The Salt House

by Lisa Duffy

  I paid for the visit and made it outside to the parking lot before the tears came, fast and blinding down my face. It had been brutally hot out, the AC in my car broken, so I’d walked around the side of the building. There was a small courtyard in the back with benches and a scattering of small animal statues. A plaque on the ground dedicated the space to Our Beloved Friends. I sat down on the bench, pressed a tissue to my eyes, and tried to breathe.

  I don’t know how long I sat there before I realized a woman was sitting across from me, also with a small carrier, yet hers appeared to be empty. It was obvious she’d been crying too, and she gave me a small nod when I looked up at her.

  “My carrier had a guinea pig in it from my son’s class,” she said. “I only had to keep it alive through Columbus Day. Three days. Then in comes a heat wave. In October. I didn’t even know Maine got heat waves. And apparently guinea pigs are prone to heat stroke. Prone to it. So not only is my son the new kid in town, but his mother has just murdered the class pet.”

  Despite myself, I laughed. She looked surprised, and then laughed too.

  That was almost a year ago, and although we’d become good friends, we’d avoided the tough stuff until now.

  I’d told her about Maddie when we first became friendly, of course, but we didn’t dwell on it. It was one of the reasons I enjoyed her company. Alden was a small town, smaller after Maddie died. After the story of her death made the papers, I felt like I had eyes on me wherever I went.

  With Peggy, I could just exist. Just be.

  Now, I raised my face to the sun, felt the heat spread over my forehead and tickle the tops of my cheeks.

  “How are things?” I heard Peggy ask, and I looked over at her. “I’ve been meaning to ask,” she continued, “you know, between you and Jack?”

  “He wants to finish the Salt House. He wants to scatter her ashes. He wants to make love more than once every couple of months. He wants us to be . . . us again. All things I can’t begrudge him.” I felt the words release something inside of me as they left, a lightness of sorts. They’d felt heavier unspoken.

  “How were you guys before you lost her?” she asked quietly.

  “Good,” I answered, knowing this to be true. “I mean, we had our stuff, like every married couple. But sex wasn’t an issue, if that’s what you mean.” I smiled at her, a tight-lipped smile that didn’t reveal how much it hurt to admit this. I was the one who’d made intimacy in my marriage an issue. This I knew.

  “You and I talk so much, but I don’t know Jack at all. I mean, we met that night at your house, but we didn’t talk much.”

  “No,” I agreed. “Sorry for that. He was against the dinner party from the start. Social things have never been high on Jack’s list.”

  “Ah,” she said. “Well, I’m happy you guys were good . . . I mean, before all this stuff. . . . I’m relieved to hear it’s just a rough spot.”

  It wasn’t so much what she said that struck me as odd, but how she looked after she said it, as if she’d been contemplating it for some time and was glad to put it to rest.

  “Do we seem doomed?” I asked. “I mean, is that why you’re asking?”

  She waved her hand at me, brushing the question away. “Of course not.”

  “I do love Jack. I hope you know that. I am trying to get back on track with my marriage.” I heard the strain in my voice, and my face colored.

  Peggy stopped and grabbed my arm. “Oh shit, Hope. Of course I know that.” She sighed, dropped her face in her hands. When she looked up, she was a deep shade of red.

  “God, I’m an idiot. I should have never said anything. Look, it’s just me trying to get a handle on this new Ryland that’s appeared since he started drinking. And last month . . . when I asked him to come to your dinner party with me, he, um.” She paused. “Sort of said some things.”

  “Things?”

  “Well, it’s nothing, just . . . it’s been bothering me.” She made a groaning noise and looked away.

  “Peggy, please!”

  “Oh! It’s stupid! I shouldn’t have brought it up, but I don’t know Jack at all, and we’ve become so close that I felt strange not telling you . . .” She rambled until I put my hand on her shoulder.

  “Tell me.”

  Peggy took a deep breath. “The gist of it was that Jack was not, well, not such a nice guy . . .” Her voice faded.

