The dining room table was set with Bridey's finest Limoges china, sterling silver, and crystal stemware. "It's been a while since I gave a dinner party, dear. I hope I haven't forgotten anything."
Peter was acutely aware of his own appearance: tan corduroy pants, an open-collared, denim work shirt, and a brown corduroy sport jacket. "I'm feeling a little underdressed, Bridey."
"Nonsense, Peter, you look very handsome. Now, I know there's one thing I haven't forgotten, and that's how to make a darn good Manhattan cocktail. You'll find some on the sideboard. There's a pitcher-full next to the ice bucket. Help yourself, dear, while I bring out some hors d'oeuvres, warm from the oven."
Peter and Bridey took their cocktails and hors d'oeuvres by the fire in the living room. Jazz music drifted from an aged stereo cabinet. Bridey pointed at the items on a silver serving tray. "These are shrimp puffs, dear. And those are chicken livers, wrapped in a blanket of bacon, and set on a toast point."
Peter felt the effects of the marijuana and rapidly popped the canapés into his mouth one after another. Bridey looked on in amazement. Then a big smile lit up her face. "I like a man with a healthy appetite."
"Mmm," was the only reply Peter could manage through his full mouth.
"The French have a phrase for these puffs, you know. Vol-au-vent, they say. I think it means gone with the wind, or something like that. Leave it to the French, eh, Peter?"
"Mmmhmmm."
"You just eat right up, dear."
"These are delicious," Peter meant to say, but with his mouth still half full, it came out as ee ar dee ishush.
"Do you have more?" he asked as he swallowed the last of the hors d'oeuvres.
"Well, I suppose I could make more, but I'd hate to see you spoil your dinner, dear."
"Okay."
They moved to the dining room, where Bridey served rack of lamb with mint jelly and roasted potatoes and carrots, followed by warm Indian pudding for dessert. The old woman managed to keep the rather one-sided dinner conversation going cheerfully.
She told Peter that she and her husband had bought the house as a vacation home. After Henry's death, some ten years ago, she had come to live full time at Cape Ann in order to be close to the sea.
After dinner, they settled once more by the living room fireplace. Bridey sipped port wine from a crystal aperitif glass while Peter ate more Indian pudding.
Bridey spoke fondly of her family and brought out an ancient photo album.
"This is my father, dear, the man who owned the scrimshaw pipe."
Peter sobered and sat up straight. "He's missing an arm."
"Yes, dear, he lost it in Cuba during the Spanish-American War. They sent his arm home with him and it was buried in the family plot in 1898. Father was reunited with it when he died in 1940.
"He wasn't one of Teddy Roosevelt's Rough Riders, but Father did meet the man himself while he was in the field hospital."
Peter was silent for a moment. Then he asked, "Did it change the way your mother...felt about him?"
Bridey looked up from the photo album, her brow furrowed. "Why, whatever do you mean, Peter?"
"I mean...I don't know what I mean. I just..."
The old woman was nodding. "Oh, I think I understand now.
"Well, I can tell you this: All of us children were born after he came home from Cuba. After all, he was the same man, and Mother loved him through and through. We all did. Is that what you were wondering about, Peter?"
After a long pause, Peter looked down and answered in almost a whisper. "Yes."
"Peter," Bridey said.
He raised his head and looked her in the eye.
Bridey rested her forearms on her lap and leaned in toward him. "People either love you...or they don't. It's just that simple."
Chapter 36
January 1st, 1974
WELL, IT COULD HAVE BEEN worse. Dinner was actually really good. Of course it could have been the doobie I did on the way over. She told me to call her by her nickname, Bridey. She's got one whole room just for books. Her house is like a Victorian museum with a library in it. She doesn't have any kids. I get the feeling she's kind of sad about that. I think she would have been a good mother. Walked home at about 10:30 last night and had scones and rose hip jelly this morning.
February 20, 1974
This is the worst time of year. It's so dark all the time. You hardly ever see the sun and the sea looks so angry and unforgiving. And it's when I feel the loneliest.
