“Right,” Lincoln agreed, but neither moved.
A few minutes later Jacy emerged with a very pale, contrite Mickey in tow. (Had she watched him get dressed? Lincoln wondered.) “Let’s go,” she said.
“Where?” Lincoln had felt obliged to ask.
“You’re going to the SAE house and apologize.”
They both focused on Mickey, who shrugged as if to concede they had no choice in the matter. As if, admit it, there was no chance the three of them together could take this girl in a fair fight.
“I wasn’t even there,” Teddy pointed out.
“All for one,” Jacy told him. “One for all.”
When they arrived at the SAE house, the beer can that Mickey had set on the lion’s head was still there. Lincoln remembered climbing up the porch steps and ringing the bell, but after that came a memory glitch. They must’ve muttered their apology, but to whom? The kid Mickey had punched? The house president? Had Mickey even spoken, or had Lincoln, as head hasher, assumed responsibility? Had the apology been accepted?
It must’ve been, because on the walk back to the apartment Jacy’s anger had leaked away, like air from a balloon. “Actually, it is kind of funny,” she admitted, sharply elbowing Mickey. “You really didn’t even say hello? You just hit him in the face?”
Mickey shrugged again. “So I’m told.”
“And then you all just slunk off? Left the poor kid lying there in the foyer?”
“It seemed best,” Lincoln explained. “The party was down in the basement and the music was up really loud.”
Mickey snorted, his memory jogged. “Cat Stevens. Who but a bunch of faggot SAEs would listen to fucking Cat Stevens?”
“You wanted to go down there and fight them all,” Lincoln continued, “but we talked you out of it.”
Jacy shook her head. “What I don’t understand is what got you so pissed off in the first place.”
“I don’t know,” Mickey admitted. “But I remember really objecting to those fucking lions.” All three of them had stopped and just stared at him until he shrugged, shamefaced. “Or it could’ve been the Cat Stevens. Hard to say.”
At this Jacy had burst out laughing, which gave them all permission. They’d howled all the way back to the apartment, their shared hilarity putting the whole episode behind them. On the patio Mickey righted the keg, picked up a used cup from where it bobbed in the water, poured out the dregs and put it under the tap, causing the others to wince. When nothing but air hissed out, he sighed and dropped the cup back in the water. “I guess we should start cleaning up,” he said. Clearly, he was including Jacy in this imperative. “Everybody pick a room.” Because, as always after hasher parties, every room in the house was littered with plastic cups and shards of potato chips, every flat surface discolored with beer rings.
“Why should I help clean this disgusting pigsty?” Jacy said.
“All for one,” Mickey explained. He’d apparently chosen the patio as his “room” and was picking up plastic cups.
“One for all,” Teddy and Lincoln had chimed in on cue.
“On one condition,” she said.
Mickey shook his head. “No fucking conditions.”
“One condition,” she insisted.
“Okay, one.” Where Jacy was concerned, Mickey always caved in quickly.
“No more punching people.”
“Just me or all three of us?”
“Just you.”
Mickey brooded on the unfairness of this arrangement, but finally said, “All right.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“Okay, then,” she said, bending over to pick up a cup.
“Peace train soundin’ louder,” sang Teddy, who actually liked Cat Stevens.
“Gliiiide on the peace train,” the others chimed in, Musketeers once more.
How young they’d all been. How foolish. What would Jacy think if she could see them now? Lincoln wondered. Three goddamn old men.
DESPITE THE EARLY HOUR, he decided to drive into Edgartown before heading up island. Maybe Martin was one of those realtors who arrived at the office early. If he wasn’t in yet, Lincoln could get breakfast in town—having skipped dinner the night before, he was famished—and then grab some provisions at the package store: wine for Teddy, beer for Mickey, a good single-malt scotch for himself, though he wasn’t much of a drinker anymore.
