The Twelve Lives of Samuel Hawley

by Hannah Tinti

  The crowd at the bar was full of fishermen out of work. They were all waiting for the ban on the Banks to be lifted. Joe Strand and Pauly Fisk were there, too, and they waved Loo over.

  “The principal just called,” said Fisk. “He’s on his way back with cigars.”

  “It’s a boy,” said Strand.

  “I know,” said Loo.

  Fisk sipped his beer. He looked at all the empty tables. “We gotta find a way to break up Gunderson and that damn tree-hugger.”

  “He likes her,” said Loo.

  “Maybe your dad can help,” said Strand. “He’s good at breaking things.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Loo.

  “You think?” he said, rubbing his jaw.

  “Ah, don’t be mad,” said Fisk. “He was just doing what any father would do, scaring your fella a little. Teaching him and his mom what principles mean.” Fisk tapped the visor of his Hong Kong hat, then pointed his fingers in the shape of a gun.

  “That wasn’t him.”

  “Sure,” said Strand. “But tell Hawley we owe him, just the same.” And then he raised his own finger-gun and pretended to shoot Mary Titus.

  “That’s not funny,” said Loo, but it got big laughs from the rest of the bar, and soon others were pointing more fake weapons and finger-pistols. They hid behind menus and pints of beer. They added sound effects. Bang! Boom! Ping! You missed her! Ten points! Twenty! Fisk picked up an imaginary submachine gun and strafed Mary’s section like he was Rambo.

  While target practice went on, Mary Titus continued setting tables. But when she finished folding the last napkin she snatched a carafe of hot water off the burner and threatened to pour it over Fisk’s head. Loo stepped between them. She took Mary’s arm.

  “Let’s head out back,” she said.

  “Troglodytes!” Mary screamed.

  “We need to talk. Come on.”

  “I’m taking this with me.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Loo.

  The woman threw a withering look at the bar and filed through the kitchen and into the walk-in freezer. The door sealed shut behind them, blocking out all the noise from the cooks and the customers. Then it was just the two women facing each other, their breath creating a thick fog between slabs of meat.

  “Don’t tell me you’re pregnant,” Mary Titus said.

  “I’m not,” said Loo.

  “Thank God.” Marshall’s mother lowered the carafe. The throat of the pitcher was still steaming.

  Loo glanced around the tight room. There was no place left to go.

  “Your petition for the sanctuary,” she said. “It’s fake.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Marshall didn’t submit the paperwork. I did.”

  Mary Titus’s cheeks flushed, as if she had been the one to tell a secret instead of Loo.

  “You’re lying,” she said.

  “Do you really think that many people suddenly cared about a fish? I forged the names. All five thousand of them.”

  Mary Titus clung to the shelf that held the butter. It looked like she was going to be sick, but now that Loo had started, the truth kept coming, words tumbling one after another from her mouth.

  “Marshall shot up your front door. For the publicity. And that’s why he’s out on that boat right now. Trying to make this happen for you, in case the petition’s thrown out.” Loo cleared her throat. “I just thought you should know that it wasn’t any of those fishermen who put a bullet in your house. And it wasn’t my father, either.”

  “You,” said Mary Titus. Her fingers went tight on the carafe of hot water. “You. You. You.”

  There were bubbles against the glass. Loo could see them rising, could see the steam and the heat heading her way and even the blistering burns that would tear into her skin and the scars that would follow—as if this had all happened before. She knew the water was coming even before it began to come and so she stepped to the side, and instead of scalding her face, the hot liquid splashed directly onto the floor. They both stared at the bright spot on the tile, a circle in the middle of the grime, as if a witch had just been doused and melted away, leaving behind nothing but a cloud of steam and heat.

  The freezer door opened.

  “What the hell is going on in here?” said Principal Gunderson. “We just lost five tables.”

  “We need a minute,” said Loo.

  “George.” Mary Titus was staring at her arm holding the carafe as if it wasn’t her arm at all.

