The Vanishing Expert

by David Movsesian

  Bud Moody offered no response, just a long silence followed by another slow, deep breath. Then he muttered something incomprehensible and Kate stood up quickly, leaning close to him.

  “What is it, Dad?” she asked him.

  Bud’s lips moved slightly but no sound emerged.

  “It’s okay, Dad,” Kate assured him. She picked up a face cloth that was neatly folded on the night stand and dipped it into a cup of water, then she dabbed his lips.

  Bud tried again to speak. This time his frail voice didn’t fail him. “Edward?” he whispered. It was the first word he'd spoken clearly since his stroke.

  Gloria looked curiously at Kate.

  Bud Moody opened his eyes wide and appeared to look about the room, searching. Then he closed them again and let out a long, slow breath, like a deep sigh. Kate and Gloria waited for him to draw another, but it never came.

  By the time Tracy returned to the room to join Kate and Gloria, after ushering Edward back to the third floor waiting room, Bud Moody was already gone. She sat with the other women in a lounge area near the elevators while the doctors and nurses attended to Bud in his room.

  When Gloria left them at one point to call Tom Kendall to tell him she would arrive at work later than expected, Kate took the opportunity to speak candidly with Tracy.

  “Edward’s probably out of his mind,” Kate told her. “I need you to tell him, if that’s okay.” She looked nervously about for Gloria. “Kenny’s gonna be back any minute and there’s just no way I’m gonna be able to get away. So please go take care of him for me.”

  Tracy was crying as she embraced Kate, but she found Kate to be surprisingly calm. Where earlier Kate had been tense and distracted, she now seemed peaceful. It may have been that she was simply exhausted from the events of the last twenty-four hours, waiting for her father to draw his final breath and praying his final moments would be peaceful. She was weary, too, from two long years of watching her father waste away. In the end, as she sobbed in Tracy’s arms, she felt both an overwhelming grief over the loss of her father and a faint, unexpected flicker of relief that it was finally over.

  16

  Orphans

  In Edward Moody’s earliest childhood memory, he was dressed in his cotton pajamas and perched high atop his father’s broad shoulders, his tiny fingers interlocked across his father’s forehead. Bud Moody stood at the top of the stairs in their two-story colonial, and as he prepared to descend them, he urged Edward to hold on. Edward playfully slipped his hands down over his father’s eyes and giggled.

  Even now, he could almost feel the sensation of his small arms hugging his father’s head. He remembered how safe he felt, as if no harm could possibly come to him as long as he held tight to his father. Whenever his life seemed out of control, he was able to summon that memory, and it always calmed him. Whenever he needed to sort out his complicated life, it always seemed to give him a place to start.

  It was a tiny fragment in time, hardly significant except that after more than thirty years it somehow remained intact and as vivid in his memory as if it had happened only yesterday. By contrast, his memory of the last twenty four hours seemed shrouded in a thick fog.

  He’d remained in the hospital with Tracy for over an hour after his father’s death until he was certain that Kate, Kenny and Gloria had left. They’d sat together quietly, exchanging few words, as if somehow trying to articulate his thoughts would only taint the moment. It was another of his father’s lessons which he’d conveyed to Edward as a boy when he refused to attach a name to the Chris Craft— sometimes words only diminish what is already there.

  It was the same reason he didn’t risk visiting his father again. He'd already said goodbye. There were no more words.

  After leaving the hospital, he lingered in the Jeep in the parking lot, listening to the rain. Later, he drove past the house that had been his childhood home, pausing to peer through the rain at the yard where he and Kate had once played, and at the second-floor window that had once been his view of the world from his bedroom. Finally his gaze fell upon the driveway, to that spot where his father had first introduced him to the boat that would become their shared passion. He was so completely lost in his memories that he wasn’t certain how long he'd lingered there— it could just as easily have been hours or days as minutes— but he eventually continued on, leaving that place behind, certain it would be the last time he would ever see it.

