The Pickle Boat House

by Louise Gorday

  Van looked forward to hiding away in her own quiet little space. It certainly wouldn’t take her and Joe long to move her in. She had taken very few things from the house when she walked out on Richard. She wanted a clean break. A separation would do them both good, but in reality she was thinking just for herself. She didn’t care anymore what he wanted. She had to save herself, and if she felt the same way after she put herself back together, divorce was inevitable.

  She and Richard had met at college. He liked her long brown hair, and she loved his sense of humor. But, it was a much deeper connection than that. It was love at first sight—the kind that came out of nowhere and had total control once it seized you in its velvet grip. They had a beautiful first life together, and Van was the happiest person in the world.

  But life’s beauty was fleeting, and when her and Richard’s 24-year-old son was killed in a car accident it evaporated utterly. From the very first, Van realized that she and Richard would grieve differently. He suffered in seclusion and compensated without her, whereas she reached out everywhere. She bought books about loss, grief, and near-death experiences, and the Catholic-faith TV channel became her constant companion. She prayed to God just to get down the hall to the bathroom and back, spent lunchtimes in prayer at the local church—anything to get her from one minute to the next. That first Christmas without him—no tree, no presents; just standing in the surf reciting the rosary. It was unimaginably hard on both of them.

  She couldn’t fathom why a romantic love so right, so seemingly destined, could turn out so wrong. Van would have given her life for Richard, but she found out that the sentiment didn’t run both ways. He cheated on her. Van could have forgiven him had he confessed and admitted to a mistake, a lapse in judgment, but that never happened. Instead, it became a question of admitting when caught, and with never a reason why or an apology that meant anything. She didn’t even know how long they lasted or how many there were.

  Neither could be blamed for what happened. Their relationship was consumed in the fires of their grief. The simple fact that they both had survived to walk away from each other said something.

  Why did beautiful marriages crumble, 24-year-old sons die, terrible things happen? Van had concluded that like so much of life, the answer to “why” was simply “because”—no more, no less. It just was, and if she could accept that, then maybe she could go on. If not, she would spend the rest of her life in hell, trying to rationalize something that could never make sense. In the end, she was learning to control the pain—or, more accurately, learning not to let it control her. The less it controlled her, the less she would keep living and reliving, steeping herself in, the loss. It was always there, though, like a hibernating viper waiting to rear its poisonous head.

  Time could heal, but it could also, and quite unexpectedly, rip open a still-raw wound. A world that didn’t pause to reflect on a life, or bow its head in even momentary remembrance, was a painful place to inhabit. Van needed that pause to remember, and closure to heal. Perhaps she could find it in the pickle boat house.

  CHAPTER THREE

  NOT A LEG TO STAND ON

  On the corner of Bayside and Seventh Streets stood a short row of little stores hiding from the sun beneath striped green awnings. Betty’s Bakery, on the end, had been around for years. Fancy cupcakes with curlicue icing and sprinkles still drew the locals. Many a serious discussion in town was had, and many a business deal sealed, over a cup of Betty’s best, or sweet tea and a blueberry muffin. And, of course, no May wedding was complete without a cake with Betty’s strawberry cream filling and fancy petit four favors.

  Van maneuvered around a group of cyclists as they propped their bikes up against Betty’s and took their helmets off. Their sleek aerodynamic shirts and padded chamois shorts screamed “Passionate cyclist!” Not of Nevis, this bunch was merely passing through. A Pavlovian bell on the back of the door elicited a smile from Van as she entered. Some good things never changed.

  “Morning, Betty. Baking blueberry muffins and wheat bread this morning? Smells so-o-o good! I could put on five pounds just breathing.”

  A plump little woman with graying hair gathered back into a bun, Betty pulled herself up from behind the pastry case. Curly tendrils and a tender smile softened her many wrinkles. Like all the bakers before her, she was known simply as “Betty.” Everyone in town was on a first-name basis, connected either through growing up together or through the friend of a second cousin on their mother’s side. And every one of them loved Betty.

