The Vanishing Expert

by David Movsesian

  “That’s Georgie Peck,” Jean said as she came up behind him and leaned over the bench.

  Even though he’d been expecting her, James was startled by the sound of her voice. James offered her his seat and placed his newspaper on the sticky end of the bench where his companion had been sitting, and then settled on top of it.

  “Have you ever met Georgie before?” Jean asked him.

  James looked away at the place where he’d last seen the man before he glided out of view. “I guess I’ve seen him around,” James said. “But I’ve never talked to him before.” He thought for a moment, considering their brief exchange. “I guess I still haven’t.”

  “Georgie doesn’t say much,” Jean said.

  “Is he—?” James hesitated, searching for the right word.

  “He’s a little slow," Jean interjected, anticipating his question. “But he’s very sweet.” She referred to Georgie Peck as if she were speaking of a child, and it occurred to James that, though the man James had just met was older than he was by a good ten years, he was, in fact, very childlike.

  A sad expression crept across Jean’s face as she began to tell James the tragic story of Georgie Peck.

  Georgie’s mother was Evelyn Peck, who operated a boutique on Cottage Street. Evelyn’s husband had been a baker, and the little shop Evelyn operated had once been Peck’s Bakery, before Joseph Peck passed away. Georgie was only five years old then, and his younger brother, Frankie, was barely three. Neither of them had any strong recollection of their father. Georgie’s only memory of the man was that of a large round figure who forever carried the scent of butter and wheat flour and sweat upon his pale skin. To this day, Georgie often wandered into the local bakery to breathe in the scent of the baking bread, the familiar aroma always summoning up a vague recollection of his father.

  As the years passed, and Evelyn Peck— who was not a baker and never wished to be— grew busier with the boutique, it fell upon Georgie to look after his younger brother, Frankie. It was easier in the winter months, since the shop was closed and the boys were in school for a good part of the day. But during the summer, when school was out and the tourists swarmed the streets of Bar Harbor, the boys were often left to fend for themselves. They entertained themselves by playing catch on the Village Green, collecting shells near the pier, or riding their bicycles along the many side streets that led down to the water.

  It was during the summer of 1957, when Georgie Trumbull was ten years old, that his world changed for good.

  Georgie and Frankie had lingered too long at the pier one afternoon, throwing mussels off the end of the pier and poking their heads through the rail to watch them plunk into the water below. They raced back to their mother’s shop on their bicycles, knowing that she was bound to chastise them for making her worry. As they pedaled up the hill, Frankie, who was much smaller than his brother, began to fall behind.

  “Georgie, wait up!” he cried out to his brother.

  Georgie didn’t turn around. He continued pedaling, certain that each additional moment their mother waited for them would only serve to make their punishment more severe.

  “Hurry up!” Georgie yelled over his shoulder. As he neared Sherman’s Book Store, he glanced quickly and turned right, hurrying across Main Street and onto Cottage Street, stopping only when he reached the door of their mother’s shop, where she was impatiently waiting for them. He could see that she was about to scold him for his tardiness, and he was bracing himself for her outburst, when a squeal of tires came from behind him, followed by a distant crash and the horrified screams from the throngs of people that lined the sidewalks on Main Street. His mother’s heart-wrenching cries were loudest among them as she rushed passed him.

  When she reached the intersection, Frankie— her youngest, her baby— lay broken and bleeding near the curb. Evelyn pushed the gawkers aside and fell to her knees, cradling Frankie’s limp body in her arms.

  That was when she turned and looked at Georgie, who looked on, stunned and silent, just a few feet behind her. In her grief as she clutched her child’s lifeless body to her breast, she issued Georgie an accusing glare that cast upon him all the blame, all the guilt, all the pain of that tragic moment in their already tragic lives. It was an expression that placed the full burden of a mother’s ultimate and unbearable loss squarely upon Georgie’s ten-year-old shoulders, which were simply too small to bear the tremendous weight of it. She hadn’t meant to do it. If she could have taken it back, she would have. But for the rest of his life, as that guilt bore down upon him, he would remember that day and his grieving mother’s reproachful countenance. It would loom before him in the darkness each night as he closed his eyes and waited for sleep to overtake him, ensuring that he would never forget the grief he’d caused her.

