The Vanishing Expert

by David Movsesian

  She could hear her brother sigh on the other end of the phone, and they both sat listening to the long silence that hung between them.

  “That’s unbelievable,” James finally said.

  “Yes,” Kate grunted. “It’s unbelievable alright.” She spat out the word as if it had a bitter taste.

  James could hear the sarcasm in her voice. “Are you okay?” he asked her.

  There was another long silence as Kate decided whether or not to express her frustration. It wasn’t something she wanted to do, but in the end, she’d simply suppressed it too long. She was left with no choice but to let it out.

  “This probably isn’t the time, but it pisses me off that I stayed with him all this time. I took care of him. I visited him every day. And with his last breath he calls out for you.” Kate had no way of knowing that her father wasn’t searching for Edward at his bedside, but rather he was calling out for his dead son, who had visited him in his morphine haze, to guide him to his long-departed wife. “You left him and he still preferred you. No offense, but that sucks.”

  James wasn’t surprised that his sister felt that way. Bud Moody wasn’t one to lavish his children with praise, at least not to their faces. He was more likely to speak of them to the other. James was never sure why.

  His father had certainly never heaped praise upon him as a boy, although James had often listened to his father rattle on about Kate. When he wanted his father’s approval, he generally had to seek it out, and even then it was less likely to be offered in words than in a proud smile or a fatherly pat on the shoulder. In time, he learned what to look for, and to be satisfied with the gestures his father offered. But Kate always needed words, and when it came to their father, that kind of praise was hard to come by.

  “Is that what you think?” he finally asked her. “That I was his favorite?”

  “Honestly? Yes, that’s what I think. I know that sounds petty, especially right now.”

  James shook his head. Were it not for the fact that his sister was so upset, he might have managed to laugh at another of his father’s idiosyncrasies. This one had bothered him as a boy, but he later made peace with it. Clearly, Kate never had.

  “It’s not true, you know,” James offered. “It was never true. It might have looked like that because of all the time we spent together with the boat, but the truth is that I thought the same thing about you.”

  “Sure you did,” Kate sulked.

  “You should have heard how he went on about you. You were definitely daddy’s little girl. He was always bragging about how smart you were and how pretty you were, and about how you were gonna be whatever you wanted to be when you grew up. To be honest, I used to get jealous listening to it.”

  “Is that true?” Kate asked.

  “Absolutely,” James said. “You know dad was never one to tell you straight up when he was proud of you. But he always talked about you like you were his favorite, and I’m guessing he did the same thing with you when he talked about me.”

  “He did,” Kate acknowledged.

  James smiled. “That was just Dad.”

  “And you’ve known this all along?”

  “Not all along,” James said. “But for a while. I just figured you knew it, too.” By her silence, James knew he was wrong.

  “I wish he would have said those things to me,” Kate finally said.

  “I know,” James offered sadly. “Me, too.”

  Kate decided to change the subject. “Have you been on the boat since you got back?”

  “Once,” James said. He decided it was unwise to tell his sister about his previous afternoon with Christina aboard the Chris Craft. He was still wrestling with his own feelings about their encounter, a confusing combination of grief and guilt and joy, all mixed together in almost equal parts, and none of them feeling quite right. He knew Kate would disapprove, and more importantly, he knew she wouldn’t be wrong.

  The memorial was a simple reception. The family— what was left of it— welcomed guests at the funeral home in North Kingstown, not far from the home where Bud Moody had raised his two children, only one of whom was there to send him on his way. There was no service, no prayers or speeches, just a gathering of friends and family in a room adorned with flowers and photographs and a small urn resting upon a wooden pedestal.

  Kate hadn’t seen Aunt Gin until she arrived at the funeral home. It was the first time she’d seen her beloved aunt in more than a year, although she still spoke with her on the phone nearly every week. Gin was noticeably thinner than she’d been when Kate last saw her, her elegant black dress hanging loosely upon her slight frame, but she seemed well, despite her reason for being there.

  At first, Gin stood in the doorway, scanning the room for someone she knew, her eyes falling upon the urn before they discovered Kate standing dutifully beside it. Gin approached her swiftly, not allowing her gaze to fall upon her brother’s remains until after she gave her niece a proper greeting.

  “Hello, Sunshine,” Aunt Gin said as they embraced.

  Kate practically fell into the arms of the woman who’d been as much a mother to her as her own had been. For such a small woman, Gin’s embrace was strong and comforting, like the woman herself. When they parted, Gin held Kate’s hand and looked her directly in the eye.

  “How are you holding up, dear?” Gin asked, intently studying Kate’s expression.

  Kate shrugged. “I’m a little tired, but I’m doing okay. As well as can be expected, I suppose.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, dear,” Gin told her. “What these people are expecting is that you’re gonna fall apart, and no one would blame you if you did. Most of them would.” She squeezed Kate’s hand. “But you’re a lot stronger than they are. You’re a lot like your dad in that way… and your mother. She was a tough cookie, too.”