  “Morning, Van. If it’s Sunday, it must be muffin day, huh? The usual’s in the bag there, on the house.” I didn’t burn as many today.” She flashed the teasing eyes of a feisty woman.

  “I see another peloton, off on one of their secret missions. Ever wonder where they’re from, where they’re going?”

  “No, that’s all kind of lost on me. Maybe I’m just getting too old. Cars are quicker and a whole lot safer.”

  “Yeah—unless you’re on a bike. I’d rather get my thrills in a spinning class at the Y. They are good for business, though,” Van said, absentmindedly watching them through the storefront window. She turned back to Betty and, with a smile, picked up her bag and headed out toward the boardwalk, dodging the knot of cyclists coming through the door. The rich smell of blueberries began to melt away her self-control, and she finally popped a warm piece into her mouth. Nobody made muffins like Betty.

  It was one of those beautiful, indelibly clear blue late-summer days. Calm water undulated in gentle, sparkling waves of shimmer. Van walked down the boardwalk toward her favorite bench. She spent a lot of time there, for it gave her a chance to clear the emotional clutter and contemplate details on the various projects she was involved in. Lately, there was more clutter than details. She had to clean house emotionally or face endless hours recreating the wheel. Van had always considered herself to be strong, nonconformist, and thoroughly independent. Everything she needed, she could draw from within. Those qualities had always supported and sustained her—until now. Now she was having a hard time being strong, and when she faltered there would be no one there to catch her. Introversion had effectively isolated her from friends and social ties.

  She shooed away the gull perched on the backrest, and sat down, giving the muffin her full attention. Eating on the boardwalk was something she usually avoided, and not just because it was prohibited—the fishy-smelling wrack and flotsam along the rocky shore could turn any but the most cast-iron stomach against the very thought of food. Warm blueberries had a certain masking quality, though. She tossed the leftovers out into the water and watched as the ever-observant geese scrambled and fought over the goodness.

  Nothing helped better with that inner clutter than the healing effects of the sun. Mmm, she could stay like this forever, she decided as she stretched out her legs. Little black dots moved lazily across the inside of her fiery eyelids until preempted by daydreams of a previous life. She was back on the bay with her grandfather, John, the boat dipping in rhythm with the swells, as a giggly girl poked a long-poled net at a jellyfish.

  But other important people, such as her son, often inhabited her daydreams. Boyish laughter reverberated through the stillness in her, and she turned her mind’s eye onto a little boy as he unwrapped his arms from around his grandfather’s neck and slid down his strong old back to the safety of the top porch step. The little boy turned and gave her a big, goofy smile, his gray eyes sparkling. Van smiled back but suddenly felt herself pulled back to the now sounds of the boardwalk. It was becoming more crowded, less lonely perhaps, as the morning got going and the locals began to stir.

  Van couldn’t concentrate anymore amid the growing distractions, so she gathered up her things and headed for home. A local fisherman stood leaning his shoulder against the boardwalk railing as his practiced hands baited a hook. He nodded as she passed. “Morning, Miss Van. Catching your rays early, I see. No Lulu today?”

  “Spence, happy Sunday. Nah, left Lulu at hom
e.” Van tried to keep her eyes off the wriggling lugworm trying to escape the grimy fingers holding the hook. The little worm didn’t have a chance against the experienced fingers of the fisherman. “Couldn’t take the happy dance this morning. I’ll make it up to her later.”

  Van walked over to the old man and peered into his catch bucket. “Are they biting this morning?”

  “Nope, not a good day, Miss Van. ’Bout ready to call it a day. Not like the good old days when they were biting as soon as your bait hit the water. Can’t expect nothing to last forever, I guess.” Spence stooped down and addressed the Bay retriever that lay snoozing at his feet. “Well, Chessie, it just isn’t much of a morning without little Lulu, is it?” The dog momentarily opened his eyes and thumped the boards with his tail before resuming his snooze.