  It was the first time Loo had ever heard anyone use his first name. Principal Gunderson paused, strips of plastic curtain on his shoulders. Mary Titus’s eyes were shining and on the brink of tears, just as they had been that night long ago when she’d told Loo about her first husband. And Loo realized then, for the first time, the real reason why the widow wanted to make the Banks a sanctuary. It wasn’t to save a disappearing fish—it was because the father of her only child had drowned there.

  It was like looking in a mirror. The same flickering hope in Loo, the same desperate need to be loved, was right here in Marshall’s mother. And it was in Principal Gunderson, clutching Lily’s waist in that old prom photo. And it was in Agnes, pressing her feet into the stirrups, listening for her child’s cry. And it was in Hawley, mourning with his scraps of paper in the bathroom. Their hearts were all cycling through the same madness—the discovery, the bliss, the loss, the despair—like planets taking turns in orbit around the sun. Each containing their own unique gravity. Their own force of attraction. Drawing near and holding fast to whatever entered their own atmosphere. Even Loo, penning her thousands of names way out at the edge of the universe, felt better knowing others were traveling this same elliptical course, that they would sometimes cross paths, that they would find love and lose love and recover from love and love again—because, if they were all going in circles, and Loo was Pluto, then every 248 years even she would have the chance to be closer to the sun.

  Principal Gunderson crossed the frozen room, past the meat and baskets of icy vegetables, and wrapped his arms around Mary Titus. “It’s all right,” he said. “Whatever it is, it’s all right.”

  Mary Titus clung to him and wept, as if her husband had died all over again. Principal Gunderson said nothing and stroked her hair. Loo watched them embrace and take comfort in each other and felt ashamed and jealous and ashamed that she was jealous.

  When Principal Gunderson finally glanced over Mary’s shoulder, his face full of questions, Loo said the only thing she could think of that would make everyone feel better. “We’re leaving town. Me and my father. So I guess I quit.” Then she stepped outside the freezer and watched the clock on the wall as the cooks wove around her and steamed clams and shucked oysters and rang the bell for pickup.

  After a few minutes, the door opened and Principal Gunderson and Mary Titus emerged holding hands. Their faces were pink. Mary Titus looked ragged, but Principal Gunderson seemed energized.

  “This is over now, whatever was between you two,” he said. “You should shake hands.”

  Mary Titus and Loo stood their ground, eyeing each other like children forced to apologize. Sorry but not meaning a word. Until at last Loo held her palm out. And Marshall’s mother touched it with her cold, damp fingers.

  “You ruined my life,” said Mary Titus.

  “You’re welcome,” said Loo.

  Principal Gunderson released a small belch into the air. “I have your last paycheck,” he said. “Why don’t you come with me, and we’ll let Mary get back to work.”

  The widow wiped her eyes with the hem of her skirt, just as she had long ago in Loo’s kitchen. It had seemed so important to wound her. But now Loo’s hard feelings had been washed away, like the grime on the floor of the freezer. She watched Mary Titus set the empty carafe back on the burner and return to her empty tables.

  “You certainly know how to keep things interesting,” said Principal Gunderson, as he dug around in the re
gister. “I just hope you use that strength of will for good. I think it could take you to extraordinary places.” He pulled out an envelope. “We’re going to be sorry to lose you.”

  “Really?” Loo asked.

  “Of course,” he said. “You’re a bright student. And not everyone can handle the Sawtooth. It takes a lot. Physically, I mean. And mentally. The ladies who work here—they’re Amazons.” He slid some extra cash into Loo’s envelope and passed it over. “So are you.”

  The paper was heavy and thick beneath her fingers, like an announcement or an invitation. “I didn’t mean to screw everything up.”

  “Nobody ever does.”

  She tucked the envelope into her jeans. “I guess I should say thank you.”

  Principal Gunderson shut the cash register slowly until the drawer caught and the bell let out a muffled ding. “Just take care of yourself, my dear.”

  Loo shifted on her feet. She didn’t know what to do next, and so she held out her hand again. Gunderson shook it.

