by Luanne Rice
“Oh my God,” Delia said. “Pete. Honey, it is so wonderful to see you. I can’t believe it! You’re here!”
“Wow, Pete,” Dar said.
“Hi, Aunt Dar,” he said as she came over to hug him, too.
“Pete and I brought lunch. Ham and cheese, roast beef, eggplant Parmesan, take your pick. All kinds of sodas.”
“Sprite for me,” Pete said.
“Worked up a thirst this morning,” Andy said. “All that sawdust flying around.”
“You’re working with Andy?” Delia asked.
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you all about it later, Mom.”
“Have you called your father?” she asked.
“No,” Pete said. “Not since I asked for money to fix my truck.”
Delia felt tears burning her eyes. The more she loved Pete, the closer she felt to the edge of losing it completely. Her body ached, holding herself back from grabbing and shaking him. She wanted to explain everything so he would see it. Surely if she could get him to understand, he’d behave differently. She felt like screaming, but instead she bit her lip and turned away, keeping her tears to herself.
“Come on,” Andy said, spreading the lunch on the porch table. Delia watched him put a fatherly hand on Pete’s shoulder. “Let’s eat.”
After lunch, Dar and Andy walked into the yard, Scup bounding along beside them. The sun was warm, beating down on their shoulders. He put his arm around her.
“When did he arrive?” Dar asked.
“While you and your sisters were in Ireland.”
“Why isn’t he staying here?”
“He’s in Al’s sober house,” Andy said.
“Really?” Dar asked. “Is that your doing?”
“I made the introduction. But he’s staying on his own.”
“That’s great,” Dar said.
They walked to the edge of the yard, and Dar showed him where she’d been looking for the markers.
“How could four granite posts be so hard to miss?” she asked.
“Well, you have to think like the guy who put them in,” Andy said, peering along the property line. “I’d sink one by the pond, another by the road, and two in between. Easiest place to look might be the pond. The hedge isn’t so thick there.”
The sun shimmered on the sea, the pond, rocks hidden in the hedge. The light reflected blindingly bright-white, glinting on bits of crystal and mica in the rocks. Andy scanned the area while Dar crouched down, into the shade of the thornbushes.
She’d looked here before, but the sun’s angle had been different. She’d hurried along, trying to cover too much ground, and Andy hadn’t been with her. Midday sunlight penetrated the low, thick brush, and a flat stone caught her attention: four inches square, about an inch high.
“Andy . . .”
“You got it?” he asked.
She dug around the stone’s edges; Scup nosed his way in, curious about what she’d found. He lunged at the strange square rock, scrabbling at one straight side with his claws, uncovering an inch or so of smooth granite beneath the ground’s surface.
“It’s granite,” she said. “Some kind of a marker, but it doesn’t look anything like a post.”
“Sure it does,” Andy said, sitting on his heels beside her, reaching in to scoop away more dirt. “Buried with almost four centuries of sand and soil. It probably goes down two feet.”
“Let’s dig and see!
“We’ll excavate all four,” Andy said. “That’s a promise, Darrah. But first you’ve got to take a ride with me.”
“But . . .”
“No. Come on. I’ve been waiting for weeks; I can’t take it anymore.”
Dar hesitated, but he pulled her to her feet. She followed him to his truck, and they climbed in.
He drove onto Middle Road, down the narrow valley where a month ago he’d shown her the millpond and old millstone. They parked in the same place, and she followed him down one side of a shady glade to the pond and brook. He held her hand to help her across, and she raced him up the sunny slope opposite, touching the millstone as she passed. When she got to the top, her heart sank.
A foundation had been dug and poured, and the first part of a house had been framed.
“I thought you said the owner wasn’t going to build,” she said.
“The old owner wasn’t, but the new owner is,” he said.
“Another part of the island being eaten up,” she said, sitting down on the foundation. She looked around; they were above the tree line, and from here had a long view toward the sea.
