Fishermen's Court

by Andrew Wolfendon

  I read the words again.

  Then again. And again.

  Fuck.

  Sweet holy fuck.

  I think back to that night long ago. I remember my decision, after the cop sped off, to drive away and let Miles remain unconscious. I remember convincing myself I probably hadn’t actually heard any crashing noises at all. And if I had, the accident probably wasn’t as bad as it sounded. And if it was bad as it sounded, Miles’ tossed bottle probably had nothing to do with it. And even if the worst possibility was true, that Miles had inadvertently caused a serious accident, what good could possibly come of getting him in trouble? It was his graduation night. He was about to embark on an exciting new life. Why kneecap his destiny? Whom would it help, really, to assign blame? The cops had the situation handled.

  And anyway, I probably didn’t hear anything. Right?

  So probably nothing happened. Right?

  The day after the “incident,” though, I shocked my parents by announcing I had changed my mind about going to grad school in Providence. I wanted to take a year off to think about it, I said. I had decided, instead, to accept an invitation from a couple of college classmates to drive to California with them and hang loose for a while. Seek my fortune—by way of minimum wage—in the Land of Milk and Honey.

  My folks tried to reason with me, but my mind was made up.

  I remember keeping myself busy all day on May 13, 1999, packing duffel bags, closing my bank account, returning library books, selling my old Chevy at a used car lot, and saying goodbye to Jeannie a few days earlier than planned. I studiously avoided looking at newspapers and televisions—if nothing was confirmed, then as far I knew, no accident had happened. And, then, on the morning of May 14, I jumped into a thirteen-year-old Aries K-car with two stoners from Godwin I didn’t even like very much and headed for the Golden West.

  I didn’t return to Massachusetts for over five years. Now I ask you, is that the behavior of someone with a clear conscience and a bright future ahead of him?

  My attention snaps back to my Brew Moon environs. I study the suicide note on the computer screen again, mystified by both its accuracies and its inaccuracies, and dumbfounded as to its purpose. Who wrote it and why now?

  I need to keep a copy of it. I ask the barista if he sells flash drives. He micro-shakes his head no—man, does this dude need a hug—so I log into my Gmail account, copy the text of the note into an email, and send it to myself.

  I do the same with the Globe article.

  . . . . .

  Twenty minutes later, I’m lying on my bed at the Oak Crest Motel, drinking a beer, staring at the cracked ceiling, and listening to the rattle and hum of the barely functional air conditioner. My mind wants to spin out of control. I don’t have the slightest idea how to process the events of the past few days, and I don’t have a clue about what I’m going to do when I get up in the morning. Or any morning thereafter, for that matter.

  It’s ten-thirty at night, and I know what I want to do: call Miles. I have an almost physical urge to get him on the phone, hear his voice, share the burden of what I’ve just learned. But the hour is late. And besides, what would I say to him? What should I say? I can’t just dump those ancient deaths on him now.

  Do I even have a right to dump them on him? After all these years? To throw such a crowbar into the machinery of his carefully executed life? The man is a state senator, for God’s sake, and a partner in one of New England’s finest law firms. What possible good could come of sharing this information? It would either ruin his career or destroy his peace of mind. Or both.

  No. My time to speak was eighteen years ago, when I heard—or did I?—that distant sound of smashing glass and metal. Not now.

  On the other hand, do I have any right not to tell him? Who appointed me Truth Fairy? Does he not have a fundamental right to know something of such vital import to his life?

  That is the question.

  I turn on my phone, play a little gem-matching game called Cascade for a while, trying to numb my brain. It doesn’t work. I look at the time again. Ten forty-three.

  Screw it. I lose the battle of will. I won’t call Miles, but I’ll text him, see if he’s still up. Long time, brother, I type. Sorry for the radio silence. Hope all’s well. Didn’t want to call this late and piss Beth off, but if you’re awake, so am I.