  From that day forward, Georgie Peck vowed to himself that he would never again cause his mother a moment’s pain or worry; he would never again give her any cause to chastise him. He certainly would never do anything that would cause her to look at him the way she did that afternoon as she knelt in the middle of Main Street.

  Some would say that Evelyn Peck was simply overprotective of her one remaining child. Others would say that there was nothing simple about it, that she smothered the boy with her constant worry. But after losing her husband and her youngest son in the brief span of five years, Georgie was all she had left in her ever-dwindling world. She was determined that she would not lose him, too.

  If his mother’s methods were too severe, Georgie never complained. He was the ideal boy, forever obedient and respectful, but he kept to himself after losing his brother. His teachers speculated as to why, but the truth was fairly simple; Georgie had been responsible for his brother and his brother had died. And so, he grew up to be a courteous and obedient adult with no bond with anyone other than his over-protective mother, to whom he was completely devoted.

  After enough time had passed, Evelyn allowed Georgie to venture out on his own again, and he passed that time at the pier or along the beach, just as he once did with Frankie. Evelyn gradually gave him more freedom under the condition that he call her every hour to let her know he was safe. Always the devoted son, Georgie would stop whatever he was doing as the minute hand touched the twelve on his watch, and he’d call his mother at home or at the shop, wherever she might be, to tell her of his whereabouts and to assure her that he was safe.

  At first, he would beg the owner of whichever house or shop he found himself in front of at those times to use their phone. Over time, his routine became well known in the community, and he’d barely need to ask, though he always did. Now, some thirty-four years later, whenever the merchants in Bar Harbor saw Georgie Peck hurrying into their shops on the hour, they simply stepped aside and cleared a path to the phone so he could fulfill his promise to call his mother.

  After his initial meeting with Georgie on the Village Green, James began to notice the old Schwinn cruiser all over town— outside the ice cream parlor or the Chocolate Emporium or the bakery. He spotted it most often outside Evelyn Peck’s boutique on Cottage Street or in front of the Shop ‘N Save, where Georgie worked bagging groceries and stocking shelves. It was never locked, and since everyone knew and like Georgie, it went untouched.

  Whenever he passed Georgie on the street, or on the rare occasion that James encountered him at the Shop ‘N Save, Georgie always offered a shy smile and a wave as if they were old friends.

  Summers pass quickly on Mount Desert Island, and James made the most of his weekends. He still met Peter at The Spinnaker Pub on Friday evenings and Sundays always began with Ruth Kennedy’s blueberry muffins and ended with dinner and a bottle of wine with Jean. The rest of his weekends were devoted to Max and to the boat.

  In mid-July, James drove to Northeast Harbor, towing the Chris Craft behind his Jeep. He could have put it in the water in a dozen places on the island, including Southwest Harbor, but it was Northeast Harbor that called to him on that evening he
spent with Christina. So he decided that the boat would have its baptism in the cold Maine ocean in the place that had drawn him back to the water to begin with.

  There were no fresh water lakes on Mount Desert Island where James could launch the boat. While he’d always preferred to limit how often he exposed the boat to salt water, the truth was that he’d replaced so much of the hull over the years that his boat, while pristine, was by no means original. The old wooden speedboats from that era were never meant to last more than a few years. Those that were entirely original were in museums; the rest, like his, were meant to be used.

  He’d briefly considered inviting Peter to join him, but he decided that this first excursion was a private experience, one that he’d never shared with anyone other than his father. He’d invite them along another time. This he needed to do alone.

