The Salt House

by Lisa Duffy

  I didn’t say anything. My head was still stuck on him driving past my house. To see if I wanted to hang out.

  “The thing is, well, Finn’s not my father. Not my real father.” He pushed his hat up and down again. “He’s my stepfather, my mom’s husband. My father died when I was little, and um, I guess I could have pretended that I didn’t know him, pretended he wasn’t my stepfather, but that seemed weird.” He paused again. “And I didn’t want to . . . to go there about my father. You know, explain it.”

  I looked away. I knew that feeling. I still flinched when people asked how many siblings I had. Mostly I said two. She was my sister. Had been my sister. But sometimes I said one. Sometimes it was too hard.

  “When you showed up on my street that day . . . I don’t know . . . you were nice and normal, and well. Anyway.”

  I made a face at him. “I was a mess that day.”

  He grinned. “Well, sure, I mean you were hurt, but still, nice and normal.”

  “Do you hang out with a lot of people who aren’t nice or normal?”

  “I don’t really hang out with anyone. We moved here last fall, and I was supposed to start school in the spring, but . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “But you didn’t,” I finished for him.

  He took a bite of his apple, shook his head.

  “You don’t like it here?” Maine wasn’t for everyone. Just ask my grandmother.

  “I love it here.” He tossed the apple core into the ocean, where it bobbed and floated under the dock. “I deferred admission until September, but now I’m not sure I even want to go.”

  “Is that why you moved here? For school?”

  “Yes and no. Mom’s interior design business got hit hard with the recession. Ryland kept talking about how well he could do in his hometown with his charter business. When I got into Maine Maritime, it was sort of all the push she needed. She’s regretting it now, though. I’m not in school, there’s no charter business, and her husband fell off the wagon.” He glanced over at me, the explanation sounding like an apology. “He wasn’t always a jerk.”

  I blushed. “I only met him once, and that word just blurted out of my mouth that day. It was more the ankle—”

  “No. It’s fine. There are a lot of words to describe him lately, and jerk’s the nicest of them.” He said this with a smile on his face, but it faded quickly. “What happened that day? Between the two of you?”

  “It’s a long story. I have a little sister, and I think your brother is bothering her. She’s had kind of a tough year. I was just going to ask him to stop bugging her, and then your stepfather was there, and I don’t know. Let’s just forget it.”

  “Elliot’s picking on her?” His face colored. “That’s just great. Stepfather’s a drunk, and brother’s a bully. You must think I’m a real winner.” His voice was strained, and he shook his head. “Tell your sister he won’t bother her again. Okay? Gosh, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not a big deal. I don’t know the whole story. Kat can be, um, well, Kat. She said something about them racing each other, and how she beats him all the time. She’s not exactly a wallflower.” I smiled, trying to show him it wasn’t a big deal, but he looked embarrassed.

  “El’s a good kid. Ryland’s tougher on him than me. Elliot was just a baby when my mom met Ryland, and he sort of raised him. Ryland always talks about how he was a jerk when he was younger. Sort of the high school bully. He doesn’t want Elliot to go down that path just because he’s bigger than everyone. But now that Ryland’s drinking, my mother kicked him out of the house until he stops. I think Elliot’s having a tough time dealing with it.”

  I swallowed, felt my heart lurch. Out of the house? I tried not to think of my parents, of my father telling my mother she was killing him.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Is your mom okay?”

  “She’s pretty tough. Not one to take any crap. She’s sort of upset with me because I told her I was having second thoughts about going to school. I said it was because I wanted to stick around until Ryland got his act together. But it’s more than that. And she knows it. She’s not happy about me waffling on my future, as she puts it.”

  I thought about this. “Maybe she needs to know plan B,” I said, using my father’s line.

  Don’t complain to me about plan A, he’d say, until you have a plan B. He said it to Kat the entire season she threatened to quit her softball team. She’d whine and complain about how the other girls were only on the team because their parents made them play and they always lost. Finally after the last game, Kat told him that next year, she was going to join the boys’ baseball team. Aha, my father had said. Plan B.