The town was surprisingly busy, and the harbor parking lot full, but he got lucky, someone backing out of a space just as he pulled in. Island Realty was dark, a CLOSED sign on the door, though Lincoln cupped his hands around his eyes and peered inside. Don’t do that, Anita advised him from the other side of the country. If the place is closed, it’s closed. In his wife’s opinion Lincoln was always refusing to take no for an answer. Come back later, when it’s open. Don’t be like your father, always looking for special treatment. If there’s somebody inside, sitting in the dark, it’s because he doesn’t want to be disturbed.
And someone was in the back of the office, a man who looked to be about Lincoln’s age. Seated with a newspaper spread out across his desk, a steaming cup of coffee in his left hand, he was probably the very man he’d come to see. Let him read his paper, Anita insisted. You can see the CLOSED sign, right? The office doesn’t open for another forty-five minutes. Don’t, for heaven’s sake, knock on the glass.
Lincoln knocked. Of course he did. Okay, maybe that meant he was his father’s son. Had Anita truly been here, he would’ve felt obliged to dispute this claim, but she wasn’t. He was alone, which meant he could be anybody he wanted, including the only progeny of Wolfgang Amadeus Moser, of Dunbar, Arizona.
Startled by the knock (See? You scared him. Explain to me again why you’re like this.), the man inside looked up, saw Lincoln and rose to his feet, even managing a smile as he weaved his way among the desks. Unlocking and opening the door, he said, “You look like a man who might be named Lincoln Moser.”
“And that,” Lincoln said, shaking his hand, “would make you Martin.”
The other man acknowledged this was indeed the case. “Actually,” he said, switching on the overhead lights, “I Googled you.”
“There was only one Lincoln Moser?”
“Two in Greater Las Vegas, but the other was a black high-school principal.”
“Yeah, quite a few black men are named Lincoln. I don’t think my father knew any in rural Arizona, though.”
“Would it have changed his mind?”
“Not much does.”
“How about a cup of coffee?”
“I had one on the ferry.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t have another.”
“With me it does, actually.” In fact, it was distinctly possible that the near-constant state of gastric distress Lincoln suffered these days was a symptom of an as-yet-undetected ulcer traceable to the 2008 financial meltdown. On the other hand, it might be nothing more than acid reflux, which came with the territory of getting old. His wife, being a woman, wanted clarity on this issue, whereas Lincoln himself, not being one, was content to dwell in uncertainty a while longer.
“I thought you were getting in yesterday,” Martin said.
“I was supposed to, but one of my flights was delayed and I missed the last boat.”
“Hate when that happens. Anyhow, you’re here. You didn’t come in to tell me you changed your mind about listing your place, I hope?”
“No, I just thought I’d stop and introduce myself. But the town’s still pretty busy.”
Martin nodded. “Season runs later every year. Busloads of old folks from all over. Families with children who haven’t reached school age. Weekenders, when the weather’s nice like this. The whole island used to lock down Labor Day weekend. Now it’s Columbus Day.”
“Good for the locals.”
“I suppose,” he said, as if he had doubts on that score. “Anyway, I was in Chilmark a couple days ago, so I did a quick drive-by. Sweet little place you�
�ve got. Priced right, it should sell in about two seconds flat.”
“You can tell that without going inside?”
“Honestly? Out there? Almost to Aquinnah, on a lot that size? Many buyers will consider it a teardown.”
Lincoln felt himself wince. “You just hurt my mother’s feelings, and she’s been dead for years.”
“Sorry.”
Lincoln waved him off. “No need to apologize. I’m in the business.”
“Commercial, did I read? Things still bad out West?”
“We’re starting to turn around in Vegas. Just not fast enough.”
“None of my business, but are you selling because you need to?”
“No, because I might need to. And if I do, I might need to in about two seconds flat.”
“I only ask because the revenue stream must be decent out there. I gather you rent the place in season?”
Lincoln said they did and told him the name of the management company that handled things.
“You and your family don’t use it?”
Lincoln shook his head. “We’ve got six kids. For Catholics, three bedrooms and one bath just don’t cut it.”
“Any of those kids still home?”
“The youngest graduated last year.”