“Don’t hate me for this,” Andy said. “But I’m the builder on this project. Got Pete helping me out.”
“How could I hate you?” Dar asked. “Building’s your job. I just have problems with new owners who have to take up every bit of land, when there are so many beautiful old houses for sale.”
“I hear you on that one, darlin,’ ” Andy said. “Bunch of land-grabbing sons of bitches out here these days. But I’m refusing to work on any project that cuts down trees, or fills in millponds, or tears down existing structures.”
“Well, you’ve got a point,” Dar said. “No existing structures here. Will the house be huge and sprawling?”
“Nope. A pretty little cape with a nice front porch. And a room with tall north-facing windows.”
“Really?”
“They like art,” he said. “Jonathan consulted on that part.”
“Pete’s helping you out?” Dar asked.
“Yep. He’s a good worker, in spite of everything.”
“I can already tell,” Dar said. “That he’s been on drugs. He looks so yellow; was he sharing needles?”
“It didn’t get that bad,” Andy said. “He’s been clean nearly three weeks, and he’s been hitting meetings.”
“That’s great,” Dar said.
“It is,” Andy said.
“I wish I could turn my mind off,” Dar said, lying back on the concrete foundation. “So much to think about—about my father, and Morgan and the buyers deciding what to do…”
“Doesn’t the land grant take care of that?”
“Well, at least it held up the closing. But I’m not sure about what my sisters have in mind.”
“You can stop thinking,” Andy said, lying beside her. “Everything’s going to work out.”
“It will? How do you know?” Dar asked.
Andy didn’t reply, just stroked her bare arms, turning her mind off as he kissed her in the sunlight.
Three weeks passed, and by the third Friday in May the cottage began to take shape. The woods smelled of new growth; there were leaves on the branches, patches of white dogwood showing through the oaks and cedars. Andy had been worried the leafing out would block the house’s view, but it only framed it more beautifully.
“Hey now,” Andy said, just as Pete was ready to pound nails into a wide-plank tiger maple floorboard. “Make sure that’s level. These are old boards, and some of them are warped. You want to nail them in sets of three. Three nails making a triangle, see?”
Pete watched Andy show him how it was done.
“Where’d you get them?” Pete asked.
“From a beautiful old house someone tore down.”
“Seems to be a thing out here,” Pete said.
“Seems to be a thing anywhere there’s nouveau riche,” Harrison said, lying on his side in the mossy glade outdoors, smoking a cigarette. “You realize you’re in the presence of a master, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Pete said. “My aunt says there’s no better carpenter on the island. Not since her father.”
“That’s high praise,” Harrison said. “Captain McCarthy was a helluva boatbuilder. Right, Andy?”
“That’s right,” Andy said, using his miter box to angle another group of boards.
“But not a real sea captain, right?” Pete asked.
“Man, your grandfather sails transatlantic, I think he deserves to be called ‘Captain,’” Harrison said.
“Don’t you, Andy?”
“I’m not so big on titles,” Andy said. “But sure. The man made it to Ireland.” He glanced up, looked at Pete. “I’m sorry he didn’t make it back. That you never knew him.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“He was a tough guy,” Harrison said. “He’d have kicked some sense into you. You’re supposedly into meth, on the lam with your parents’ money, right?”
“Hey, Harrison,” Andy said harshly.
“No, it’s true, I was,” Pete said.
“ ‘ Was’ being the operative word,” Harrison said. “I can’t seem to kick my little habits, but then, I don’t want to. I’ve constructed a life where they don’t matter to or bother anyone.”
“You live in a fucking storage unit,” Andy said. “Anyone driving within miles can smell the weed.”
“I like to give pleasure to my neighbors,” Harrison said. “This island’s getting too prissy. Got to remind them of the days of smugglers, pirates, and ruffians. Right, Pete?”
“Sure, Harrison,” Pete said, laughing. He checked his watch, and Andy saw and handed him the truck keys.