  “Is there a plan B?” I asked now.

  “I hope,” he said. “I applied for an apprenticeship at a boat-building school in Brooklin. Way up north. It’s probably closer by boat. Sort of over there.” He pointed across the water.

  “I know where it is,” I said, and he looked at me.

  “Right. You’re from here.”

  “From here.” I tapped the dock. “The part of Maine you’re talking about is like another country. You must really like boats to go up there.”

  He laughed, his eyes resting on the skiff I had my foot propped up on. “Yours?” he asked, studying it, leaning over until his cheek was almost touching the dock.

  “She’s my sister’s. Mine is a sailboat.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be. My father wanted me to have her to learn on.” I heard my voice petering off, embarrassed that I might have come off as spoiled.

  “No. I’m impressed that you called the boat she, not it.”

  “You haven’t met my father. I knew what port and starboard were before I knew the alphabet.”

  “So, where is the sailboat?” he asked.

  “Behind our house, under a tarp. A crack in the hull. My dad keeps saying he’ll patch it, but I’m not holding my breath. It’s not like he has a lot of free time.”

  He looked down at his watch. “Time. Oh, crap. I’ve got to run. My campers will be done with lunch in a minute.” He got to his feet and threw the paper bag in the barrel behind us.

  “I should get back too,” I said, standing up and slipping on my sneakers.

  We walked up the gangplank in silence. When we reached the back door of the shop, he stopped and turned to face me. He fiddled with the brim of his hat. Push, pull, push, pull.

  “I could fix her,” he said finally. “The boat, I mean. I could take a look at the crack. See if I can help. Do something to make up for my family.”

  “You gave me that ride and everything. You don’t have to do that.”

  “Well, look at it this way. You’ll be doing me a favor. I’ll fix her and take some pictures. You get a working sailboat, and I get another project in my portfolio.” He tilted his head at me, his green eyes bright for the first time since he’d joined me at the dock.

  “Yes,” I said, the word sneaking out before I could stop it. “I mean, okay. If you don’t mind.”

  “Tomorrow? I’ll walk over after work and get you. I keep my truck in the town lot at the fields.”

  I got out of work at four in the afternoon, right when my father was likely to be motoring in.

  “I’ll meet you in the lot,” I said quickly, relieved that the boat was behind a shed at the Salt House. I didn’t have to worry about running into my parents. They never went there anymore anyway.

  We said good-bye, and I watched Alex walk away, my heart racing so fast, it felt like it might break loose, push its way through my chest.

  Back in the shop, Boon was in his office. I tried to slip past him, but he cleared his throat.

  “Nice try. Get in here.”

  I backed up and leaned against the doorframe in front of him. He was smiling, his dark eyes playful.

  “He’s cute,” he teased. “I think your old man will approve.”

  I felt my heart skip a beat. “He’s nobody. Just a kid from school,�
�� I lied, trying to sound casual.

  Boon lifted his eyebrows. “Then how come his license said he was eighteen?”

  “You made him show you his license?”

  “Of course,” he said. “His urine’s in a cup in the freezer too.”

  I gave him a look. “Very funny, Boon.”

  He laughed and shuffled papers on his desk, but I lingered in the doorway.

  “Boon,” I said, and he looked up. “Can you not mention it?”

  He looked confused for a minute. Then his mouth formed a straight line, and I sighed. I’d known Boon all my life. I knew every one of his looks.

  “You know what he’s like,” I pleaded, before he said anything.

  “That he’s protective? Yes.”

  “You’re protective. He’s . . . I don’t know, weird about it.”

  “Yeah, well, he is who he is,” he mumbled, half paying attention.

  “That’s great,” I muttered. “Thanks for the help.” I didn’t know why it suddenly mattered so much. But it did.

  Boon looked surprised. He leaned back in his chair and watched me. “What’s going on?” he asked finally.