  Kate smiled and she was aware of her eyes beginning to tear. She dabbed at them with a tissue that had been wadded in her fist. As always, Gin knew exactly what Kate needed to hear. Whenever Kate was feeling weak, Gin would bolster her. Whenever she was feeling uncertain, Gin always had a way of restoring her confidence. And when she was feeling alone, Gin reminded her that she was part of a family, and that they, in turn, were a part of her.

  Gin turned and acknowledged Kenny, who offered her a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  “Are you taking care of this one?” she asked him, giving a tip of her head in Kate’s direction.

  Kenny’s expression showed the respect he held for his wife’s remarkable strength. He was among those who expected her to fall to pieces when her father passed. “She’s a tough one,” he said. “I don’t think she needs anyone taking care of her.”

  He meant it as a compliment, but Aunt Gin frowned at him. “You know it doesn’t matter what you think she needs,” Gin told him. “Everyone needs to know someone is taking care of them. Even if it looks like they don’t need it.”

  “Got it,” Kenny replied.

  “Good,” Gin said, as if they’d come to an understanding.

  “And how are you holding up?” Kate asked her aunt.

  Aunt Gin considered the question, and Kate noticed her chin quiver, just for a moment, as if that was all she would allow herself. “I’ll do fine,” she offered

  For the first time, Aunt Gin turned and cast a long, thoughtful look at the urn resting upon the pedestal nearby. It was a quizzical gaze, as if she wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it. As depraved as she considered the habit of displaying a corpse at these gatherings, at least it provided something real over which to grieve. It was easy to conjure up genuine emotion when the body was laid out at the front of the room. Confronted with only the urn, which looked like it might be used to dispense tea, she wasn’t certain exactly how to feel. She was holding real pain inside her, and she suddenly wondered where on earth she was going to put it.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna visit with my brother for a minute,” Gin said.
>
  Kate heard herself gasp, as if all of the air had been suddenly sucked out of the room, and she turned quickly around, not wanting her aunt to see her cry. It was the first time Kenny had witnessed his wife weeping so openly, but watching her, he sensed that Kate was crying less for her own loss than for Gin’s.

  He stepped toward her and she leaned into him, pressing her bowed head against his chest. As he consoled his wife, he watched Gin cradling the urn that contained her brother’s ashes as a woman might cradle a child’s face between her palms. She raised it up off the pedestal, just an inch or two, as if she was gauging its weight, and then returned it to its place, seemingly satisfied by its surprising heft.

  Kate turned around in time to see Gin, who was now leaning on the pedestal with one hand, place the other lightly upon the porcelain urn and bow her head. She didn’t speak. Aunt Gin, who seemed never to be at a loss for words, refrained from uttering a single one at that solemn, private moment when she said goodbye to her brother. It was a trait Kate recognized, her father’s habit of favoring silence at moments like this when words seemed unnecessary, if not distasteful.

  Gin touched her fingers to her lips and then to the top of the urn, bestowing a farewell kiss upon her departed brother. She closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath as if to compose herself, and then she straightened up and returned her attention to Kate, who dabbed at her eyes with the same wadded tissue she had before.

  “I worry about you, dear,” Gin said, discarding her own sadness in order to devote her full attention to her niece. She handed Kate a fresh tissue.

  “I’m okay,” Kate insisted.

  “I know you are,” Aunt Gin said. “But we’re the same, you and I. I know you won’t ask for help when you need it. But you know I’m always there if you need to talk.”

  “I know.”

  Aunt Gin offered a vague smile. “Even if you don’t need to talk, you can always call.”

  It suddenly occurred to Kate that it was Gin who was feeling lonely and needing reassurance that she was still connected with what remained of her dwindling family. Aunt Gin had always been there to give Kate whatever she needed. This was the first time she sensed that her aunt needed something in return.

  “I sure will,” Kate said. She wanted to hug her, but she simply reached out and placed her hand on Gin’s arm.

  “Good,” Aunt Gin said, taking Kate’s hand. “We orphans have to stick together.”

  It was an unusual remark; certainly innocent enough, but the word made Kate pause. It had such a lonely sound— orphan— and she found it odd that Aunt Gin would offer it up so casually. But when she considered it, she realized it was true. At the age of thirty-three, she was an orphan. The realization should have made her feel very alone, but she kept a secret that no one else in the room, except for Tracy, was aware of— that Bud Moody’s passing had created not one orphan, but two.

  17

  The Choices We Make

  Bud Moody’s other orphan poured himself into his work in the weeks following his father’s death. He and Peter finished their work on the old Victorian farmhouse in Somesville and moved quickly on to their next project, remodeling a kitchen in a home in Bar Harbor. James never complained about Peter’s frenzied pace. He was grateful to be busy, and after having left Peter to tend to his father, he felt he owed Peter a good week’s work.

  For Peter’s part, he was surprised that James didn’t take more time to be with his family after his father passed. Certainly he would have expected him to remain in Rhode Island for a few days to attend any services.

  “This is where I need to be,” James assured him. “My father would respect that.”

  Peter respected it as well, but he would never have asked it of anyone having just suffered the loss that James had suffered. Still, he was grateful for James’s commitment to him. Peter tried to go easy on him, but James wasn’t about to slow down. In fact, whenever Peter suggested a break, James politely declined and continued working.