April 14, 1974
I found an old Jon Gnagy "Learn to Draw" kit that Ed Boino left behind. I remember watching him on TV when I was a kid. So I'm learning to be an "artist" (ha ha).
I'm playing the piano a little—I rigged up a wooden extension that I duct-tape to my elbow. It has three tines on it and makes it so I can play a few simple bass chords. It looks really weird, but actually works pretty well.
I'm reading a lot too. In fact, I've read every book in the house and I'm borrowing books from Bridey now. My favorite so far is To Kill a Mockingbird.
June 20, 1974
Today there wasn't one cloud in the sky from dawn to dusk. I didn't bother whitewashing. I've already painted the shaded side. On a day like today, the white of the tower on the sunny side is so bright it would blind my good eye. Besides, I'd burn to a crisp if I was out there in full sun.
So, I goofed off for most of the day. I set up the easel where there's a little shade near the edge of the cliff and took a stab at painting the harbor.
There's a girl, a teenager who's been walking here almost every day for a couple of weeks now. She must have just finished high school for the year. She never comes closer to me than fifty yards or so. I know she watches me, but when I look over and wave she pretends not to see me and looks out to sea. Maybe she's afraid of me.
July 15, 1974
Starting to enjoy the fruits of the garden—mostly tomatoes and cukes right now. My new favorite sandwich: Take one ripe tomato still warm from the sun, slice it thick, a little salt & pepper, mayonnaise, and squishy Wonder bread. I think I could live on it.
The corn is looking good, it'll be ready in a month or so, and then Bridey and I are going to have a clambake.
July 21, 1974
The girl speaks. It's Sunday, and she looked like she was dressed for church—probably Our Lady of Good Voyage in Gloucester. I was picking up flotsam off the beach and I knew she saw me. I just waved and yelled "Hi" as loud as I could. It was kind of funny because she couldn't really ignore me. She gave a pouty look, a little wave, and a greeting that I could barely hear. I yelled "Beautiful day" but she just waved again and then headed in the other direction.
Oh, well, it's a start.
Chapter 37
August 15, 1974
I THINK I JUST HAD THE best meal of my life. I'm so full I can barely move enough to write this. Bridey and I had our long-awaited clambake today...
At daybreak, Bridey pulled up in her station wagon. Peter, a mug of coffee in hand, stood at the cliff's edge, mesmerized by a rosy sunrise on the horizon. Bridey's perky voice shook Peter from his stupor.
"Ooo-hoo," she called. "Come on, dear, the clams won't dig themselves out."
Peter turned to see Bridey clad in her garden attire: a red and white short-sleeve gingham shirt tucked into high-waisted blue denim slacks. Her head was covered by a khaki fishing cap, and her feet by green, calf-high rubber boots.
"Wait till you see, Bridey: I used those old lobster traps I found in the garage. I baited all ten of them and caught six good-sized ones. They're in the water down by the dock."
Together they retrieved two large metal buckets, a shovel, and a pitchfork from the back of the station wagon. Equipped for their adventure, they descended the steep cliff path on the south side of the point to the beach below and scanned the soggy sand for clam holes and telltale squirting.
When both buckets brimmed with shellfish and saltwater, Peter said, "These are too heavy for you, Bridey. I'll car
ry one up and come back down for the other."
"All right, dear. Oh, Peter, there's a potato sack in the back of the station wagon. When you come back, can you please bring it down with you? We can use it to collect the seaweed."
"Seaweed? What for? Aren't we just gonna throw everything in a big pot?"
"Heavens, no. This is called a clambake, not a clamboil. We have a good piece of work ahead of us if we're to earn our dinner."
It was after 10 a.m. by the time Peter had made the last of several trips from the beach to the lighthouse. Bridey put him to work digging a fire pit. "While you do that," she said, "I'll make a chowder. The bake will take some time and we'll need something to hold us over."
As she chopped potatoes, celery, and onions for the chowder, Bridey watched Peter from the kitchen window of the light keeper's quarters. The young man dug with his remaining arm. Several times he lost his balance. He fell once and the left side of his face struck the ground. She was about to run outside to see if he was all right when he jumped up, grabbed the shovel, and started again.