  “Nothing. I didn’t think it would be a big deal to not mention it to my dad. Forget it,” I said, turning to leave. I felt tears form behind my eyes.

  “Jessica. Wait,” Boon said, and I stopped. “Come here,” he said, pointing to the chair across from his desk. “Sit.”

  I crossed the room and slumped in the chair.

  He watched me. “How are things at home?” he asked.

  “Home? I don’t know. Fine.”

  “They don’t look fine from where I’m sitting.”

  I waited, didn’t answer. This was what my father called Boon’s meddling. I didn’t think it was meddling as much as Boon just being Boon.

  He didn’t hold back any part of him. Physically either. Always touching people when he talked to them. An arm slung over a guy’s shoulder. A hand on your back.

  My father was the opposite. He kept to himself. So much, it seemed he’d muster up as much as he could give and spread it only between me and Kat and Mom. My mother always said it was because he spent so much time alone on the water. That all that aloneness made him that way. I thought it was the other way around. I think my father went to the water to be alone. That he didn’t have to pretend to be anyone else out there.

  Boon put his elbows on his desk. “I’m not expecting things to be great, with the year you guys have had. But I was hoping for getting better. I haven’t wanted to bother your mother with all that’s she’s dealing with. And your dad, well, let’s say he’s hanging on by a very thin thread, if you ask me.”

  His words came out loud when he said this, unable to keep his frustration with my father out of his voice.

  He paused, his voice more controlled when he continued. “I’ve been accused of meddling, so I’m trying to stay out of it. Just keep tabs on you and Kat, and let you all know I’m here if you need me. And you’ve seemed okay, Jess. Not perfect, but okay. You’ve always been pretty even, ever since you were a baby. Sort of unflappable, actually. But you’ve never asked me to lie for you.”

  “It’s not lying. I mean, if he asks you, that’s one thing, but . . .”

  “You don’t believe that,” he said.

  “What?”

  “By that definition, a lie is something you say, not something you don’t say.”

  My head felt light all of a sudden. “Look. Whatever. You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

  “You mean out of nobody.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re asking me to not mention that you had lunch with nobody. The eighteen-year-old-friend-from-school nobody.”

  “Boon—”

  “Fine,” he said, going back to his papers.

  I eyed him. “Fine as in yes?”

  “Fine as in I won’t mention it. Only because I wouldn’t have mentioned it anyway. Not because you’re asking me not to. But”—he held a finger up, pointed at me—“behave yourself.”

  I gave him a salute and went back to the front of the shop.

  We had a steady trickle of customers for the remainder of the day. When my mind wandered to Alex, I told myself to stop it. Stop replaying the way he said my name. Stop picturing his kiwi-colored eyes. Stop tracing the slug-shaped scar on his knee. Stop all of it.

  But my mind kept drifting back to him. Finally I let myself stay in the thought.

  My insides felt stirred up, alive again. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d looked forward to something, been excited about something. Maybe keeping Alex a secret from my father wasn’t the best plan. But I wasn’t willing to lose this feeling inside of me. It belonged to me.

  It was my plan B.

   11

  Hope

  It was Peggy who suggested we walk.

  She said after her first husband died, her walks on the beach in those first weeks kept her sane. She’d put Alex on the bus for school, get right into her car, drive to the long stretch of beach across town, and walk until her legs ached. Not even her pregnant body, with her swollen ankles and huge belly, eight months at the time, slowed her down.

  It saved her, she said. All that vast blue spreading out next to her and the crashing of the waves pushing the fog from her head.

  And it gave her someplace to go instead of back inside the house, where a hospital bed sat in the living room and pill bottles lined the kitchen counter.

  Her husband had wanted to die in the house they’d built together. But the cancer had taken even that from them and his last weeks were spent in a hospital room, his body pumped full of so much morphine, he looked at her and Alex like he didn’t know them.

  Like they were strangers.

