Osprey Island

by Thisbe Nissen

  Bud was in business mode: The maintenance shop off the rear parking lot would become the new home of the laundry facilities— equipment would be arriving the next day; he’d made the necessary arrangements with great speed and efficiency—and a new maintenance building would go up on the site of the old laundry shed. A demolition crew would begin in the morning, construction immediately following, and everything would be finished—We’ll cross our fingers, Bud said—in the next week and a half before the guests started showing up.

  One of the Irish girls raised her palm in the air like a schoolchild. Bud looked at her uncertainly. She took his stare as a sign to speak.

  “What should we do when people—guests—when they ask about it?” Her voice was riding as though she might quake and dissolve into tears. “What should we tell them?” She was whining now. “What exactly should we say?” She slumped back then, deflated.

  “Well,” Bud began, “I think we say as little as possible. I think if anyone asks, you send them to me so I can tell them what’s going on and we don’t have to get into a game of telephone, with wrong stories, exaggerating . . .”

  “What do you mean?” someone asked.

  “I mean,” Bud said sternly, “anything other than the plain truth: there was a fire in the laundry room late last night, a fire started by a cigarette when Lorna Squire, our head housekeeper, was smoking and fell asleep. The laundry burned down. Lorna died in the fire. That’s the real story. That’s the story I will tell our guests if they ask.” He was almost pleased by it, pleased at how a story like that could work like a campaign: Don’t Smoke in Bed. “And please,” he added, “please just don’t be discussing all this—these events—around the Lodge, around the guests. Of course, they’ll find out. I’m sure we couldn’t keep that from happening. But we can keep it simple. Keep things clean. Keep it from bothering them the way it’ll be bothering us.”

  From the archway, Suzy piped up, acting as though Bud himself had finally succeeded in doing Lorna in after all these years. “Don’t you think it might be a little more honest, Dad, a little more up-front, if we just came out and told them? Made up a letter, one for each room, just letting people know what happened. Explaining how sad we are, explaining there won’t be fireworks here at the Lodge, just to let them know . . .”

  “No,” Bud said, “no, I don’t think that’s best. The more we play this thing down, the—”

  “Someone is dead! You think we should play that down?”

  “I do not think we need to point our fingers at it,” he said briskly.

  Suzy was gearing up for a fight. Bud looked as if he might try to send her to her room.

  “I think that’s a serious mistake on your part, Dad. I think you’re making a grave error in judgment.”

  Bud was in no mood. “Well, when you own a hotel”—and he did not say “this hotel,” did not concede even that much—“when you own your own hotel, you can do things however the hell you want . . . But seeing as I’ve got just a few years’ more experience, this is my decision to make.”

  In the dining room the staff squirmed. Bud and Suzy glared, each daring the other to speak. Suzy broke off first—turned in the doorway and strode from the room as though in undisputed possession of the upper hand. She never failed to leave her father boiling.

  When the meeting adjourned, the staff retreated to the porch, and Morey’s, and the barracks. Bud was talking to Roddy Jacobs when Suzy reentered the dining room. She came at Bud like she meant to strangle him. Roddy stepped clear for her to do just that, if she so intended. He had his own hands behind his back to keep himself from reaching out and strangling Bud of his own accord. Bud stepped back, cornered.

  “I think you’re wrong, Dad. I think you’re making a really bad call here,” Suzy said.

  “Oh, really?” Bud countered. “You sure didn’t make that clear.”

  “I shouldn’t have . . .” Suzy conceded: if there was anything she had learned in childhood it was that conflicts took place out of the public eye—or, preferably, not at all. Bud did not like to be questioned; when Suzy learned to ask why, she had ceased to be someone he could relate to, or even tolerate.

  Suzy plowed on. “I really think you absolutely need to let the guests know ahead of time what’s gone on here. I can’t even believe Mom isn’t insisting on that already—”

  He cut her off: “Your mother and I made this decision together.”