  “Do you know where you’re headed?”

  “Not sure yet.”

  “I never thought you were going to stay long.”

  “Because of my dad?” Loo asked.

  “No,” Principal Gunderson said. “Because of your mother. All she ever talked about was leaving this place.”

  —

  LOO RODE PAST the pier where Hawley had danced on the greasy pole. Past the impound lot. Past the beach where Marshall had stolen her shoes. When she finally got home her father’s truck was in the driveway. She hurried inside and found him in the kitchen. The bags of Chinese food were still sitting unopened on the counter. Hawley was at the table looking grim.

  “What did the police say?”

  “That Jove got washed overboard. They have his boat docked at the marina. They said they didn’t find anything unusual but I wanted to be sure so I snuck inside and checked it,” said Hawley. “Jove was on a job. Sailing to a marker offshore to make an exchange. I went through the hold. I looked everywhere, even under the floorboards. But there weren’t any goods in the cabin and there wasn’t any money, either. And there should have been a lot of money.”

  Loo felt a cold unease spread across her skin. She remembered the conversation she’d overheard the first night Jove had showed up at their door.

  “You think someone might have killed him.”

  Hawley chewed his lip. “They’re still searching. The Coast Guard is dragging the area where they found the boat.”

  “This isn’t your fault, Dad.”

  “It is,” said Hawley. “Everything that’s happened and is happening and is going to happen.”

  Loo got the whiskey out of the cabinet over the sink. She poured her father a shot and set it beside him. He took the glass and drained it.

  “We should go out there,” said Loo. “Look for him.”

  “He’s already dead.”

  Hawley poured himself another whiskey. “Whoever hired him asked for both of us. They knew my name.” He rubbed his face. He cupped his hand around his drink. Then he looked straight at his daughter, and she remembered all the nights Hawley had stared out their windows and polished his guns.

  “Maybe nothing happened,” said Loo, her voice tight. “Maybe it was just an accident.”

  “Maybe.” Hawley stood up and walked to the counter. He started pulling out the containers of Chinese food. “We should eat. I got all of your favorites.”

  “It’s cold.”

  “Then we’ll heat it up.”

  Loo watched him take down plates from the cabinet and pull silverware from the drawers, like it was any kind of normal evening. She swallowed hard. Tried to stifle the choking feeling at the base of her throat.

  “You think whoever did this might come here.”

  “I just want to be careful.” Hawley spooned fried rice and moo shu chicken into pans. He lit the burners, and then he rolled a cigarette and lit that, too. “We won’t make it to the fair tomorrow. But we’ll find another one somewhere else. Ride the Ferris wheel.”

  Loo tore open one of the fortune cookie bags. She cracked the shell, pulled out the tiny paper fortune.

  “What’s it say?” Hawley asked.

  “Land is always on the mind of the flying bird.”

  “Open another one.”

  Loo smashed a cookie against the table. “The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.”

  “That’s more like it.”

  She watched her father cook. His hair was threaded through with lines of silver. The skin on his fingers rough and cracked. Someday, he was going to be an old man, and she would have to take care of him. But not now. Not yet. The smell of hoisin sauce and cabbage filled the room. She wondered how long it would be before they had a kitchen again.

  “The things I did before,” her father said. “They weren’t right. I was young. And I didn’t understand what a life can mean in this world.” Hawley stirred the pots. He let out a cloud of smoke. “Now I have you and I know better. But the past is like a shadow, always trying to catch up.”

  “So what do we do?” Loo asked.

  “We eat,” said Hawley, setting down their plates. “And then we run before it gets us.”

  —

  A HOUSE IS harder to leave than a motel room. Still, Hawley seemed like he’d been planning this escape for years. He had an envelope ready with Loo’s birth certificate and their passports. He talked with Joe Strand and Pauly Fisk about finding a renter. Then he called Mabel Ridge and asked if Loo could spend the night with her. His daughter had never seen him be so polite.

  “I’m not going over there,” Loo said after he hung up the phone.