"That's just what Father would have done," she murmured. "You have stick-to-itiveness, Peter, and a good man can't be kept down."
Under Bridey's supervision, Peter made a fire in the pit. When it was good and hot, Peter and Bridey carried a dozen large round stones from the station wagon and placed them on the fire. After a time, Bridey abandoned her habitual dignified way, spat on one of the stones, and watched as her saliva sizzled.
"Good," she said, "Now we need more fire on top of the stones, Peter."
When Peter had done as instructed, Bridey said, "It will take a while for the fire to get just so. We can have some of that chowder while we wait."
They sat at the picnic table. They ate clam chowder from sturdy earthenware bowls and sipped Narragansett beer from pop-top cans.
"Bridey, this is the best chowder I've ever tasted."
"Thank you, Peter. I have a secret ingredient, you know," Bridey gave a mock-conspiratorial wink. "After I sauté the onions, garlic and bacon in butter, I like to deglaze the fry-pan with a little French brandywine."
When the flames from the fire had gone out Bridey spread the coals around the red-hot stones with an iron rake. She blanketed the hot coals with seaweed, followed by a layer of clams, another layer of seaweed, the potatoes, onions, and carrots, more seaweed, and the lobsters from Peter's traps. Then the whole mountainous pile was crowned with Bridey's seawater-soaked potato sack and a final layer of seaweed.
"There," said Bridey, "We'll give it about an hour and a half."
While they waited for the food to bake, Bridey and Peter made the final preparations for their feast. They set the picnic table, and then Bridey clarified butter and sliced lemons while Peter hosed down a bucket and filled it with ice and cans of beer.
When all there was left to do was wait, they sat at the picnic table sipping beer. Bridey kept the conversation going in her cheery way. She was on the subject of Longfellow's "Evangeline," explaining the story behind the epic poem, when Peter interrupted.
"Bridey, there's a girl...a teenager who comes around here. Long black hair..."
"Ah," said Bridey, "That sounds like the Raposo girl. They're in the next house down the point from mine, about another quarter mile."
Peter nodded in recognition. "I know Inacio. He comes here sometimes, mostly to borrow tools. She's his daughter?"
"Mm hmm, what about her?"
"Nothing, it's just that she seems kind of stand-offish and maybe a little sad. I just wondered..."
Bridey nodded her head. "I'm not surprised. I don't think she has a very pleasant home-life. The father is a fisherman. He's a hard enough worker, but he's partial to his drink. Most of the time he's at home, he's loud and drunk. And when he drinks, which is always, he gets awfully mean, and he takes it out on those poor girls. He's a bad apple, that one."
"Kids shouldn't have to deal with that. Life's hard enough," said Peter.
The two fell silent for a time until Bridey said, "I think our clambake is just about ready, Peter."
"Damn, Bridey, we forgot the corn."
"No, we didn't, dear. A lot of people put it in the bake, but I'm not one of them. You get some seawater boiling, but not too much—just enough to cover the corn. Then we'll pick it. Never pick the corn till the water's aboil. You may think you've had fresh corn before, Peter, but truly you haven't."
Bridey and Peter waited until the feast was unearthed and the seawater boiled before they headed to the garden. Bridey looked at the tall corn with admiration. "Now you'll have some fresh corn, kiddo."
"Maybe we should shuck it on the run," Peter joked.
Bridey got a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Good idea. Let's make a race of it. We'll each pick two ears. Last one to have them shucked and in the pot is a rotten egg."
"You're on," Peter laughed.
The old woman crouched in a wrestler's stance. "Ready...Set...GO," she cried.
Bridey pushed Peter back. She grabbed an ear of corn with each hand, yanked them from their stalks, and ran for the garden gate.
"Hey, no fair, Bridey."
"Whoever said life was fair, kiddo?" the old woman called over her shoulder.
Peter picked one ear of corn with his right hand, tucked it under his left arm, and then picked another. Bridey had already covered half the distance to the house, but Peter wasn't beat just yet. He began to shuck the corn with his teeth as he ran.