“What, you’re letting him take the truck?”
“Yep,” Andy said.
Harrison shook his head. “You’re a brave man.” Then, “Have a nice ride, kid.”
“I will,” Pete said.
Driving out to Chilmark, he felt as nervous as if he were taking someone out on a date. He pulled into the driveway, and his mother stepped out as if she’d been waiting and watching. She wore a blue dress and low black heels, a white cashmere shawl over her shoulders, and the dressiness of her outfit broke Pete’s heart a little. He jumped out to help her into the cab, shut the door carefully behind her. Dar waved from the kitchen window, and his mother waved back.
They had a long drive, but he’d allowed for plenty of time. Knowing his mother, he expected her to talk the whole way, covering everything from his father to trouble with the farmhouse buyers and their lawyer to Pete’s own troubles. She’d grilled him for days, wanting to know what he’d taken, whether he’d seen a doctor, whether he’d been tested for AIDS, when his drug-taking had started. He’d done his best to answer every question as patiently as possible.
Uncharacteristically, on the ride to Vineyard Haven, his mother didn’t say a word. She stared at the dashboard clock, watching it tick toward noon. Pete began to feel nervous about the silence, so he turned on the radio. Andy had it tuned to the island station, and they were playing the Arctic Monkeys.
They finally reached Vineyard Haven, got into a little traffic heading toward the noon boat. His mother pulled the visor down, saw there wasn’t a mirror, opened her purse to remove a compact and check her lipstick.
“Oh God, I’m sweating,” she said.
“Here, Mom,” Pete said, handing her some napkins from Andy’s door pocket.
“I’m not sure I belong . . .” she said. “Are you sure you want me?”
“Yeah, I do,” he said. “It’s an open meeting.”
He was afraid to look at her, to see how unsettled she seemed. But he looked, and she was, so he took her hand. It didn’t matter that they’d talked about what to expect, that she’d asked a million questions, and he’d answered the best he could. They got a good parking spot on Woodland Avenue, just around the corner from Williams Street. She stayed in the truck, waiting for him to help her out. He could feel her jangling nerves, just as if they were his own.
It had always been so hard for his mother to see him as he was, as somebody much less than perfect. He’d grown up hearing his father yell, “You’re not living up to what we expect!” His mother had gone the opposite way: praising him for the smallest, most insignificant things, always encouraging him. It had made him sad, seeing her get her hopes up, always knowing he was going to dash them.
Now, seeing the mess drugs had made of his teeth and face, she couldn’t pretend nothing was happening.
“Honey,” she said, as he came around to open her door. “Let me wait here for you. It’s private, what you’re doing here.”
“Are you afraid someone will see us going in?” he asked.
“No, it’s not that,” she said quickly. But he saw her look around. He felt how ashamed she was of all this, and was ready to drop it, just drive her home. But then she smiled, gave a quick shake of her head, and jumped down from the truck’s cab.
As they walked up the sidewalk, she held tight to his hand, just the way she’d done walking him to the first day of school. He wanted to tell her to look at the white and purple lilacs, blooming all around. But she kept her head down, still worried that someone would recognize her and her son going into the meeting. He remembered that feeling.
Grace Episcopal Church was old-school: weathered wood with a chimney on one roof and a cross atop a small white tower. Stained-glass windows caught the midday light.
“You know,” she said, “when I was really young, Catholics weren’t allowed to go into other faiths’ churches. It was a sin we’d have to confess.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. You won’t be sinning,” Pete said, leading her around back to the Parish Hall. AA and NA meetings were held here, and he’d been careful to choose one that was open to anyone, not just alcoholics or addicts.
“Sweetheart,” she said, stopping on the sidewalk.
“Are you okay?”
“Why do you want me here, Pete?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I just do. I need you to see me in all this. I know you want me to be someone better, a different kind of son. I’ve put you through hell. I want you to see me trying for a change.”