  He traveled north on Interstate 95 through Massachusetts, New Hampshire and into Maine. There was no longer the sense of urgency that he had the day before, so he decided to abandon the interstate just north of Portland in favor of a leisurely ride up Coastal Route One. He passed through Freeport without stopping, continuing up the coast through Brunswick, Bath and Wiscasset, all of it slipping past almost without his notice, his mind elsewhere.

  By the time he became aware of his surroundings again, he was already entering Rockland. The rain had stopped at some point, and the late afternoon sun had descended low in the western sky.

  He'd barely slept in the last two days, and his fatigue finally overtook him again as he approached Camden. He parked the Jeep in a parking lot behind Cappy’s Chowder House adjacent the harbor. The water was calm and the many sailboats, schooners and lobster boats that appeared perched upon its surface were bathed in a warm light. He closed his eyes and took in the sounds of the harbor, and he breathed in the comforting scent of the sea. Sleep washed over him like an incoming tide.

  It was dark when he awoke. A thin crescent moon was suspended over the harbor, and boats he’d seen earlier had been replaced with yellow lights whose reflections danced upon the surface of the water. He looked at his watch. It was nearly ten o’clock and he was hungry, so he left his Jeep and walked up the hill to Cappy’s, where he sat at the bar and dined on bread and a large bowl of thick clam chowder. He spoke to no one, and he left as soon as he'd finished.

  Emerging from Cappy’s, he turned right and walked slowly past the row of darkened shops on Main Street. In Harbor Park, he sat on a bench high on the hill overlooking the water and, once again, he thought of Karen Winslow, remembering when they'd once shared that same bench, looking out over the same dark harbor, illuminated by the same pale moon. Only fifteen years had passed, but it felt like the world had changed since then. He wondered if Karen, during her visits to Camden from wherever she was now, ever found herself on that same bench and thought of him.

  The drive from Camden to Southwest Harbor would take another two hours. He considered sleeping in the Jeep until morning and making the drive in the daylight, but he decided to press on.

  As he drove north along Route One through the now familiar sea towns— Lincolnville, Northport, Belfast and Searsport— with their historic sea captains’ homes and their endless strings of motels and antique shops, he could occasionally smell the ocean upon the breezes that wafted in through his open window. But whenever he was afforded glimpses of the ocean, it lurked in the distance as black as the night sky, the sliver of a moon contributing not a single glint of light upon its surface.

  He was eager to return home, and to sleep in his own bed.

  It was nearly two o’clock in the morning when James arrived back at his apartment. He was certain Max would be aware of the sound of his tires crunching on the gravel driveway, so he parked close to the road and quietly climbed the stairs, hoping not to disturb Ruth. He left the door to his apartment ajar, knowing that Max would come searching for him the moment Ruth let him outside.

  He dropped his overnight bag, which he'd never opened, near the door and wandered to his bedroom. Without bothering to undress, he fell upon his bed. He was asleep within minutes.

  He was awakened at first light by Max’s cold nose and his restless paws upon the hardwood floor. He welcomed Max on his bed and hugged the dog as Max writhed and whimpered with excitement in his grasp. James heard Ruth Kennedy slowly mounting the long flight of stairs in pursuit of the dog,
and he hurried to the door, hoping to save her the exhausting climb. She was on the landing when James appeared in the open doorway. Max bolted past him and down the stairs to finish his morning constitutional, which he'd briefly abandoned in favor of finding his friend.

  “You must have gotten home late last night,” Ruth called up to him.

  James descended the stairs and joined her on the landing.

  “Very late,” he said. “Thank you for taking care of Max. That was a big help and I know he enjoys being with you.”

  Ruth turned and watched Max repeatedly circling on the grass near the driveway. “He’s no trouble,” she assured him. “And he’s good company.” She returned her attention to James. “How’s your father?”

  James started to speak, and he was surprised to have his words catch in his throat. He’d planned to remain composed, but when it came to speaking the words for the first time, his voice failed him. He felt the pressure building behind his eyes, his tears making themselves known despite his valiant effort to suppress them, but he stopped and he took a deep breath. “He passed away yesterday,” he finally said, the words barely escaping before his throat closed behind them.

