The Vanishing Expert

by David Movsesian

  When her friend pulled up in front of her house, James’s Jeep was parked on the street. James was sitting on one of the big Adirondack chairs on the front porch, slowly patting Max, who watched her eagerly, tail wagging, as she hurried through the rain from the car to the porch.

  “What happened to you?” she asked him. She made no effort to conceal the anger in her voice.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I just had to leave.” He knew better than to think that would satisfy her. “I’ll explain it sometime,” he added.

  “I’m sort of pissed at you, James,” she said tersely. “You were supposed to be my ride home. Don’t you think maybe now would be a good time?”

  James continued to stroke Max behind the ears. It had a calming effect on him, and he looked somberly up at Christina, who stood with her arms folded across her chest, unyielding and awaiting an explanation.

  James patted the arm of the empty chair beside him. “Have a seat.”

  She sat down reluctantly, noticing that Max still seemed to occupy his attention.

  “I shouldn’t have run out without saying something,” he told her. “But the truth is, I saw some people I used to know, and I didn't want to face them.”

  Christina frowned at him. “Where?” she asked. “In the shop?”

  James nodded. “They were my wife’s friends, really,” he told her. “They lived in our neighborhood. When they came into the shop, I guess it caught me off guard. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone from my old life up here.”

  Christina frowned at him. “So you just left?”

  “I know it sounds ridiculous, but I don’t really want anyone to know where I am,” he said. “I just want to put all that behind me.”

  “Don’t you think that if these people are friends of your wife that she already told them where you are?”

  James considered it for a moment. “I suppose she would have,” he offered, “if she knew.”

  Christina’s eyes grew narrow, and she looked at him incredulously. “Are you trying to tell me your ex-wife doesn’t even know where you are?”

  James shook his head slowly. “No,” he admitted. “And I don't want her to find out either.” He realized how strange that must have seemed to Christina. Her own father had left, but he hadn’t disappeared. Should her mother ever want to contact him, she at least knew she could. That she chose not to was her decision, and James knew that it must seem strange to think of a man simply leaving his wife without any mention of where he was going, to sever the ties so completely, so permanently.

  “When I left,” he continued, “I needed to make a clean break. I gave my wife everything we had so there wouldn’t be anything linking me to her or to my old life.” Max nudged Christina’s hand and she instinctively began to rub him behind the ears, but James still had her undivided attention. “I just wanted to make a fresh start.”

  “What if she needs you for something?” Christina wondered. James could tell she was thinking of her father.

  “She doesn’t need me,” he said. “That’s the point. The things she wanted out of me, she got— the house, the cars, our savings— everything. The things I needed, she couldn’t give me.”

  “Kids,” Christina said, remembering their conversation at the diner in Ellsworth.

  James managed a smile. “We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we?”

  “We have. But I’m still trying to figure you out.”

  “There’s not much to figure out,” he told her. “Kids were just one of the things she couldn’t— or wouldn’t— give me. I think what happens when you get married too young is you make a lifelong commitment to someone before you even know for sure what it is you want out of life. And by the time you each figure out that you want completely different things, it’s too late.”

  Christina nodded. “My mother tells me the same thing.”

  “Believe her,” James said. “She’s right.”

  Christina looked at him for a long time until the hint of a smile began to emerge. “Are you hungry?”

  James eyed her expectantly. “Does that mean you accept my apology?”

  “Maybe after you take me out and feed me,” she teased. “That’s another thing my mother always tells me: Don’t ever accept a man’s apology until after he buys you a nice dinner.”

  James laughed. “With my ex, it was jewelry.”

  “Dinner’s fine this time,” Christina assured him. “But I like the way she thinks.”

  Christina directed James to a small out-of-the-way restaurant in Northeast Harbor where she felt certain they could dine without having to worry about running into Michael and Susan McKinnon. The rain had broken off unexpectedly, and as they drove, the last rays of sunlight reflected brilliantly off the wet road and the rain-soaked trees. Long, slow-moving shadows of clouds passed across the hills and the sheer cliff walls.

  They sat at a table near a large window overlooking the harbor, already cluttered with the boats of Mount Desert Island’s wealthier summer people. The masts silently swayed back and forth in the breeze.

  With the darkness that soon settled over the harbor, he could see the lights from the cabins of some of the larger boats moored in the calm harbor where the sailors were spending the night, a peaceful night after what must have been a turbulent day upon the water. He imagined how tranquil it must be out there in the darkness, lulled to sleep by the gentle rolling of the sea.

  It occurred to him that there always seemed to be a life more peaceful than his own. There was always someplace he would rather be. Or at least that might have been the case had he not looked across the table at that moment to see Christina’s smiling face in the warm light of the candle that flickered on the table between them.

  “You looked like you were a million miles away just now,” Christina told him.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I was just looking out at the lights on the boats out there, and thinking how nice it would be to spend a night out on the water.”

  “You’re the guy with the cool boat, James. Just do it.”

  He smiled, considering it. “Maybe I will,” he said. “Someday. Not alone.”