  “I’m gonna keep going,” he would say. “But you go ahead.”

  Not one to be outworked, Peter would continue working alongside him.

  What Peter quickly realized was that it was the quiet moments that James was avoiding, those idle, introspective stretches when he was left alone with his thoughts. That was when the crushing weight of his loss would settle upon him like a stone. When he could focus on his work, he could put everything else out of his mind.

  What Peter had no way of knowing was that his father was not the only loss from which James hoped to distract himself. Christina would be returning to college at the beginning of September, and James could feel her departure inching closer. They managed to find opportunities to be together at odd times, mostly stolen moments that were always satisfying, though they lacked the same reckless abandon they felt that evening when they first came crashing together aboard the Chris Craft behind Ruth Kennedy’s house.

  It was almost always Christina who sought James out, leaving her mother at home in the evening, usually under the pretense of going out for a late run or visiting friends. If Ruth happened to see her when she arrived, Christina would cheerfully explain that she’d come to take Max for a walk, and she would retrieve the dog and jog to the end of Clark Point Road and back. Since Ruth would have gone to bed soon after, she rarely saw Christina return with the dog, and she would never see Christina slip quietly out of James’s apartment hours later.

  James was grateful for the time he was able to spend with Christina, but he lived in a constant state of worry that somehow their secret would be discovered, and he agonized about how it might affect his relationship with Jean or with Peter. As much as he enjoyed his time with Christina, he realized he could never feel completely at ease again until she was gone. So, he contemplated her impending departure with surprisingly mixed feelings.

  He did everything he could do to force his life back to normal again, even during those last two confusing weeks of August when nothing seemed normal at all. He spent his Sunday mornings in Ruth’s kitchen, chatting over fresh blueberry muffins. On Sunday evenings he resumed the tradition of joining Jean for dinner at her house. Jean noticed that their conversation seemed less relaxed, but she attributed it to James’s struggling with his father’s passing. It never occurred to her that there was a secret he was keeping from her.

  A few days later, James returned home after work to find Christina waiting for him on the stairs leading to his apartment. She sat upon the landing dressed in a pair of shorts and a light blouse, a picnic basket resting between her long legs a step below. On a few occasions, Christina passed his apartment on her daily run, sometimes offering to take Max out for some exercise if he happened to be home. This was the first time she’d come to visit him with something more than a thinly-veiled excuse for being there.

  “Planning a picnic?” James asked.

  “Something like that,” Christina said. “If you’re free.”

  They fed Max and took him for his walk, avoiding Main Street this time, opting instead to walk to the lobster pier at the far end of Clark Point Road. When they returned to the apartment, James pointed to the picnic basket.

  “So what did you bring?” he asked.

  Christina smiled. “Not here,” she said. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  The Shore Path was built in the 1800s, extending southward along the shore of Frenchman’s Bay from the steamboat wharf in Bar Harbor to Cromwell’s Harbor. It was built narrow enough that a carriage couldn’t pass, making it a popular place for an evening stroll, the lively bay on one side, and the opulent homes and the well-manicured lawns of the summer people on the other. On any summer evening in the early part of the century, music and warm golden light emanated from the cottages, occasionally mingling with the distant voices or the faint pluck and strum of a banjo that carried in across the water from one of the many canoes that drifted in the darkness. It was a truly romantic place and so it was
inevitable that it would become known by those who ventured there each evening in the soft glow of the moon as The Lovers’ Path.

  Just beyond the grounds of the Bar Harbor Inn, Christina led James off the path, hopping off the retaining wall and down upon the granite boulders that formed the rugged shoreline. With James following her across the rocks, she guided him to a location against the retaining wall where they would be completely out of view of even those passersby who came within a few feet of them. Noting the deftness with which Christina led him to the spot, James wondered how often she’d visited there, and with whom.

  As they sat upon the rocks, James opened the bottle of wine that Christina produced from the basket, and she settled in beside him, holding the glasses. He looked nervously about him, wondering if anyone was suddenly aware of them.

  “Nobody can see us,” Christina assured him. “It’s the perfect place.”

  “For what?” James asked.

  Christina smiled and held out the empty glasses. “Just pour,” she said.

  James enjoyed these times with Christina, though they were always complicated by the conflicting emotions he felt— his affection for her, his love for Jean, his loyalty to Peter who’d been like a surrogate father to Christina since her own father had abandoned her. He was well aware of the potential consequences if anyone were to see them there together, sharing a bottle of wine in the shadows of The Lovers’ Path, but it was a temptation he simply couldn’t resist.

  It occurred to him that he was forever hiding from something. As time passed, he’d become less concerned with the strangers on the street who might recognize him as Edward Moody, and more with those locals who knew Jean and understood her relationship with him. They would surely wonder why he was spending time alone with her lovely daughter; they’d have to be blind not to notice how content he appeared when he was in her company. On the few occasions when he and Christina were together, they tried to be discreet, but he wondered if a chance sighting of the two of them together was already a favored topic of Claire Trumbull and others like her in the little shops in Bar Harbor or Southwest Harbor, a place where even Lester Meeks worried that everyone knew his business— and Lester had no secrets.