  He’d barely put the boat in the water when he noticed a man watching him from the pier a short distance away. He was an older man, tall and lean with thick, silver hair and tanned skin; he looked to James like all of the other wealthy men who summered in Northeast Harbor. He wasn’t certain why the man caught his eye, other than his unwavering gaze, but after his encounter with the McKinnons at the gallery a month earlier, he was wary of strangers, and he was especially uncomfortable being the object of the kind of close scrutiny to which this man was subjecting him. As he prepared the boat, he tried to ignore the man, but he was always aware of his presence, and he could feel the man’s eyes upon him.

  He hadn’t noticed that the stranger had approached him until, standing at the stern of the Chris Craft, he became aware of the man’s shadow falling over him. The man was standing on the pier, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his khaki pants, and he looked down upon James, his expression amiable and unthreatening. James was leery of him just the same.

  “She’s a beauty,” the man said.

  James squinted up at him. “Thanks,” he said, relieved that the man had only been admiring the boat.

  The man walked back and forth along the pier, studying the Chris Craft from bow to stern. He squatted down to inspect it more closely. “That’s beautiful work,” he said finally. “Who restored it?”

  James smiled up at him. “I did,” he said, the pride evident in his voice. “More of a renovation than a restoration,” he offered, correcting himself.

  Again, the man walked along the pier, admiring James’s craftsmanship. Even James had to admit to himself that the boat was an impressive sight now that it was in the water again. The wood shone in the late morning sun, its grain and its rich tone gleaming along every surface and contour.

  “Very nice work,” the man said. He squatted down and wrapped his arm around a piling and smiled down at James who was preparing to shove off. “I wonder if you might be interested in doing that kind of work for me.”

  James looked up at him curiously.

  “I bought a wooden boat a few years ago,” the man said. “An antique. A lot like yours. But it needs a lot of work, and I just wouldn’t know where to begin. It’s just sitting in my garage collecting dust. But now that I see this, I’m thinking how much I’d like to get it fixed up.”

  “I’m sure there are a lot of places right here on the island that can do that for you,” James told him. “You don’t even know me.”

  “I know,” the man said. “But I don’t know any of them either, and you obviously know what you’re doing.” He thought for a moment. “Besides, I’m looking for someone who’ll do it with me, not for me.”

  James said nothing. He was proud of the work he’d done, and he was always gratified when someone admired the boat.

  “I’ll tell you what,” the man said, handing him a business card. “If you’re interested, call me, and I’ll show you my boat. You can decide then if you want to do it. Maybe give me an estimate.”

  James nodded and took the man’s card, which included only the man’s name—Ben Jordan— and a pair of phone numbers, one in Northeast Harbor and another with a Portland, Maine exchange. There was no company name, no job title; not even an address. It seemed, by looking at his simple business card, that simply being Ben Jordan was expected to be impressive enough.

  James smiled at the man and tucked his card in his pocket.

  It was a perfect summer morning out on the water. The sky was clear and bright. A steady breeze had enticed many of the sailors out to the open water in the early morning hours, and the harbor, which had been alive with activity earlier, was quiet by comparison by the time James cruised leisurely past the empty moorings that dotted its surface. He turned only once to see Ben Jordan still standing on the pier, watching James’s unhurried progress toward the mouth of the harbor.

  As he came around Sargent Head, the wind picked up and the water began to chop at his hull. The waters there were shielded from the open sea by a cluster of islands— Bear Island, Greening Island, and further out, Great Cranberry and Little Cranberry. Still, the sea was rougher than it had been in the protection of the harbor, and he had to reduce his speed to navigate over the swells.

  He was instantly reminded of the last time he’d been aboard the Chris Craft, tossed about upon the treacherous waters off the Rhode Island coast as he waited for Kate to appear out of the fog. He’d feared that day that he might lose the boat to that rough sea, and he nearly did. On this day, he was unconcerned with the slow easy swells, but he quickly realized how vulnerable he was upon unfamiliar waters.

  He headed west toward Sand Point on the northern end of Greening Island, and he spotted a group of harbor seals languishing on the sundrenched rocks. A few of them watched him as he passed, but he kept his distance, and they were largely unconcerned with him.