  Christina appeared amused. “Afraid of the dark?”

  James shook his head. “No,” he offered softly. “That’s just the kind of thing you want to share with someone.”

  A long silence fell over them, and he wondered if Christina realized that he was picturing himself with her aboard the Chris Craft, the two of them lying together beneath a blanket, gazing up at a swirl of stars suspended overhead. When she looked at him, he could see the thin trace of a smile spreading across her face, as if she knew precisely what he was thinking.

  Later in the evening, when she again caught him gazing wistfully out at the specks of light on the harbor, she spoke his name several times until he returned his attention to her.

  She tapped the tips of her delicate fingers against her empty glass.

  James apologized again and filled her glass. He watched as she raised it to her lips, and even in the faint glimmer of the candle, he could see that her eyes had taken on a glassy, sleepy quality. She moved slowly, as if she were moving through water, and when she looked at him, she appeared content and relaxed.

  After supper, as they walked out to the Jeep, Christina wobbled a bit on the gravel parking lot, and James reached out to her to prevent her from stumbling. She stopped to regain her balance, clutching his arm to steady herself.

  “I’m a little buzzed,” she said.

  “I noticed,” James replied.

  She laughed playfully. “You did this on purpose.”

  James remained silent.

  She giggled and wagged an accusing finger at him. “You’re a very bad boy.”

  She hooked her arm through his as they walked slowly to the Jeep, which seemed to be a great deal farther from the door than it was when they arrived. Still, even in her current state, she enjoyed the feeling of James’s
arm as they walked in the fresh evening air. When they reached the Jeep, she didn’t release it when he tried to help her in.

  “Let’s walk a little,” she said softly. “I need to get some air.”

  They strolled down toward the water’s edge, Christina still clinging to his arm, though he assumed it was more balance than affection that she sought.

  A three-quarter moon hovered over the harbor, casting a long band of light over the surface of the water which seemed to end at their feet. It followed them as they walked along the shoreline, and when at one point they stopped, Christina turned and dangled her foot out over the water, as if she were about to step out upon it.

  “It looks like you can just walk out on it, doesn’t it?” she asked dreamily.

  “Only if you want to get very wet,” James warned her, drawing her back. “And very cold.”

  She laughed as he pulled her back to him, and losing her balance once again, she stumbled against him and wrapped her arms around his waist to keep from falling. James put his arm around her to steady her, and without intending to, they found themselves locked in an awkward embrace.

  The night was quiet except for the peaceful lapping of the water against the shore and the ghostlike rattle of rigging against the tall masts silhouetted in the moonlight. If it had been his intention to seduce her, he couldn’t have chosen a more perfect night. But even as he held her there at the edge of the harbor, his thoughts turned to Jean, and he imagined what she would think if she were to come upon them at that moment. A wave of guilt rushed over him, but he didn’t have time to consider it before he looked at Christina and found her smiling contentedly at him.

  “You really want to kiss me right now, don’t you?” she asked him, her voice full of mischief.

  James smiled but confessed nothing as he helped her to find her balance. “I think we should probably get you home,” he offered reluctantly. He was trying to behave honorably, but she wasn’t making it easy for him.

  Christina continued to hold his arm firmly as they turned and began to walk slowly in the direction of the parking lot. “Did you ever notice you never answer a direct question?”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  As he helped her into the passenger seat of the Jeep, her face was so close to his that he could smell the alcohol on her breath mixing with her perfume.

  Once back at her house, he escorted her inside, taking her only as far as the living room where he helped her stretch out on the sofa. He removed her shoes and spread a light blanket over her legs, and when he finally wished her goodnight and began to leave, she took hold of his hand.

  “Wait,” she muttered. Her eyes remained closed.

  James lowered himself onto one knee, studying her face, which seemed suddenly childlike. “Can I get you something?” he asked.

  “Tell me the truth,” she said. “You really wanted to kiss me tonight didn’t you?” The question seemed more curious than enticing this time. “Be honest.”

  James leaned toward her so that his face was very close to hers, and he smiled. “Not even a little bit,” he lied. He quickly kissed her on her forehead, and then he stood up and walked out of the house.

  Without opening her eyes, Christina offered a satisfied smile. “I knew you did.”

  Following his close call with Michael and Susan McKinnon, James decided to lay low for the remainder of the weekend, avoiding Bar Harbor and all the usual tourist attractions his former neighbors were most likely to visit during their stay.

  He took Max to Seawall Park where Max liked to run on the rocks and bark at the seagulls as they searched for food in the tide pools. James stood upon a large granite boulder that perched him high above the rest, and he looked out over the open sea. He was reminded of the afternoon in October when he drove his Jeep to this same place and looked out over this same patch of ocean.

  As he stood looking out at the ocean, he realized how much he missed being out on the water, how he missed the sensation of the boat rocking beneath him. He missed the solitude and the serenity of drifting a mile off shore or in some secluded cove.