  “There’s things I need to do,” said Hawley. “And I won’t be able to do them if I’m worried about you.”

  “What things?”

  Hawley lifted the edges of the tablecloth and picked up everything inside, the plates and glasses and silverware, and dumped it all into the garbage can. “I don’t want to lie to you. So please don’t ask.”

  “I’m not a little girl anymore.”

  “I know,” said Hawley. “But I need you to be a kid for one more night. I’ll come and get you first thing in the morning. We’ll go away for a few months. It’ll be like a vacation. Then if everything checks out, we’ll come back.”

  “But I yelled at Mabel. I smashed her dishes.”

  “She’s your grandmother,” said Hawley. “She’ll forgive you.”

  He went upstairs and packed. It took him only ten minutes. He dropped his bag and his orange toolbox by the door, and then he started to gather his guns. The Colt, the Smith & Wesson, the Luger, the Saturday night specials, the shotguns, Loo’s rifle and the set of derringers. Hawley piled them all on the kitchen table, along with his case of suppressors and bags of ammunition, hemming and hawing the same way that Loo had struggled to decide which pair of jeans to put in her suitcase. In the end he left none of them behind.

  While he finished, Loo went upstairs. Out on the roof the shingles were cold. There was a breeze coming directly off the shoreline, and it smelled of seaweed and sand. It smelled like home. Loo pulled her arms into her sweater and hugged them close. She wanted to know where this exact spot was on the map, so she could put her finger on it when they were gone and remember.

  She had already packed her telescope, but in Carl Sagan’s book, she’d read instructions on how to find longitude and latitude, using a clock set to Greenwich Mean Time and the North Star. Holding her arm out, and starting at the horizon, she counted how many fists fit in the sky until she reached the bright spot of Polaris. Each fist equaled approximately ten degrees, which meant they were somewhere between forty-two and forty-three degrees north.

  The front door opened, and she watched as Hawley carried a box out to the edge of the sidewalk, where she’d dragged the garbage earlier that night for pickup. He set the box right by the cans. He looked up at the sliver of moon. The light from the window cut across hi
s face, dividing his body into sections of shadow and radiant strips of white, like something that had been taken apart and reassembled without all the original pieces.

  Loo crawled back inside. She went down the staircase and peered inside the bathroom. The door to the medicine cabinet was open and reflected her own face back at her. Hawley had cleared the shelves. The lipstick, the compact powder, her mother’s toothbrush and all of the old prescriptions with Lily’s faded name on them were missing. The perfume bottle was gone. The cans of pineapple and peaches. The shampoo and conditioner from their places on the side of the tub.

  Hawley came back inside with a garbage bag in his hand. He started taking down the pictures from the walls. The receipts and scraps of paper, the scribbles on parking tickets, the grocery lists. The picture from Niagara Falls.

  “You’re throwing everything away?”

  “Not everything.” Hawley turned to her. “Is there anything you want?”

  Loo scanned the counter, the tub, the empty towel racks. The walls looked so naked without her mother’s belongings. The room suddenly larger and full of possibility.

  “The bathrobe.”

  Hawley unhooked the kimono with the dragons from the back of the door. He opened it like a coat, and Loo slipped her arms inside. She’d done this dozens of times over the years growing up, but this was the first time the robe fit her. The sleeves fell from her arms, the green silk still bright.

  She reached for the photo strip next. It was the only picture she’d ever seen that had both Hawley and Lily together. Her mother making faces, her father moving out of the frame. She pulled, and the tape ripped the bottom corner, so that a part of the picture remained in place. She held the photo out to Hawley. Her father eyed the tiny triangle of black-and-white left behind.

  “You keep it.”

  Loo took out her envelope from the Sawtooth. She put the picture in between the bills. She counted the money. Principal Gunderson had slipped an extra hundred dollars into the stack. When she looked up, her father was still staring at the torn piece of photo left on the wall.

  “Dad?”

  “Get the jars,” Hawley said. He turned away and finished taking down the rest. He stuffed everything inside the garbage bag, and then brought it outside.