Peter burst into the kitchen. Bridey stood at the counter, next to the stove. She had shucked one ear already. She gave Peter a quick, furtive glance and went to work on her second ear of corn. But Peter had shucked one on the run and held it clamped in his left underarm. He held the remaining ear with his hand and shucked it frantically with his teeth. The race was a virtual dead heat.
But, in the end, Bridey dropped her second ear of corn into the pot a split second before Peter. She raised her hands in the air like a victorious boxer and danced around.
Peter feigned acrimony. "I'd have won if you hadn't cheated," he tried to say. But he had a mouthful of corn silk and his words were too garbled to be comprehensible. He clawed at the corn silk and spat it from his mouth.
Bridey stared at him in amazement, and then howled with laughter. "You look like you ate a bird's nest," she screamed.
The old woman's laughter was infectious and Peter couldn't help but join her.
"Maybe if I open my mouth wide enough, a chickadee will fly out."
Bridey laughed so hard that she bent over and pressed on her abdomen. "Stop it, Peter, you'll make me soil myself."
They let the corn boil for exactly one minute, and were still laughing as they carried it to the picnic table.
Then they sat and ate...and ate. Peter ate until he thought he might burst.
"Save room for strawberry shortcake, dear." said Bridey.
Peter loosened his belt.
Beer had them both acting giddy and silly for a time, but then the large amount of food and the heat of the afternoon turned them logy and somber.
After the silence between them had stretched on for a long moment, Peter said, "You know, Bridey, a while ago I was thinking about..."
Bridey showed no surprise. "I know, dear." After a pause, she looked out to sea. Sadness covered her face.
"I had a boy once," she said, her voice uncommonly quiet. "Jack was a beautiful child, an absolute joy. He was just about your age when the Second World War began. When he came home, I knew the war had changed him. I knew right away. I could see the awful pain he was in. I tried to help him but I failed. And one night he just stepped off the Brooklyn Bridge and that was that.
"But it wasn't just his life, you know. After that I wasn't the same, and neither was my husband. We were never quite the same."
"I'm sorry, Bridey, I didn't know."
"It's all right, dear, not very many do."
Peter hesitated, and then said softly, "I came close last year...in February. But just wh
en I was about to go through with it, you showed up with pie and tea, remember? You saved my life that night, Bridey."
Bridey expression became pensive. "I may have stopped you from taking your life, Peter, but only you can save it, only you can save it.
"But you don't think that way anymore, do you?"
"No, Bridey, don't you worry about me. Back then, I just didn't care. But I'm afraid of dying now."
"I'm glad to hear that. At my age, it's not so much dying that frightens me, but I do fear dying alone."
Chapter 38
AFTER HOURS OF SITTING quietly and watching as Renie read the Keeper's Log, Mark rose to stretch his legs and asked her if she'd mind if he made a fresh pot of coffee.
Renie closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. "No, let me," she said. "I could stand to rest my eyes for a bit, anyway."
She went through the mechanical motions of brewing a fresh pot and stared through the kitchen window at the sea. Peter's chronicle of his clambake with Mrs. Gallagher had triggered memories of her own from the summer of 1974. She remembered one day in particular, right at the end of the summer vacation, before her junior year of high school. She had gone to the lighthouse grounds to sketch...
§
The bright August sun had made her too warm, yet when she moved to the shade of a forsythia bush, it was too chilly. She tried to sketch the lighthouse, but her intermittent shivering made what should have been straight lines of charcoal become like tiny, crooked readouts from a lie-detector test.
She watched the thin, bearded light keeper from a distance as he weeded his vegetable garden. She was amazed by how quickly he worked with only one hand. He had slung a worn, canvas paperboy's bag over his shoulder, and he was yanking the weeds and tucking them into the bag with impressive speed.
He hadn't seen her yet, but he would. He always did. It was the reason she came here so often. Even though she'd never found the courage to talk to him, just seeing him smile and wave at her made her feel as though there was someone who was genuinely happy to see her.
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