  He thought about the Chris Craft resting quietly upon its trailer behind Ruth Kennedy’s house. Until that moment, he’d been content with simply being reunited with the boat. After nearly losing it forever, he treasured it now more than ever, and he questioned whether he should subject it once again to the ravages that the ocean can play upon its sleek mahogany hull. But now the ocean was calling to him again. He’d heard the first whispers the night before as he sat with Christina, gazing out at the specks of light bobbing upon the protected waters of Northeast Harbor. He had no choice now but to respond to them.

  When he returned to his apartment, he walked with Max to the spot where the boat rested behind the house in the shade of a cluster of birch and spruce trees, and he slowly removed the cover. He ran his fingers along the surface of the hull, still as smooth to his touch as he remembered, thanks to Ray’s diligent efforts to clean it after it was towed ashore.

  It was a small moment that would change his life.

  13

  A Return To The Sea

  For weeks after his close call with Michael and Susan McKinnon, James was wary as he walked the busy streets of Bar Harbor, all the while longing for the hectic pace of its crowded sidewalks in summer. It was July before he felt at ease in public again.

  On a Saturday afternoon in early July, he sat on a bench on the Village Green, reading the newspaper and waiting for Jean to join him so they could enjoy a picnic lunch. Max sat on the grass beside him, watching the passersby, when he noticed a man walking toward him pushing an old bicycle at his side.

  James recognized the bicycle. It was an old red Schwinn cruiser similar to the type his sister rode when they were younger, only much larger. It had a thick, oversized black seat, worn shiny from years of use. Attached to the handlebars, which still bore the scraggly remnants of plastic streamers dangling from the rubber handgrips, was a deep metal basket and a chrome bell, both appearing as old as the bicycle itself.

  James had seen the bike on the sidewalks in Bar Harbor many times, leaning against a signpost or tucked out of the way near the open door to the ice cream parlor or Epi’s Sub Shop, but he’d never paid much attention to it until he finally met its owner.

  The man to whom the bicycle belonged appeared to be about ten years older than James and he was thicker and almost a head shorter, though his slumped posture made him appear shorter still. Much of his bulk was fleshy and soft, giving him the appearance of a sack of grain that had sagged and settled after standing too long on end. Despite his size, his softness bestowed upon him a gentleness that was discernable even at a distance.

  He walked slowly, his eyes constantly cast downward, and he always stepped graciously aside, yielded the sidewalk to anyone he encountered. He bowed his head submissively as they passed, nervously avoiding eye contact yet seeming to crave it at the same time. On those occasions when he reluctantly raised his eyes, his face was fleshy and round with such a boyish smoothness that it gave the appearance of never having been in need of a shave.

  He paused in front of James but didn’t look at him. In the hand that wasn’t balancing the bicycle he held a large ice cream cone which, despite his most diligent attention, was melting faster than he could eat it. James looked up from his newspaper and greeted the man with a friendly smile, to which the man nodded a tentative recognition in return, his eyes downcast and almost completely shielded by the bill of a battered old Red Sox cap. He moved his lips as if to return the greeting, but no sound came from them. He looked at Max, who was, at that moment, too enamored of the man’s ice cream cone to notice the man holding it.

  “Is this s-seat t-t-t-taken?” the man asked, still not looking up to meet James gaze.

  “No,” James said, gesturing to the otherwise empty bench beside him. “Have a seat.”

  The man carefully propped his bicycle on its kickstand and sat down a
t the far end of the bench, giving his full attention to his ice cream.

  From time to time, James looked over at the man to find him peering at Max out of the corner of his eye, but whenever he sensed James’s attention, the man turned quickly away. Though he was nearly bald beneath his cap, he had a habit of swiping at his forehead as if he was bothered by bangs that were no longer an issue. It was a swift gesture that he repeated often, after which his gaze wandered nervously and randomly about as if he’d heard some silent reproach. He glanced at the traffic, then at the tree tops, then at a passing stranger or a foraging squirrel, his wide-eyed gaze alighting quickly on each, but never settling on any one thing before it finally returned and fixed once again upon Max, who slobbered as he contemplated the man’s melting ice cream. Max’s eager expression suggested that he could make quick work of it where this man clearly could not.

  The man said nothing to James after his initial request to join him on the bench, and James had ventured no further with the conversation, but when he finally finished his ice cream, his companion stood up and took hold of his bicycle, pausing before he left to regard James. His head remained bowed at an angle that almost suggested shame, and his eyes had still not ventured any higher than the laces of James’s shoes.

  “It w-was a p-pleasure speaking with you,” he said.

  James smiled. “Same here.”

  The man nodded, as if satisfied with the exchange, and walked his bicycle toward Main Street, in the direction from which he’d come. When he reached the sidewalk, he straddled the bicycle and pedaled away. As he did, James noticed that the bicycle seat, which creaked beneath the large man as it bore his full weight, was set so low that his knees nearly touched his elbows at the top of each rotation of the pedals. He was so intent on observing the man as he pedaled out of view that he never noticed Jean approaching him until she spoke.