  Less than a minute after I hit Send, my phone rings. Miles. The instant I slide the answer button, I hear a flat voice: “So you didn’t die in a freak circus accident.”

  “Is there any other kind of circus accident?” I reply, then retreat to the safety of the goofy Maine Yankee accent with which Miles and I have amused each other since college. “Anyway, I heah these new smaahtie-phones work both ways: sendin’ and receivin’.”

  “Ay-yup,” says Miles, playing along, “that’s what Maahge down’t the Radio Shack tells me.” He drops the shtick. “Man, it’s fucking great to hear your voice.”

  “Yours too.”

  There’s a pause. We both know there are fissures to be mended, and we are both weighing whether now is the time to mend them. By silent accord, we agree to save the harder conversation for later. We are both happy to be reconnecting. That’s enough for now.

  We spend the next few minutes playing catch-up. What am I up to these days? (I spin the living shit out of that one.) How’s Miles’ four-star career going? How are Beth and the kids? When the grace period for bullshit expires, Miles says, “But I’m guessing you didn’t call after all this time just to find out if Kelsey made the freshmen soccer team.”

  He’s right. But of course, I can’t tell him what really prompted my call. Not by phone. No, if that conversation is ever going to take place—and that’s a very large if—it will need to be face-to-face.

  I suddenly realize there’s a deeper, truer reason I’ve called him. It’s simply because I miss my friend and I need to hear his voice right now.

  “I’m scared to death, Miles,” I say. I proceed to blurt out the whole story of the home invasion, the attempted forced suicide, and the later clean-up of the evidence. It just comes spilling out of my mouth unfiltered. The only part I omit is the suicide note, because that would lead us into complicated turf. It takes me fifteen minutes to get through the story. The whole time, Miles doesn’t say a word, but I can feel his listening presence like a silent beacon.

  When I’m done, he asks me to hang on. He puts me on hold for a couple of minutes, then comes back on the line and pronounces, “Here’s what you are going to do. You are going to get some sleep. Mainline some Nyquil if you need to. Then you will get up early in the morning and drive directly to New Harbor, where you will get on the ten a.m. ferry to Musqasset.” Yes, Miles owns a summer home on my beloved Musqasset Island—a place he didn’t even know existed until I browbeat him into visiting me there—and I am living in my parents’ house in Wentworth. How that blasphemous twist of fate came about is a subject for later discussion.

  “Beth and I and the kids are out on the island for the Labor Day weekend,” he says. “You are going to stay with us. You will be safe here, and you and I will figure out exactly what the hell is happening and what to do next.”

  “I’m sure Beth would love that,” I say.

  “I already talked to her, and she thinks it’s a great idea. She’ll be thrilled to see you, I promise. Listen to me, Finn: it’s important you get on the morning ferry.”

  “Why?”

  “You do watch the news, don’t you?” Actually, I’ve been a smidge preoccupied. “That tropical storm off the coast? The waters are supposed to get really nasty, and the morning ferry may be the last one leaving the mainland for a couple of days. Tell me you understand, and you’re going to d
o what I say.” Why is he talking to me like I’m seven?

  “I don’t know, Miles. You know I haven’t been back to the island since Jeannie and I...” No need to finish my sentence. “I’d have to think about it.”

  “Okay, then, think. I’ll give you ten minutes. Then I’m calling back, and I want to hear your decision, and I want it to be yes.”

  He hangs up.

  Go to Musqasset Island? Me? Tomorrow?

  I haven’t been back there since I left four years ago. Jeannie and I had just broken up for the second and final time. There were changes taking place on the island—Miles was in the thick of them—and the place just didn’t feel right to me anymore. My mom’s health problems gave me a handy excuse to return to Wentworth. So I just quietly packed my bags one morning, stepped aboard the ferry, and closed the door on the “Island Artist” chapter of my life.