  “Oh, now that’s just bullshit! Don’t even try to . . . Mom’s been knocked out all day. Don’t treat me . . . Jesus!” She stuck one hand on her hip, pushed the other through her hair and held it back from her eyes as she peered at him, lifting that final curtain of illusion about just what sort of man her father might be. She let the hair fall. The hand went to her other hip. “You have to tell them. You’d be an idiot not to tell them. If you tell them—a simple, discreet note in each of the rooms—then you present it to them exactly the way you want, exactly the way you want them to hear it. You have control over the information then.” It was like explaining combat theory to a wary recruit. “If you leave it ambiguous”—she said this as though her father might not know the word: am-big-u-ous—“then you’re chancing what they find out, how they find out—you’re risking all the rumor that might find its way in along the way. I can’t even fathom why you’d take a chance like that.”

  It was entirely the wrong tactic. “I think, Suzy, there are a lot of things about this situation that you don’t fathom at all.”

  “Oh, don’t give me that shit when—”

  “That’s it, right now. I don’t want to hear any more. This conversation is over.”

  Bud stood for a moment, staring down his daughter, then turned to Roddy, a few feet off, as though it were Roddy he’d just been chatting with all the while, and said, “I’ll be up at the house with my wife if anyone needs me,” and then he turned and walked away.

  Roddy and Suzy just stood there in Bud’s wake, waiting for him to clear the threshold, for the slam of the kitchen door marking his exit. They stood a moment longer as the room settled, and looked around as though remembering the shape of the place, the smell of sea air and furniture polish.

  Suzy let out a breath. “I need a drink.”

  Roddy laughed before he could catch himself, before he thought to wonder if it was OK to laugh. Suzy stared, disbelieving, her mouth open slightly. “Should I make you one too, or are you just going to stand there mocking me?”

  “Oh,” said Roddy. “I got it.” He went toward the bar as if to beat her to it. “What do you want? What can I make you?”

  She flung up her hands.

  “OK,” he said slowly. “Anything you’re particularly in the mood for?”

  “Jesus!” She laughed. “Just hand me a bottle.”

  And he was able to laugh too. He grabbed a bottle. Lorna was dead. Bud was an asshole. And Roddy Jacobs and Suzy Chizek were about to share a bottle of Maker’s Mark in the dining room of the Lodge at Osprey Island.

  “Did you want some peanuts or anything?” he asked.

  She gaped. “You are really one of the oddest people I think I have ever met.” His expression sank. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry.” A pause. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s OK. Not like I haven’t heard that before.” He came toward the table she’d chosen, the bottle of Maker’s under his arm and a glass in either hand. He went to pour, and his grip was visibly shaky. Suzy laughed again. “You need a drink more than I do.”

  “You’re right.”

  She took the bottle, poured both glasses, passed one to him, and they drank. The large room was strangely still: a fleet of empty tables, a few sconces glowing dimly along the far wall. Outside, through the panoramic sliding glass doors, the lights across the bay in Menhadenport were beginning to go on as the sky pitched from blue to black. Suzy took a sip from her glass, then set the drink down decisively. “You kissed me this morning.”

  Roddy sucked his lips. He was nodding continuo
usly, almost rocking. “I guess I did.”

  She waited for more. They drank.

  “Is that . . .”—she pawed for words—“is it something I should be on the lookout for . . . something I should be warned you might do again?”

  He rocked. He didn’t answer.

  She sent a quick push of air through her nostrils. A minute passed. “What exactly are we doing here?” she said.

  “Having a drink.”

  “Why?”

  He waited. “Because you said you wanted one . . . ?”

  “Why’d you stay away so long?” she asked him suddenly.

  He bristled. “I don’t really want to talk about that, OK?”

  She felt a little cowed and covered it with brassiness. “Why’d you come back, then?”

  He looked at her. “It’s home . . .”

  “Not my home,” Suzy said.

  “You can say that.”

  “You don’t know me,” she said, her tone meaner than she’d intended.

  “You’re right.” He stood up. “I don’t.” He pushed in his chair. “Sorry to bother you.” He turned away.

  “Wait,” Suzy said. “Wait!” Her voice got louder. “Please . . .”

  Roddy stopped and faced her again. “What?” It came out sounding like, What more do you want from me?