  I thought of the fight I’d had with Jack that night; his comment about Ryland flirting with me.

  “Look, Peg, if it’s worth anything, Jack had a similar sentiment about Ryland. They both grew up in this town. Maybe they didn’t like each other in high school. Who knows?” I gave her a jab with my elbow. “We don’t have to be couple friends.”

  She breathed in again, and breathed out slowly.

  “I told Ryland to move out,” she said.

  “Oh, Peg. I’m sorry.” I put my hand on her arm.

  Peggy shook her head. “He’s been coming home late, or not at all. He came in after midnight the other night with some story about fixing a pipe. He’s been doing some plumbing to make ends meet. I was actually going to let it go until I noticed his toolbox in the corner, right where it’d been sitting all day. It was obvious he was drunk—his eyes were glassy and he was slurring his words. I asked him what was wrong with the pipe, and he looked at me like I was nuts and told me not to worry about it. But in the nastiest tone of voice, you know? I could’ve dropped it, but it just made me furious. ‘No, really,’ I said to him, ‘How’d you fix it? With your bare hands?’ He just stared at me and then turned and looked over at the toolbox. Like he could feel it watching him.”

  “What did he say?” I asked, holding my breath.

  “Nothing. I just sat down in the chair and said, ‘Leave.’ And he did. Up and left. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers. Then turned and started walking again. I jogged to catch up to her.

  “Are you sure he was lying?” I asked, thinking that her reaction sounded a little extreme.

  “It’s not about the pipe. You know, he used to tell me he was a different person when he was drinking. And it’s not that I didn’t believe him. I did. I just never imagined how different. I know this year has been hard for him. Not finding work and then knowing we’re all unhappy about where we live. We were only supposed to rent that house for a month, two at the most, until we found something we wanted to buy. It’s been over a year now. The walls are basically falling down around us, it’s in such poor condition. I know he feels bad about that. About all of it. Which is probably why the drinking started in the first place. I know he was counting on getting his fishing business off the ground here. And that obviously hasn’t happened. He was successful in North Carolina. . . . And now, well. I know he’s struggling. But I can’t allow him to be around the boys like this.”

  I didn’t want to say it, but fishing around here wasn’t the same as fishing in North Carolina. I’d lived with a lobsterman for more than twenty years. I knew how protective they were of their territory. And if Ryland thought being an Alden native meant anything, he was wrong. It wasn’t like once you were a Mainer, you were always a Mainer. Once you moved away, you were an outsider. And that applied to everyone. Local fishermen had even stricter rules. And all of them involved being born here, staying here, and working here, every day.

  “If Ryland grew up here, he knows how territorial it is,” I said. “He must have known getting back into it was going to be hard.”

  “Well, I think there’s more to it. After the party at your house, he was talking in circles about how Jack had traps where he used to fish. On and on about how that territory was his from the beginning. I didn’t mention it because I was too embarrassed.”

  I put my hand on her arm, stopping her.

  “Did he say that to Jack at the party?”

  “I don’t know. He passed out that night, and when I brought it up the next day, he brushed it off as guys being guys.”

  My mind went back to that night,
to Jack telling me I don’t want him here again. I felt my pulse quicken. He’d seemed off the entire night, now that I looked back on it. The people we’d had over were old friends we’d met in a birthing class when I was pregnant with Jess. They all lived in Alden, and Jack watched football with the husbands most Sundays in the fall. He liked everyone that was there, and yet, he’d been on edge.

  Now I wondered if Ryland had said something to him at the party.

  “I hope Ryland understands that’s serious around here,” I said, trying to mask the concern in my voice. Her expression told me I hadn’t.

  “Believe me, I know. Seems like every time I turn on the TV, there’s something on the news about someone getting hurt, or a boat being destroyed, all over someone’s territory. Crazy,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Not so crazy if you see how hard these guys work,” I told her. “The news highlights the bad stuff, but mostly everyone is just like Jack . . . hardworking people trying to make a living.”