  Peggy and I walked in the mornings after we dropped the kids at camp. Our hair tucked under baseball hats or pulled back messily. Our bodies thrown into mismatched shorts and tank tops, sometimes stained, usually wrinkled, as if we knew the words we’d say out loud would somehow seep into the clothing.

  I learned that she’d met Ryland at an AA meeting several years after her husband died. She’d volunteered to go with a friend who was nervous about attending her first meeting. Almost a decade had passed, and she’d never seen Ryland drink. Until now.

  Now Peggy said, since moving to Alden, she never saw him sober.

  I talked about how I couldn’t write anymore. Or make love. Both acts a form of automation, a feeling of being outside of myself, watching from a distance, detached and robotic, my movements generated from memory instead of desire.

  It’s lonely, I told her, feeling the thickness of those words roll off my tongue.

  We were walking on the hard-packed sand by the water when I admitted this. The ocean was flat, motionless, small waves running over our feet. When I said it out loud, the skin on my arms puckered into small goose bumps, as if my body wanted to rid itself of this information.

  “What’s crazy is that I miss doing both,” I said. “Even in the middle of having sex now, I’m aware that I miss how we used to make love.”

  “I don’t think it’s so crazy,” she replied, her pace slowing as she took a sip of coffee from the cup she was carrying. “Both of those things require you to be present. Maybe you’re just taking a break. An emotional hiatus.”

  I sighed. “For over a year?”

  Peggy raised her eyebrows. “Yeah,” she said.

  “Do you remember that feeling?” I asked. “After you lost your husband?”

  “Do I ever.” Peggy sighed. “I remember not being able to breathe whenever somebody mentioned his name. We were high school sweethearts. Bought a house in the same town we grew up in. That was the hardest part. Seemed like every coffee house, restaurant, park, and beach had a memory of him. Of us.”

  “You must have wanted to move,” I said, thinking of the Salt House, how all those memories made my chest heavy, my legs weak.

  “Disappear is more like it. But Alex was just a boy,
and then Elliot was born. I think that forced me to deal with it. I had to drive to school, and to the park, and all of those places that had all those memories. Little by little, it just got easier. Then one day—and I remember it so well—it was maybe a year later, or more, I don’t know. That’s not important. Anyway, I was in the car with Alex, just driving—I don’t even remember where we were going—and we passed this family. A man and a woman and a little boy. They were riding bikes on the path near the beach, and this picture popped into my head. Like a snapshot. And I turned to Alex in the passenger seat and said, ‘Do you remember when your dad tried to learn how to Rollerblade? He kept falling off the path onto the sand, and then he got going too fast and ran into the trash barrel and tipped it over and it spilled and he ended up in a pile of trash in the dune?’ and we both laughed about it. And I mean, I really laughed.”

  She looked over at me, still surprised, it seemed. “Anyway. Now I’m desperate to remember the memories. I write them down sometimes, so I can tell the kids about him. A way of keeping him alive, I guess. There’s no sadness anymore when I think of him. If anything, it’s the opposite. I miss him, sure, but I always smile when something reminds me of him.”

  “Thanks for telling me that,” I said. “Some days I think I’m there, and then suddenly, I’m at the not-breathing part again.”

  She was walking next to me, close enough that our elbows bumped occasionally. I looked over at her, thankful for her friendship. It spurred me on, her fortitude. These same words hurt Jack, worried my mother.

  I thought back to when Peggy and I first met, remembering I’d been unable to breathe on that day as well.

  I’d taken Orange Kitty for his annual appointment at the veterinarian’s office. When I was returning him to his carrier after the doctor had finished, I noticed a tiny baby sock in the corner. Flakes of catnip seeped through the holes in the cotton. Orange Kitty had scuttled in to retrieve it, and it was clear why he’d gone in the carrier so willingly at home. The girls must have used the makeshift toy to lure the cat into the carrier for his appointment last year. I kept a bag of catnip in the pantry, and the girls had used a sock to hold the catnip. A small sock. Maddie’s sock. The sight of it made my hands shake.