  “Come back.” Her voice was gentle, but awkward. “Stay. It’s not the kind of night to be alone.”

  Roddy snorted a laugh. “You mean, you don’t want to be alone.”

  “I don’t,” she agreed.

  He nodded once. “Yeah. I’m not some guy to fill in the time for you. Sorry.” He turned again and went out the sliding door.

  Suzy stared for a minute. Then she got up and went after him.

  Suzy found Roddy sitting in his truck in the north parking lot. The keys were in the ignition, but he hadn’t turned the engine over, was just sitting there, hand at the starter, one leg bouncing like crazy, his body hunched forward as if he were driving in a snowstorm, struggling to see the road ahead. The windows were open. Suzy knocked on the passenger door, then opened it and climbed in. “What the hell is going on?”

  His leg stopped for a few seconds as he paused to look at her, then resumed as he spoke. “OK, let’s not even do this.” He tried to hurry the words out of himself and will them far away. “No one kissed anyone, OK? I can’t be thinking about that, all right? Lorna’s dead. We’ve got to build the new laundry. Guests might as well start arriving in ten minutes for how ready we’ll be. I don’t know what the fuck’s going to happen to Squee. To fucking Lance. The poor pathetic bastard. What the fuck is going to happen to Lance?” Roddy’s voice was breaking.

  Suzy stared down at her hands in her lap. She said, “I don’t know.” Then she lifted her head, unclasped her hands, and turned on the seat to face Roddy, who was still staring straight ahead, navigating that imaginary dark and winding road.

  She slid over, took his head in both her hands, turned his face to hers and kissed his mouth. She pulled back, looked in his eyes, then did it again.

  He pulled away. “We’re in the parking lot . . .”

  Suzy’s hands slumped to her lap. “I’m sorry.” She reached for the door. “Good night.”

  Roddy sat alone in the truck for a long minute before he turned the keys in the ignition and drove home.

  On the porch of the Lodge, the staff members were drinking as usual. Suzy nodded as she passed, a sad, acknowledging smile. Jeremy raised a hand. He was sitting on the deck, close with Peg, their backs propped against a pillar. Suzy lifted her hand to return the greeting, but it was Peg who spoke. “It’s true, is it, that you’re taking over for Lorna, then, Miss Chizek? As the head of housekeeping?”

  “Suzy, please. Please: Suzy,” she said. Then, “Looks like it. At least until we find someone else.” She shifted her weight. “I feel bad for you guys,” she said. “I’m no housekeeper . . .”

  Peg laughed a little. They were all self-conscious: Was it ruthlessly inappropriate to smile when someone was dead? Peg glanced around, noticing Suzy was alone. “Mia?” Peg said. “How’s she been holding up, then?”

  “She’s OK, I think. She seems OK. I’m not sure how she’s supposed to be dealing, really. She’s sleeping upstairs.” Suzy gestured in the direction of the Lodge above them.

  Peg was extraordinarily poised and efficient. Even lounging on her boyfriend, she held herself in good posture, straightening even taller as she spoke. “Please,” she said to Suzy, “if you’re ever in need of someone to mind her, I’d be pleased to. She’s a lovely girl.”

  “That’s very sweet of you.” Suzy was used to such offers at the Lodge. She pushed it aside in her mind. Babysitters weren’t particularly necessary when you had your mother living up the hill. Except perhaps if that mother was temporarily, incapacitatingly drugged up and knocked out. Or when you didn’t much feel like explaining to your mother, as was often required, where it was you thought you were going at such an hour and when exactly you expected to be home. “Actually,” Suzy said, taking a step closer to Peg and Jeremy. “Actually, were you planning on hanging out here awhile tonight?”

  Peg looked to Jeremy, who met her glance. They turned back to Suzy simultaneously, faces wide and blank, heads wagging, yeah, no, no plans, why?

  “Mia’s asleep,” Suzy said. “Chances are she’ll stay that way. I could really stand to get out for a few hours. Just to clear my head a little.”

  Peg was already waving her off. “Yeah, grand, go on. We’ll look in on her.”

  “That’d be great,” Suzy said. “Thanks.” She was already moving back toward the parking lot.