  Ruth’s eyes welled with tears and she wrapped her arms around him, that motherly embrace he'd come to welcome after so many years of a life devoid of them.

  “I’m so sorry,” Ruth said. She was rocking him slowly from side-to-side as if she were holding a sleeping child.

  When James stepped back, he was surprisingly dry-eyed. Wrapped in the comfort of Ruth’s embrace, the tears that threatened to burst forth never came. He thanked her and sought out Max, who was gazing eagerly up at them.

  “I’m surprised you’re back so soon,” Ruth said. “Are you going back for the service?”

  “There won’t be a service,” James told her. He thought for a moment. “And I already said goodbye.”

  He could see by her expression that Ruth thought it strange that he hadn’t remained with his family for a few days. She knew from experience the comfort that families draw from each other after such a loss. She couldn’t imagine how she would have survived the loss of her beloved Henry if her children hadn’t been there to care for her during that first week when the house seemed so empty. James appeared to be handling his grief far better than she had, but she knew his emotions were still raw and just beneath the surface, even if he wanted to convince her otherwise.

  “How’s Kate?” Ruth asked.

  James pondered the question. He regretted that he’d been unable to see his sister after their father died. He wanted more than anything to be with her, and he was certain she wanted the same, but she would be under such scrutiny for the next few days. There was simply no way for them to be together.

  “Kate’s doing okay,” James assured Ruth, not knowing for certain if it was true. “I think she’s at peace with it.”

  Ruth studied his face. He seemed to be at peace with it as well, but she knew the grief would catch up with him. It was just a matter of when.

  After his conversation with Ruth, James decided to take Max for a walk. Ordinarily, they walked into town, but on this morning, James didn’t feel like talking to anyone, so they turned the other way on Clark Point Road and walked toward the lobster pier. James’s stride was slower than usual, but Max didn’t pull at the leash as he was inclined to do after having been confined to the house all night. Instead, he walked patiently at James’s side, and appeared to hold no grudge for being denied his slice of Lucky Meeks’ rare roast beef.

  When they returned to his apartment, James showered and put on clean clothes, and then he unplugged his phone and lay on the sofa. In one hand, he held the old tarnished boat key that Kate had sent him. His other hand dangled off the edge of the sofa and rested on Max’s shoulder. James had left the door open to give Max access to the outdoors should he feel inclined to go outside, but Max was content to stay close to him. James fell asleep awash in the gentle summer breezes that puffed in through the open door, filling the apartment with the familiar scents of sea water and pitch pine.

  He was awakened when Max jumped up from his place on the floor, aroused him from his sleep by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. When he was able to focus, he saw Christina standing in the open doorway, her slender body silhouetted by the bright afternoon light filtering in around her. While he wasn’t looking for company, he was grateful to see Christina.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said. “Your door was open.”

  James sat up rubbing his face. “Was it?” he asked groggily.

  “Ruth called,” she said. “She told me you were back.”

  James just nodded vacantly, still not fully awake.

  “I tried calling earlier, but there was no answer,” Christina told him. “Mom’s at the gallery, but I thought I should come over to look in on you and maybe take Max for a walk.”

  Max sat up and alertly stared at Christina, eager for another walk, but reluctant to leave James’s side.

  James looked wearily at the phone lying on the floor at his feet and then back at Christina. “I unplugged the phone.” He leaned over and plugged it back in.

  Christina decided not to wait for an invitation, and she stepped inside and sat beside him on the sofa. Max moved close to her and nudged her hand with his nose until she began to rub the thick fur at his throat.

  “How’re you doing?” she finally asked him.

  James looked down at his hands resting in his lap and at the throw rug at his feet where Max had been lying only a moment before. He looked at everything but Christina’s quizzical and sympathetic gaze, fearing he’d be unable to hold back the torrent of emotions that would surely gush forth if he were to look at her now. He wanted desperately to avoid that.