  But since that time, not a day has passed that I haven’t thought about Musqasset. As I close my eyes right now, I can hear the screeching of the gulls and the rumble of the lobster boats. I can see the seals basking like drunken cruise-ship passengers on Table Rock. I can feel the welcoming warmth of Pete’s Lagoon, The Mermaid Café, Mary’s Lunch.

  And the light. Oh God, the light. There is a reason Musqasset attracts painters from all over the world. Everywhere you focus your eyes, from the tightest close-up to the grandest panorama, you see an oil painting—a tiny purple flower peeking out of a crack in a rock, a pile of lobster traps in the tall grass, the lighthouse silhouetted against a translucent sea. It’s an artist’s wet dream.

  Leaving was agony. But the wounds have healed, the breaks have mended. And I know I can’t go back.

  Maybe for a few days, though.

  Arrive unannounced, stay at Miles’ place, fly below the radar.

  The idea actually makes logical sense, under the present circumstances. For one thing, I’m clearly not safe here in Wentworth. For another, I have no freaking clue what my next move is. It would do me enormous good to spend some time in a safe place with old friends. Take a step back from my predicament, figure out what the hell is going on. Think and strategize a bit.

  Then, of course, there’s the fact that I may need to have a very serious conversation with Miles.

  The idea of going to the island starts to acquire momentum in my mind. If I slipped out of here in the pre-dawn hours, I could make it to New Harbor by eight or eight-thirty. Be out on Musqasset before noon. The brewing ocean storm actually gives me added incentive. By the time my assailants could possibly pick up on my trail, they won’t be able to follow me, at least for a couple of days. The ferry will be down. I’ll be safely unreachable, several leagues out to sea.

  The logic seems ironclad.

  But ultimately it’s not logic that moves my decision needle. It’s the fact that I feel safe on Musqasset. Safer than anywhere else I know. It is still home to me. Deep down, I’ve been longing for an excuse to return there for years. If only for a visit.

  Miles calls back.

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” I tell him.

  . . . . .

  I lie back on the lumpy motel-room mattress and let my mind wander to the suicide note again. Of all the many disturbing, unanswered questions it raises, I know the one that will gnaw at my sleep most of all is this:

  Why and how does the note sound exactly like something I would write—from its feeble attempts at gallows humor, to its linguistic style, to its specificity of details (like the Clyde Gilchrist reference), to its misspelling of the word “party” as “patry,” a habitual typo of mine?

  How could any other person have captured me so perfectly?

  I’m scared about the places this question is taking my mind. And I wonder if there’s a deeper reason I don’t want to get the police involved in this. Or talk to Miles about it.

  Chapter 7

  I’m up and dressed by four forty-five. I wouldn’t have been able to sleep even if the mattress weren’t stuffed with dead squirrels, so I figure the earlier I hit the highway, the better. As I throw my few belongings into my backpack and do a final room check, I can’t tell if I’m excited or terrified. Maybe there’s no difference. But one thing is certain: I feel more alive than I have in years. Being almost murdered has done wonders for my state of mind. Can’t say I recommend it for everyone, but still...

  As I slip out into the pre-dawn darkness of the Oak Crest’s unlit parking lot, a brisk morning breeze greets me. Must be the western edge of that ocean storm. It smells of the sea, even this far inland. It smells of adventure too, if I’m being honest.

  I consider driving back to the house and grabbing my iMac, but I’m worried the house is being staked out. Better not. I just jump into my car and head north.

  Route 95 is practically deserted at this hour; most of the trip I see no one behind me for more than half a mile. Still, I take couple of detours onto the surface roads just to be sure I don’t have a tail on me. And to gas and coffee up.

  No cars come anywhere near me, except to pass. I’m confident I’m alone on the road.

  I find a supermarket in Damariscotta that’s open early and buy some freshly baked crusty bread, a couple of bottles of decent wine, one red and one white, and the makings of a pasta puttanesca and a Caesar salad. I don’t want to show up empty-handed at Miles’, and I know grocery options are extremely limited on the island.