  Peg settled back into the crook of Jeremy’s arm. She watched Suzy go. “I’d be unable to do that myself, I imagine.”

  “Do what?” Jeremy nuzzled her hair.

  “Go off and leave my child at such a . . . time, you know? I imagine I’d be unwilling to separate altogether.” Peg’s voice held a certain disdain.

  “I guess,” Jeremy said. He cuddled her closer.

  Suzy took a Lodge truck. She parked in Eden Jacobs’s driveway, then took the path out back and knocked on the door of Roddy’s shed.

  Roddy’s voice said, “It’s not locked,” as though he knew who it was. She pulled open the door but didn’t enter. He sat on the edge of the bed, still wearing his work pants and boots, the dirty pale blue T-shirt he’d been wearing since the night before. She stood in the doorway: “Can I come in?”

  He said nothing immediately, but sat surveying her in a way that might have been insulting—this moment at which he seemed to be deciding something, thoughts flying through his head like numbers across a stock ticker as he tried to sort them, each idea in its place somewhere inside his flashing cortex. He was plotting the route they’d take once she stepped across that threshold, and Suzy could almost tell when he’d mapped it, because his face cleared and edged over into resolve. He took a breath, a swimmer ready to plunge, and said, “OK.”

  Suzy stepped in and pulled the door behind her, then hovered above him in the close confines, the bare walls of unfinished wood, the smoky air.

  “It’s not a very comfortable bed,” he told her.

  “That’s OK,” she said. “I didn’t really come to sleep.”

  He smiled, slightly, then pushed himself up. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  She took his place on the cot, which was firmer than it looked; he’d laid a board between the mattress and the springs. He stood above her a moment, then knelt before her and parted her knees, edging himself between them. He watched her, his eyes over her clothes as if he was planning the order of their removal. His fingers were shaking, his breath infrequent, as if he had to remind himself: Breathe. He grabbed on to her T-shirt with both hands and pulled it straight up, inside-out, over her head, then brought the shirt to his face and inhaled before dropping it to the floor. He reached around her then to unhook her bra. It took a minute, but he got it, let the straps fall forward and slide f
rom her arms. She watched his face while he held her breasts, closing his eyes again, memorizing the feel of them. She reached out and pulled his T-shirt off him then and dropped it to the bed beside her. The tan on his arms and neck stopped at the edges of where the shirt had been; his torso was pale and oddly hairless. Suzy reached out a hand, let her fingers graze his skin. He jumped. “I’m sorry,” she said. “No,” he said. “No.” He drew his breath. She lifted her hand slowly. When her skin touched his he shuddered again but held his ground, eyes closed. She kept her hand on him, flattened her palm to his stomach.

  She traced her finger over a broad scar that spread across his side and disappeared beneath the waistband of his pants. “Where’s this from?”

  “War wound,” he said, then stood abruptly, slipped out of his jeans, and rounded the bed. He raised the cover like a wing and beckoned her beneath it. She pulled off her shorts and slid in, and he curled her body into his. He held her too tightly, but that seemed right somehow.

  THE GUEST ROOM AT Art and Penny Vaughn’s was Lorna’s old bedroom, which Penny had never been able to bring herself to redo. It hadn’t actually seemed all that ludicrous a notion that Lorna might return to it one day, that she might need a place to run to. But she’d never run.

  The day after Lorna’s death, while Art sobbed to himself in the other room, Penny took a box of Hefty bags and a stack of cardboard boxes from the IGA into her daughter’s bedroom and did what she should have done twenty years before. She went through, removing photographs from the vanity mirror, stuffed animals from the bed and shelves. She folded and packed up the clothes of a seventeen-year-old girl to bring to the secondhand shop off-island, moth holes notwithstanding. Books she boxed for the library. The curtains Squee would have to live with, but she stripped the bed and remade it with plain white sheets and Art’s old army blankets for a more masculine feel. It was as though, for that day, Penny Vaughn had decided to adopt a different life as her own. She was preparing for a visit from her beloved grandson—not eradicating Lorna, just welcoming Squee.