  When he finally looked at her, he saw her beautiful young face filled with concern, and just as he’d feared, he felt his throat begin to tighten and his vision begin to blur. He lowered his face so she wouldn’t see.

  Christina touched him on the arm. “Ruth told me about your father,” she said, sparing him from having to say the words. “I’m so sorry.”

  James drew a long, deep breath in an effort to compose himself, letting it out slowly. It had the opposite effect, instead reminding him of his father’s infrequent but hungry gulps of air from his morphine haze a day earlier.

  “Do you want to talk?” Christina asked. Her voice sounded almost maternal, and he forgot for a moment how much younger she was than he.

  James shook his head. “Not really.”

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  He didn’t. He looked at her sadly. “No,” he said. “But I’m not very good company right now, so I’ll understand if you want to go.”

  Christina moved close to him, clinging to his arm and resting her head on his shoulder, but she said nothing, not wanting to disturb him with anything as vulgar as her own awkward words, and not wanting to abandon him. “We can just sit for a while,” she said. “If you feel like talking, you can. If you don’t want to, that’s okay too.”

  James managed a weak smile. Max waited by the open door, disappointed that the notion of the walk seemed to have been forgotten.

  They spent the remainder of the afternoon together, speaking very little. She left him only once, just before dusk, to take Max for a walk. Ordinarily, on his evening walk, Max liked to run down Clark Point Road at full speed, knowing he’d be confined to the apartment until morning. On that evening, he seemed tentative, staying close by Christina’s side, stopping repeatedly to peer back toward the house as if he was expecting to see James hurrying to catch up to them. Each time, seeing that James was nowhere in sight, he looked sadly up at Christina, and then continued almost reluctantly down the road.

  When Christina returned, she discovered that James was no longer in his apartment. Max turned and hurried back down the long flight of stairs, as if he knew instinctively where James would be.

  The boat was res
ting upon its trailer behind the house where it always was. James had peeled back the cover, which was now laying in a heap on the ground a few feet away, and Christina could see James sitting behind the steering wheel, and looking off into the distance. In the failing light, she could just barely see his somber expression as he rubbed his hand over the wood. She walked slowly toward him, pulled by opposing forces; one pulling her away so that she might leave him to his thoughts, and the other drawing her closer. In the end, she found she needed to be with him, perhaps even more than he needed her there. Though Christina couldn’t possibly know, it was a feeling that had become all too familiar to Gloria Moody during the final years of their marriage.

  By the time James noticed Christina, she was already alongside the boat. He helped her aboard, and they sat next to each other on the wide bench seat at the boat's stern.

  “I used to love taking this boat out on the lake at night. Sometimes, when I was out alone, I’d just shut the engine down and drift.” He tipped his head back and peered straight up to the small patch of sky that was visible through the trees. “When you’re drifting out on the water at night, you can just sit and listen to the waves. You can feel the boat moving beneath you, but you can’t see anything but the stars. It’s an odd feeling. It’s the only time I think I’ve ever felt completely alone.” He bowed his head and looked sorrowfully down at his feet. He nearly added “Until now,” but he stopped himself.

  Christina frowned. “You’re not alone, you know,” she said as if she could hear his thoughts. James looked at her curiously, and she moved over to him and sat close by his side, the vinyl seat creaking beneath them. “You’ve got my mother and me. You’ve got Kate. You’ve got Peter. You’ve got Ruth. We all care about you.”

  It struck him, as it often did, how lovely she was. He’d never grown used to her beauty. Even now, sitting so close to her he could feel her breath, he could find no flaw in her perfect face. He thought of all the times he’d wished that he could kiss her— and of all the reasons he resisted the temptation on those occasions, not the least of which was his relationship with Jean— but suddenly those reasons eluded him. Where only moments earlier he’d felt numbed by the loss of his father, now that same grief liberated him. He leaned close to Christina to kiss her, pausing just before their lips touched, as if to give her an opportunity to withdraw from him. But she didn’t withdraw; she drew him closer, her lips welcoming him.