  There was a protectiveness in my voice, and my words hung in the air. We were quiet then as we walked. I heard a beep, and Peggy held up her wrist, pointed to her watch. We turned, walking back in the direction of the cars.

  I looked over at her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overreact,” I said. “I don’t always like the hours that Jack works, or that he refuses to work with anyone, but I love him for it all the same. He doesn’t treat it like a job. It’s his living. I knew that when I married him.”

  “You didn’t overreact,” she said, her arms pumping now. She picked up her pace, and I did a little skip jog to keep up with her. “I’m the one who isn’t reacting enough. Ryland’s going to get an earful tonight about what’s going to happen next. Not only is he going to rehab, but I’m looking for a new place to live. For me and the boys. I didn’t even tell you that Alex was talking about delaying admission to school again. I don’t know if it’s that he misses Amy or if he’s just miserable here, but everyone better start getting on the Peggy train, if you know what I mean.”

  She was a tiny woman, small and lean all over with ankles and wrists that looked almost porcelain doll–like in their daintiness, but now, with her legs reaching out in long strides, and the muscles in her upper arms flexing with each pump, she looked powerful, unstoppable.

  “I don’t envy them,” I said, huffing along next to her.

  “Neither do I,” she said, her eyes blazing and focused on a point in the distance, as though seeing the path ahead clearly now.

  We said good-bye in the parking lot, and I watched Peggy drive away.

  I sat in the car, the engine running, and thought about what she said, the look on her face when she insisted everyone better start getting on the Peggy train.

  A feeling of shame washed over me, thinking about the problems Peggy was dealing with compared to my own.

  She had an alcoholic out-of-work husband and a house that was falling down around her. An interior decorating business that was struggling even though she put in sixty-hour workweeks.

  And me?

  What were my problems?

  An emotional hiatus, Peggy had called it. She made it sound normal, expected even. And maybe it was.

  But my head felt heavy, and I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel, my shoulders bending under the weight of something I hadn’t told Peggy.

  Something I hadn’t told anyone. Not my mother or the girls.

  Certainly not Jack.

  The day she died, we’d spent the morning at the Salt House. Just Maddie and me.

  It had been a beautiful June day: sunny but cool enough for a sweatshirt—a perfect day to weed the sunflower garden at the Salt House. We’d gone over for a few hours before we went to the grocery store.

  I hadn’t meant to keep it a secret from anyone at first. It just never came up. And before I knew it, months had passed, and there was no reason to bring it up.

  And now, I knew I would never tell anyone. It seemed cruel to me. It was Jack’s family home—a house the girls adored.

  But I also knew it was one of the reasons I hadn’t been back to the house.

  I thought of what Peggy had said about her husband’s death. How visiting the places they’d been together had forced her to deal with her feelings.

  I closed my eyes. Making myself go back to that day. I wasn’t ready to physically go to the Salt House. But I hadn’t even let myself think about that morning.

  The sunflower garden had been wild, stalks reaching past the gutter line, the yellow-topped heads bobbing in the breeze.

  Weeds covered the ground below them. I pulled open the small white gate and stepped in. A path bordered the flowers, the dirt cool on the soles of my feet.

  I lowered to my knees, bent over, and breathed in the earthy smell, small specks of pollen swirling in front of my face. I pulled out a weed, then three more, making a small pile in front of me.

  Then she was there, crawling next to me, dirt covering her hands and knees, picking up one of the weeds and bringing it to her mouth, throwing it to the ground, a scowl on her face at the taste of it.

  I stood, and she stopped at a sunflower, grabbed the thick stalk and pulled herself up, her legs splayed wide for support. I heard my voice. What a big girl. Her giggle. I felt the sun on my back and pressed my face into the brown of the sunflower.

  In the car now, I forced myself to relive it. I stopped us from getting in the car. I didn’t let my mind wander ahead to our trip to the grocery store. I didn’t jump ahead to putting her down for a nap.