His mom gazed up into his eyes, and suddenly he knew she got it. She looked ferocious. He’d seen that look in the face of a Kodiak bear. “You’ve put yourself through hell,” she said. “And if this will help you come back from it, I’m with you. Come on. I’m ready.”
Walking in, he recognized nearly everyone in the place, standing in clusters around the room. He took his mother to the coffee table, poured her a Styrofoam cup, and offered her an oatmeal cookie.
“Well,” she said, sounding calm. “I know people here.”
“They’re here for the same reason I am,” he said.
“That’s good,” she said.
The chairs were set up in a circle, and they found seats together. Pete heard his mother say, “Hello, Rose,” and “Hello, Steve.”
“Hey, Delia.”
The group leader took her seat, asked someone to read “How It Works,” someone else to read from “Daily Reflections.” Pete stared at the window shades hung on the wall, noticed his mother reading the Steps intently, wondered whether they made any sense to her.
After the readings, Judy, the group leader, asked if anyone was celebrating an anniversary. There were three: Buddy with one year, Karen with fifteen years, and Roy with thirty-five. The room went wild.
“Is anyone counting days?” Judy asked next.
She called on everyone with their hands up; when she got to Pete, he said, “I’m Pete, alcoholic-addict, and I have twenty-one days.”
The room erupted in applause, as it always did. Pete glanced at his mother, saw her clapping as loudly as anyone.
Judy glanced around the room, smiling.
“Do we have any visitors?” she asked.
Pete held his breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his mother raise her hand. Judy gestured, calling on her.
“My name is Delia,” Pete’s mother said, her voice unsteady. “And I’m here to support my son Pete.”
Everyone in the room clapped for her, and Pete saw the smile of love and pride begin to spread across her face.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Spring’s peace and serenity on the Vineyard gave way to Memorial Day: festivities, crowds, and the unofficial start of summer. Dar had worked in the farmhouse garden every day, clearing the perennial beds, planting annuals, sprucing up the vegetable gardens with tomato, pepper, cucumber, and squash plants, creating a bo
rder of white ageratum around the herb garden, replanting the rosemary and sage plants they’d brought inside for the winter, as if keeping her hands in the earth could help her hold on to the family home she couldn’t bear to let slip away.
A woman Delia had met at Pete’s AA meeting had suggested Delia give Al-Anon, the group for friends and families of alcoholics, a try, so Dar had started going with her. They’d sit together, sipping their coffees, listening to people tell their stories, share about what was going on, hair-raising and agonizing stories about loving someone who couldn’t stop drinking or drugging.
Delia was still shy, but she’d found an Al-Anon sponsor: Dana Bickerton, a woman Dar respected for her kindness and strong sobriety. Sometimes Pete and Andy would meet them afterwards, and they’d all wind up going out for “the meeting after the meeting” at local cafés and ice cream shops.
Dana was kind and encouraged Delia to share her story with her. It wasn’t easy, but Delia made a beginning; she knew this part of her journey meant facing her own demons, the guilt and grief she felt about having a son addicted to drugs and alcohol.
Andy wasn’t spending as many nights with Dar as usual. She knew he was working hard to finish the millpond house, and she had her own work to do. The trip to Ireland and all its aftermath had caused her to be late on a deadline. So she’d stay up drawing half the night, windows open so the summery air could flow through.
As always, Dulse’s life reflected hers. Having learned the truth about her father, Dulse understood that he had entered the afterworld, a place of ghosts and spirits separated from the living only by a veil finer than silk. They stayed close to this world and those they’d left behind. They lived in mirrors and shallow bodies of water, and could gaze through the glass or shimmering surface into the eyes of those they loved, letting them know that they were never far away.
Many of the farmhouse mirrors were antique, mottled with age. Dar would stare into her own eyes, hoping to get a glimpse of her father or mother. Sometimes she had to remind herself that Dulse’s world was invented. But since it seemed to come from a place so deep down inside herself, couldn’t it possibly be true?