  Van smiled to herself as the old man baby-talked his constant companion. She scratched Chessie behind the ears and slowly pushed herself away from the railing. “I’ll tell her you missed her,” she said over her shoulder as she walked away.

  Most of the locals walked the boardwalk at some point during the week. She could set her watch by the older, retired residents who came every day—in the early morning or after sunset in the hot months, just after noon in the cold ones. Often they came hand in hand or arm in arm with their mate. On her good days, they brought a smile to Van’s lips; on bad days, a tinge of envy and regret into her broken heart.

  The Morgans were one such couple. Grace had been a Sunday school teacher and Harry a truck driver. They had grown silver haired together and completed each other’s sentences, if they found it necessary to talk at all. This morning, they approached Van with a slow and steady gait, hand in hand.

  “Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Morgan. Nice to see you out today,” Van said as they came face-to-face on the boardwalk.

  “Morning, sugar,” replied Mrs. Morgan. “Good to see some young people out enjoying God’s beautiful day.”

  “Yes ma’am.” Everyone looked like a youngster to Mrs. Morgan. “It certainly is too beautiful to waste being inside.”

  “I’m glad we caught you, dear. Harry and I are going to be moving soon. We got a very generous offer for our house. We just couldn’t refuse it. In the next month or so, we’ll be heading down Angela and Duke’s way in Virginia. We wanted to make sure we thanked you for all your kindness. I thought you might like to drop by before we leave, and take a peek at some of the older things we’re not taking with us. There are still some things of Mother’s you might want—for your Nevis collection, of course.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to see you go,” Van said. “I apologize. I didn’t even realize you had your house up for sale.”

  “Oh, we didn’t. Out of the blue, an out-of-towner offered good money, all cash. Like I said, it was too good to pass up. It’s time. Being on our own is almost too much to handle. We’re both looking forward to being near the grandkids.”

  “It sounds lovely, Mrs. Morgan. Anytime you can get good money for land in Nevis, you have to give it some thought. I’ll make sure to stop by before you go. Would it be okay if I brought my genealogy charts of your family, just to make sure I’ve got it all down?”

  “It would be a pleasure. Bring it all over, and we’ll look at it one last time. Come on, Harry,” she said to her husband. “We’ll be all off schedule before long.” Harry never said a word, but tipped his ball cap to Van, and they continued past her on their daily ritual.

  *

  When Van got home and rounded the corner of her house she was surprised to see a woman hanging by her fingertips from the side window of the house next door. Her legs were flailing wildly as she tried to recover her footing on a box just out of reach. Van could hear her beginning to squeak.

  “Can I help you there?” Van shouted as she scurried to grab the woman’s waist. She helped her get earthbound again, easing her back onto the box.

  “Damn it! You are not going to believe what I just did,” the woman fumed, tossing her bobbed red hair. “I just locked myself out of my house—so damn-fool stupid today. But just today, of course,” she said with a laugh. “Would you mind if I used your phone to call my daughter? She can bring me the spare key.”

  “No problem. We can have a cup of tea while you wait.”

  “That would be nice, thanks. “I’m Jean, by the way—just moved in.”

  “Vanessa Hardy. I saw all the comings and goings. I was wondering who the new owners were.”

  “Owner. Just me. Kicked the bum to the curb and partway down the street a few years back.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  Jean shrugged. “Well, you shouldn’t be. I’m sure not.”

  They worked their way around a flower bed overflowing with roses and daisies. Just above the vibrant floral display, a single mourning dove circled endlessly around the top of a little birdbath while a cat, crouching amid the daisies, monitored its progress. The cat looked up as the two women climbed the stairs, and gave a single plaintive mew.

  “Hi, there, Mouse,” Van said, pausing to stroke his head.

  “Mouse? Where!” Jean screeched, scooting behind Van.