  I stayed with her. I felt her small hands grasping my legs for support and listened to the sound of her chatter, the smell of salt and flowers and earth swirling in my head.

  When I opened my eyes, I was still in the car. But in my mind, I was in the garden, surrounded by the sunflowers. I looked up at their round faces and saw them looking back at me. A crowd of yellow petals rippling in the breeze.

  Waving to me. As if to say, There you are.

   12

  Jack

  I was on the boat, hauling my second string, a trap balanced on the rail, pressing the brass gauge against the carapace of a lobster, when my cell rang. I’d been out on the water all morning with almost nothing to show for it.

  Seemed like the only things I was pulling this morning were bugs too small to keep. I threw the lobster back in the water, let the empty trap rest on the deck, and fished the phone out of my pocket.

  I needed the break anyway, with the way my lungs were on fire.

  I’d thought I’d slept off the cold I was battling by crawling into bed before dinner last night. But I wasn’t on the water one hour this morning before the ache came back, like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my back. And not just once. Again and again.

  Jess sounded almost as bad when I answered the phone, her normally lively voice sullen. “I’m sick,” she said. “A cold or something. I want to go home, but I can’t find Boon.”

  “Do you have a fever?” I asked, worried. Jess was never sick. She was the type of kid who kept track of her attendance at school, who insisted that her runny nose wasn’t a cold, just allergies, so she wouldn’t fall behind and miss any classes. There wasn’t typically time in Jess’s schedule to be sick.

  “I don’t think so,” she said in a tone that wasn’t convincing. “I would’ve called Mom, but she’s in Boston all day. I know you don’t like to be bothered when you’re working.” She said this like she called often and I ignored her. I couldn’t remember the last time Jess had called me on the boat.

  “You’re not bothering me, Jess,” I said gently. “I’ll come in and take you home.”

  “No,” she said loudly. “I mean, I’m fine to get home. I have my bike. I’m just going to bed anyway, so it makes no sense for you to be there.” There was an urgency in her voice. “Okay, Dad? Don’t come in.”

  “Are you sure? Because, I can be there in ten—”

  “Dad. Seriously. I’m not five. I can get home on my own.
Don’t be like you always are.”

  She was quiet then. I wasn’t very good at picking up on the subtle stuff. I knew this from living with a house full of girls. I’d been told this repeatedly by my house full of girls. But Jess’s voice wasn’t subtle. The tone of it was sharp, the words thrown at me.

  Don’t be like I always am? I held the phone away from my ear and looked at it. When I put it back, she was talking.

  “Can you just call Boon? That’s all I called for. I’ll lock up the shop, and he can open it up when he gets back here. I think he just went to the warehouse where cell service stinks, so I can’t reach him. Okay?” She sounded exasperated.

  “Okay. Are you sure you’re all right—”

  “Wait.” She cut me off. “Boon’s here. He just walked in. I’m leaving. Can you talk to him?”

  She didn’t wait for me to answer before there was a rustling on the other end, and then Boon’s voice, muffled and confused.

  “Hey. What is this, a hot potato?”

  “Boon?”

  “Yeah. What’s going on? She left.”

  “She’s sick. Going home to bed.”

  “Does she need a ride? I can go get her.”

  “No, just let her be. Close up if you have to. I don’t know what’s on your plate today.”

  There was a pause, and then he said, “You know what? I’ll go pick up Doris. She’ll love it. She’s still pissed we fired her.” Doris was Boon’s eighty-year-old mother, who worked behind the counter one season until the summer tourists complained that the usually fast service was now slow because Doris had fifteen-minute conversations with every local that came in to buy fish.

  “You fired her,” I said. “I was fine with making the tourists wait.”

  “Which is why you’re out there and I’m in here.”

  “Boon, I’m out,” I said, done with the small talk. “These traps aren’t pulling themselves.”

  “Wait a sec, now that I have you on the phone. I was just over at the warehouse with Manny. He said Bitty came over for bait this morning and told him he’s missing some strings.”