  I arrive in New Harbor at seven fifty, plenty early for the ten o’clock ferry. I park in the grassy field designated for long-term parking, open the car door, and pull the swirling ocean air into my lungs. Damn, that smell stirs my blood. I think on a deep cellular level I can still remember my ancestral sea-dwelling days. I probably had a nice paddlefish family that loved me.

  Trombly’s Boat Tours and Ferry provides ferry service to “The Three Ms”—Monhegan, Matinicus, and Musqasset islands, the three remotest inhabited islands off the coast of Maine. Musqasset, roughly equidistant from the other two and a bit farther east—thirteen miles from the mainland—is primarily a “walking” island. Some of the residents and businesspeople own vehicles, but visitors can’t bring cars over; the ferry is for pedestrians only.

  As I approach the office of Trombly’s, I see wild whitecaps streaking the Gulf of Maine and billowing masses of gray crowding the eastern sky. I hope the morning ferry run is still on. If so, it’s going to be a two-Dramaminer. I’m glad I wore a weatherproof jacket.

  I step inside the ferry office to an atmosphere of controlled frenzy. An early crowd of gabbing, raingear-clad passengers has already formed. Phones are ringing, keyboards are clacking, and outside the back door, deckhands are toting boxes of groceries and plastic tubs wrapped in bungee cords. On a big TV screen tuned to a local weather station, the announcer talks about twenty-to-twenty-five-foot waves and winds off the coast gusting to forty-five knots, getting worse over the next thirty-six hours.

  I suddenly realize, dumbass that I am, I should have called ahead to buy my ticket. Mainland living has made me soft in the head.

  I recognize the woman at the ticket counter from my past years of ferry usage, but she looks too harried for hey-how-are-yous. I ask the question she must have heard fifty times this morning, “Is the ten o’clock going to run?”

  She fires off her answer by rote, “Captain hasn’t made the final call yet. It ain’t the ride out he’s worried about, it’s the ride back. He’ll let everyone know in ten or fifteen. Stay tuned.”

  “Can I buy a ticket anyway?”

  “Sold out, my friend.”

  Damn. Fuck. My incompetence knows no bounds.

  “I can put you on the wait list. Dozen people ahead of you, though.” Folks are scrambling to get out to the island b
efore the storm shuts everything down. Of course.

  “Hold on—your name’s Carroll, right?” she says. “Finnian?” Nice to be remembered. “Didn’t you buy a ticket online?”

  “I wish.”

  “Looks like someone bought one for ya.” Miles. Bless his anal-retentive soul. I gratefully take my ticket and buy a travel pack of Dramamine. I swallow two immediately.

  Backpack and shopping bag in hand, I wander out onto the dock to await the captain’s verdict. The air feels more like late October than early September. I zip my windbreaker/rain jacket up to my neck.

  Standing on the dock is like slipping into a pair of well-worn sandals. I used to set up my easel here a few times a week. Did quick acrylic miniatures for twenty-five bucks a pop. Tourist fodder. Yup, I was that guy. Some of my fellow artists on the island used to make fun of me for it, but the gig could be surprisingly lucrative. On a summer weekend morning, you could catch the overlapping crowds going out to all three of the Three Ms. Passengers just sitting around waiting, their pockets stuffed with vacation spending cash.

  I notice a couple of geezers—island guys—standing near me. They’re bemoaning the impending loss of business over Labor Day weekend due to the storm. Sometimes when I’m romanticizing life on Musqasset I forget how brutal it can be for the shop- and B&B-owners. A few bad holiday weekends can sink a season. A whole business.

  The outdoor loudspeaker crackles at last, and the ticket woman’s voice bullhorns, “Attention, please. The ten o’clock ferry will be running this morning. Boarding starts in forty minutes.” Immediately a line starts to form at the roped-off gangway. What’s the rush, folks? We’re all going to be in the same boat. Literally.

  . . . . .