  The ocean breezes whipped in his face, and he could taste the salt upon his lips. The sea was calmer as he neared the island, and the boat rocked beneath him. In the distance he could see the sails of four other boats, just white wedges on the horizon. Beyond them, a three-masted schooner cruised nobly along at half sail.

  Changing course, James moved southward, passing Clark Point, and he turned and ventured into the calmer waters of Southwest Harbor. The harbor was as welcoming that day as the town had been when he first arrived there last September, and as he cruised slowly through its waters, he looked out at the row of houses that lined Clark Point Road on the northern shore, the land they rested upon sloping dramatically down to the rocky shoreline. He could see Mrs. Kennedy’s home nestled in among the trees. It seemed smaller from this vantage point, but when compared to the vastness of the sea, everything always did.

  He spent much of the afternoon cruising from harbor to harbor and slipping through The Narrows into Somes Sound. Before he headed home, he drifted for a while watching a pair of cormorants on the shore drying their outstretched wings in the sun while a Great Blue Heron waded in the shallow water nearby.

  It was late afternoon when he returned to Northeast Harbor and pulled the Chris Craft from the water, slowly cranking the winch and guiding it up onto the trailer. He was relieved that Ben Jordan was not waiting for him when he returned. He was no longer wary of the man, but he was drowsy from the sun and the sea air, and he wanted only to return to the solitude of his apartment where he could drift off to sleep and dream of days as sunny and perfect as this one.

  14

  A Good Night

  It was while Joe Tibbits was working in Portland, after hastily leaving Auburn, that he decided to hunker down for the winter, and it was during that time that a thought occurred to him that changed everything.

  On a raw day in January, he sat huddled over the Portland Press Herald and a cup of black coffee in a diner on Commercial Street in the Old Port section of the city. He’d ducked into the diner that Saturday afternoon as much to get out of the cold as for a hot cup of coffee and a warm meal. He sat in a booth near the window, looking out at the row of boats lined up along Chandler’s Wharf. In the distance, he heard the long mournful baritone of a foghorn from a
fishing boat as it passed under the Casco Bay Bridge and meandered its way through the channel and out toward the open water.

  Edward Moody had been in his thoughts all morning, which wasn’t unusual, particularly on these quiet weekend days when there was little else to occupy his troubled mind. His search had lasted nearly four months, and he felt that he was no closer to finding the man than he was when he started. Joe Tibbits, who wasn’t a patient man by nature, despised waiting, but waiting was what he found himself doing on that bleak Saturday afternoon on the Portland waterfront.

  As he peered through the steam rising out of his coffee cup at the flat gray sky that turned the water a deep, rich black, he allowed his thoughts to wander, and he found himself wondering what it must be like to be out upon the water on such a frigid day. He shivered at the thought, grateful that he wasn’t among the men who made their living upon the sea in January. It was that observation, combined with his obsession over finding Edward Moody that must have led him to the notion that had somehow eluded him until that moment:

  Edward Moody loved the ocean.

  It was a simple thought; hardly a revelation except that he hadn’t considered it before. For four months, he’d been focusing his search on the small towns in central Maine, those anonymous spaces between the spaces that might appeal to a man like Edward Moody who didn’t want to be found. It occurred to him only now that he might have been looking in the wrong place.

  Edward Moody may have disappeared off the Rhode Island coast, resurfacing in central Maine as the carpenter, James Perkins, but there are aspects of a man— the things he loves among them— that are simply not as easy to shed as a name. For Edward Moody, Joe Tibbits concluded, it was his love of the sea.

  Realizing it now, it seemed obvious to him that James Perkins— or whatever name he might be using by now— would want to make his new life on the coast. Joe Tibbits sat at the window looking out over the water and wondered if perhaps he’d been mistaken about the man he’d been pursuing for the last four months. Perhaps Edward Moody had staged his great deception as much to create a new life as to escape his old one; that he wasn’t just running from something, Joe thought, he was also running to something.