“Okay, so you’re basically free. You and the wife could retire here.”
“Nah, we’re confirmed westerners.” One of us, anyway, he heard Anita say, clear as a bell. Lincoln’s being one of these, in his wife’s view, was yet another way that he was Dub-Yay’s son. An unfair criticism, surely. Anita herself might be an eastern transplant, but their kids—the older ones married, with kids of their own—were spread up and down the West Coast from San Diego to Seattle. Fond as Anita had been of the island back when they used to visit, there was no chance she’d ever live three thousand miles from her children and grandchildren. Until the recession, they’d planned to hold on to the place, steal a couple weeks’ vacation from time to time. Anita still had family in western Massachusetts and she remained close to a couple of her Theta sorority sisters who’d settled in New England. Anyway, the best-laid plans.
“When I got back to the office,” Martin was saying, “there was a message from one of your neighbors wanting to know if you were putting the place on the market. Must’ve seen the logo on my car. A guy named—”
“Mason Troyer,” Lincoln finished. “He’s been pestering me to sell for years. No idea why. His place is already twice the size it was when his parents owned it.”
“Wild guess? He wants to turn your Cape into a guesthouse, then sell both. They’re worth more together than separately. Which could be good for you.”
Lincoln hadn’t thought of that. Too long in commercial real estate. “Can I ask if he’s a friend of yours?”
“Never met the man. Know of him.”
“He’s an asshole.”
Martin chuckled. “That’s the conventional wisdom. He’ll probably come at you with an offer before we list it. To avoid paying commissions.”
This, Lincoln recognized, was probably a trial balloon: the other man gauging if Lincoln was the sort who’d be susceptible to such an offer.
“Like I said. An asshole.”
Instead of looking relieved, Martin frowned.
“What?”
“Stay on his good side would be my advice. He has a reputation.”
“You Googled him, too?”
“Didn’t have to. It’s a small island. People out in Chilmark steer well clear of him.”
“I intend to do the same,” Lincoln assured him.
“What time do your friends get in?”
“One later today. The other tomorrow morning.”
“And leave?”
“Sunday or Monday.”
“But Monday morning’s still good for us?”
Lincoln said it was. When they rose and shook hands, Anita piped in again: Apologize at least. “Sorry to interrupt your morning coffee,” he said as they headed for the door.
“That’s all right. Time the day got started.”
“My wife sometimes accuses me of inconsideration. Among other things.”
“Well, enjoy her while you can. Mine died last year.”
Lincoln sighed. “That’s another thing she accuses me of. Putting my foot in my mouth.”
Martin smiled. “I suppose we could all be priests.”
THE CHILMARK HOUSE SAT perched on a hummocky, picturesque two-acre plot of land that sloped down toward State Road and beyond that the Atlantic, perfectly blue today under a cloudless sky. As he stood on the back deck, from which all this was visible, Lincoln’s first thought was, Nope. Only an idiot would ever sell this. Setting down his two bags of provisions on the warped picnic table, he took a seat on the top step and soaked up the view for a long moment, then called Anita. “We can’t sell this,” he told her when she picked up.
“Okay,” she said.
“What do you mean, ‘okay’? We have to.” After all, it wasn’t just a question of them getting back on their feet after the recession. Their children had also needed assistance getting back on theirs. He and Anita had been glad to help, but doing so had made their own finances precarious. They’d probably be okay unless something else went wrong, but something else might. “We agreed.”
“And now I’m agreeing again.”
Which made him grumpy. “Where are you?” Because there was shouting in the background.
“At the courthouse. Cooling my heels. I may have to hang up in a hurry.”
“You think we should risk it and not sell? Just hope the worst won’t happen?”
“Wasn’t that exactly what we were doing when the worst happened?”
“True,” he admitted.
“How’s the weather?”
“Sunny. Seventy-two degrees. We’re supposed to have a full week of it. You should come join me for a few days.”
“I wish I could.”
“Weren’t we supposed to retire, both of us, like, two years ago?”
