the fall.”

  “My girls would be so happy if I saw someone,” she said in a flat voice, meaning that she hadn’t been to grief counseling.

  “I kind of like the idea of having a place in school where I can be honest about feeling bad.”

  “I’m happy you’ll have that,” she said, rubbing my back again. I was glad she was there. When my mom died, I remember Maggie teaching my dad how to do my hair. I remember her being nearby all of the time. It had been different with Fred’s death because we both felt lost.

  “Your back feels bony. Have you lost weight?” she asked.

  “Yeah, not intentionally,” I said.

  “No, me neither,” she said. “What’s that around your neck?”

  I put my hand to my chest and realized that the pendant had popped out from inside my shirt. I was afraid she might take it away. I still didn’t know whose it was.

  “Wow,” Maggie said, sliding a fingertip over the mermaid. “It’s very old. And it’s real gold. Is that dental floss?”

  I shrugged.

  “You need a stronger chain,” she said. She paused a moment before continuing: “How did he give it to you?”

  “He didn’t,” I said. “I’m not even sure it’s mine.”

  “It’s yours,” said Maggie. “It’s a meaningful gift.”

  “But what does it mean?” I practically yelled.

  “Ask Mr. Patterson,” she said. “He can give you the full story.”

  “You know the story?” I asked, searching her face.

  “Ask Mr. Patterson,” she repeated.

  I wanted to burst into the kitchen and interrogate him right then, but Maggie pulled a postcard out of the shoebox. The Twin Lights. “There is one of these that I can’t stop thinking about.”

  “I just wish he were here,” I sobbed.

  Dad must have heard me crying because he came through the swinging door from the kitchen and was standing in the living room.

  “It was an unfortunate accident,” Maggie said.

  “Then why do you blame Lester?” I cried.

  There was silence for a moment. Maggie looked worn-out.

  Dad walked over on one crutch and took a seat across from the couch.

  “Maggie, don’t you remember?” he said, like he was coaxing a memory from someone he loved. “Don’t you remember when you and Helen, and Sookie and me used to go to the quarries in the summertime. We’d swim and lie around, listening to music. Sookie would say crazy things and make us laugh.”

  Maggie sniffed. “Yes.”

  “We’d go up at night and there were thousands of stars. And every once in a while, one of us would get ahold of a few skunky cans of beer or some Thunderbird—”

  “That was different,” Maggie interrupted. “We were stupid.”

  “We were stupid,” Dad said. “And sometimes we went swimming after we drank. And nothing bad ever happened.”

  “We were lucky,” Maggie said.

  “We were lucky,” he said. “People do stupid things sometimes. And every once in a while, something terrible happens because of it.”

  Maggie was crying hard and I rubbed her back. I couldn’t stop looking at my dad.

  “Me, you, Lester, Lucy. We’re all good people who have done stupid things. We have to look out for one another, Maggie. Rescue each other even,” he said. “You know how to do that better than anyone.”

  Through my palm, I could feel Maggie take a deep breath.

  “It’s nobody’s fault. Or it’s everybody’s fault. But the kids need us. Lester too,” Dad said.

  “I know,” she said.

  “You want to stay for lobster?” I asked.

  “No thanks, dear.” She looked at me, cradled both of my cheeks in her hands, and kissed my forehead. “Thank you.”

  Dad left his crutch on the ground. He walked slowly toward Maggie and put his arms around her. She sobbed into his chest and he squeezed tighter.

  “Want me to walk you home?” I asked.

  “No, I think I’ll make it,” she said.

  When Maggie left, Dad returned to the kitchen. I sat on the couch, looking at th
e box of postcards, wondering what to do with them. I left the box on the coffee table and walked into the kitchen.

  “What did Maggie want?” Sookie asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, feeling dizzy from Maggie’s visit, the pendant, and the shoebox. I stood behind my chair and pulled the necklace out from under my shirt.

  “What is this?” I asked, my voice cracking.

  Everyone looked up at me, as though I sounded a little crazy. Mr. Patterson squinted and frowned.

  “What in God’s name is that pendant hanging from?” he said.

  I touched the gold charm.

  “Dental floss,” I said loudly.

  “Are you nuts? That’s eighteen-karat gold!”

  “I don’t even know what the heck it IS?” I yelled, pulling on the necklace and stomping my foot. “I found a box in Fred’s backpack, so I opened it and found THIS thing. Maggie said to ask you about it! She said it was a meaningful gift! Everyone says that about me and Fred—that there was this deep MEANING. Why can’t anyone tell me what the MEANING was?!”

  My cheeks were burning. I was crying. I kept pulling on the necklace, trying to break the dental floss, but it wouldn’t split. Dad pushed his chair away from the table. I knew he was going to try to settle me down, but everything was bubbling up.

  “Somebody else’s old piece of junk!” I yelled.

  I ripped the necklace over my head and threw it at the wall. It bounced off a doorframe and landed with a thunk in a pan of melted butter.

  Mr. Patterson gasped.

  I crumpled into my chair, sobbing.

  “Sookie, can you take care of that?” Dad asked, nodding his head toward the counter. He pulled up the empty seat beside me and rubbed my back. I howled with my face in my hands. Fred is gone.

  I felt embarrassed about the box of postcards that were all dead ends, read by Maggie and unread by Fred.

  I felt angry that Fred and Mom would never know me as a grown woman.

  I remembered the look on Mr. Patterson’s face when I said that the necklace was junk. Dad kept passing me napkins until I was dry.

  Water trickled into the kitchen sink, as Sookie degreased the necklace. When he was finished, he returned to the table with the necklace wrapped in a dish towel and handed me the bundle.