  “No,” Van said. “He doesn’t have a mouse; his name is Mouse! He’s the resident stray. You’ll be friends before long. He hits up everybody for basics—thinks it’s his inalienable right to sit on everyone’s porch. He loves driving all the indoor dogs crazy. That’s my haughty, naughty boy!” Mouse began to rub back and forth against her legs as she tried to get to the door.

  “Who’s the silent sentinel?” Jean asked, nodding toward the staring man sitting on the porch next door.

  Van didn’t even have to turn around to know exactly whom she meant. “Ernest Pickett, self-anointed neighborhood watch. If you want to know what’s going on in your life, just ask him—he’ll know more about your business than you do.”

  Mr. Pickett rose out of his chair. He hugged to his chest a dainty white teacup poodle with a pink collar. “Tell your gardener to stay off my grass,” he said, glowering at the women. “I’m gonna call the cops. I don’t pay my taxes for you to stomp around on my lawn.” His eyes burned with malice.

  “Yes, Mr. Pickett, I’ll take care of it,” Van politely shouted back at him as she winked at Jean.

  “You have a gardener?”

  “Nah, he means the older gentleman who does odd jobs around here. No one but Mr. Pickett would call him a gardener. You’ll meet Charlie. He’s wonderful.”

  Van was barely inside the door before she was accosted by a tiny Yorkshire terrier. It began to dart, scamper, and twirl like a dervish in the entryway as she came inside.

  “Hi, sweetie, I’m glad you missed me. Move out of the way, now. Mommy has company.” Van scooped her up with one hand and kept moving toward the kitchen.

  “Oh, what an adorable puppy!”

  “Adorable pain! Lulu doesn’t have much puppy left in her anymore. She’s been my best bud for a while. My huggie …”

  Van continued toward the kitchen and plopped Lulu into the dog bed by the back door. “The phone’s right there by the window,” she said, motioning across the kitchen.

  Jean walked over and chuckled at the white rotary phone hanging on the wall. It was refreshing to see that someone besides her didn’t live and die by the latest technology.

  “Marla, Mom … No, everything’s okay. Listen, would you please come over at lunchtime and let me back in my house? I accidently locked myself out … Under the flower pot … No, you must not have put it back … No, no other way. Please. You can stay for lunch if you like … Well, okay, thanks. Bye.” Jean hung up the phone with a little sigh.

  “Is she busy?”

  “No, doesn’t care. Unless she gets something out of it—then she cares. It’s okay, though. We’re working on it,” she said, putting a weak smile back on her face. “You have kids?”

  “One. Deceased.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  Van just stuck her head back in the cabinet to get the tea and change the s
ubject. “Black or herbal—which would you prefer?”

  “Oh, black, none of that froufrou stuff.”

  Jean made herself at home at the kitchen table, and they talked for a while about the weather and all the other safe little things that people discussed when getting to know each other. They liked each other immediately. Gradually, the conversation drifted off into private musings, with Van puttering over the tea and Jean staring out the window.

  “What kind of mosaic are you?” Jean asked suddenly.

  “Huh?”

  “Your plaque,” she said, nodding at the little wooden plaque over the stove. “‘When the burdens of life shatter you into a million pieces, remake yourself into a beautiful mosaic.’ What kind of mosaic are you?”

  “Oh, you like?” When I was on vacation last year I bought it at an arts festival in Virginia. It was one of those feel-good-about-yourself summer days. Ten bucks that I could have used to drown my sorrows in the wine-tasting tent. Just another bad choice—God knows I’ve made enough of them. I don’t know what kind,” she said, sighing thoughtfully. “I’m still trying to figure out if all the pieces are still there and where they all go.”

  “Married?” asked Jean. “I don’t see any husband pictures.”

  “Separated.”

  “Still talking?”

  “Yep. Our life together is over, but he’ll always be the only one for me.”

  “In that case, my advice is to get rid of him. I did a few years back. We’ve been fighting ever since. He’s good at turning my daughter against me—just about ruined my relationship with her. I’m still trying to get that back on track. You’re better off without a man complicating your life. They never listen to a word you say.”