“Days like today, I’m ready.”
“Martin says that’s what we should do. Retire here, in this very house. If the kids want to see us, they can jump on a plane. Time for us to start thinking about ourselves, Martin says.”
“Who’s Martin?”
“Our realtor. A wise man.”
“And would I be correct in assuming that Martin said exactly none of that?”
“Not exactly. Was that a gunshot?”
“Somebody knocked over a stanchion. I have to go, Lincoln.”
The sound of his name on his wife’s lips was, as always, something to savor. Like most married couples, they spoke to each other mostly in diminutives. Anita seemed to save his actual name for small but intimate moments. Its curated use seemed to imply that, in her view at least, he was still the same man he was when she said, “I, Anita, take you, Lincoln.” White hair, acid reflux and a stiff lower back notwithstanding.
“Okay, I’ll talk to you later.”
“We don’t have to sell, but we probably should.”
“I know.”
And yet, hanging up, he couldn’t help but think about his mother, how she’d loved summers here as a girl. There was drinking and laughter and fun … We went barefoot all summer long … The floors got sandy and nobody minded … We didn’t go to church all summer.
Would selling it be a betrayal? She certainly wouldn’t want him to lose his company or put his loved ones—that large and still-growing brood—at risk. But wasn’t it also possible she’d meant the inheritance as a test? She’d no doubt observed, as Anita had, that with each passing year he was, goddammit, becoming more like his father. Not so much that they agreed on everything, but rather in terms of temperament and instinct. What if the house was intended as a reminder that he was her son, too, not just a clone of Wolfgang Amadeus Moser? That he was not entirely unrelated to a woman who’d moved about the world like a breeze you couldn’t be sure was there, barely strong enough to sound the wind
chimes? This thought, he realized, sitting on the steps of the house she’d refused to part with, was probably occasioned by the fact that wind chimes were actually hanging from the eaves here, stirring in the gentle breeze. As a rule Lincoln was not a fanciful man, but he couldn’t help wondering—had his mother just spoken to him?
In the distance a screen door screeched open on an unoiled hinge. Farther down the slope and off to the right sat Mason Troyer’s huge, gray-shingled “cottage,” its deck easily double what it had been back in 1971. His parents were nice, modest and decent people who never would’ve approved of their son’s ostentatious renovation. But that was the thing. The elder Troyers were dead and gone, and whether they’d been nice people or not was beside the point. They’d left the house to Mason, presumably to do with as he pleased.
A naked woman—too far away for him to tell her age, but probably in her forties—had come out onto the deck with a tall glass of something and stretched out on a chaise lounge. A moment later a large, older man—Troyer himself, Lincoln was certain—emerged, also naked, the door again snapping shut behind him, the bang arriving a split second later. Something about his posture, how he was angling his body, suggested that he was aware of being watched, or maybe just hoped he was. He stood perfectly motionless for a beat, then turned and looked up the hill. When it occurred to Lincoln that he might be about to wave, he quickly got to his feet and gathered his two bags of supplies, the sound of distant laughter following him inside his mother’s house.
Teddy
Teddy thought about heading out onto the ferry’s upper deck and soaking up some of the warm September sun but opted for a booth in the air-conditioned snack bar where the Wi-Fi signal would be stronger and he could get some work done. Most of his decisions these days were similarly utilitarian and estranged from the pleasure principle. An even keel, he knew from long experience, was always best. Avoid Sturm und Drang. Highs not too high, lows not too low. In this manner he was sometimes able to ward off his spells—he didn’t know what else to call them—before they gained purchase. Sometimes they manifested as full-blown panic attacks, hurricanes that battered him for a day or two before blowing out to sea, while others descended like fugue states and could linger, like an area of low pressure, for a week or more. And then there were the ones that were preceded by a kind of euphoria, a profound sense that something wonderful was about to happen, a promise of heightened understanding, even wisdom. These were the spells he feared most, because in their aftermath—with reality restored and the promised insight having failed to materialize—they felt like genuine mental illness.
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