by Boyle, Gerry
He took it out, sat down in his grandmother’s chair, opened the folder. Tiny snapshots fell out on his lap. School portraits.
His mother in third grade, unruly curly hair tied back, a mischievous glint in her eye, a smile like she was about to laugh. Another photo, junior high, the woman beginning to emerge. Cheekbones higher, hair billowing loose, a bemused expression like she’d already seen through the charade. A snapshot from high school: Nikki at the beach with her friends. Guys flexing their muscles, Nikki with her hand over her mouth in mock amazement. Nikki in a bikini, lean and tanned, the guys jostling for her attention.
Nikki and Brandon, a tiny baby. She was holding him awkwardly, a girl who had never played with dolls. She had always been like that, never quite sure what to do with him or how. Three years old, he’d sensed the relief she felt when she was free of him.
And then she was gone.
But if she’d lived, he thought, if she knew him now, it would be different. They’d be friends, tell each other funny stories. Nessa didn’t talk a lot about Nikki, but she did say Brandon’s mom had been a joker, smiled her way through school, grinned her way into restaurant and bar jobs, always ended up with a bunch of friends, every week off doing something, usually leaving Brandon at home.
More photos. Nikki and Brandon, at two, with some guy who had Brandon on his shoulders. Brandon had no idea who it was. Brandon and Nikki and Nessa in front of a Christmas tree, Brandon kneeling by a new red dump truck, a yellow backhoe. They were gone now, lost in one of their moves from apartment to apartment, old boyfriend to new boyfriend. All of it lost. Nikki, too.
Under the pictures, the clippings: the Portland Press Herald, the Charleston Post, a yellowed chronicle of diminishing hopes. Sailboat overdue, sailed south from Portland …. Caribbean-bound boat missing … Portland Woman Among Those Feared Lost at Sea … Sailboat Sighted Was Not Black Magic … Fears Realized as Life Vest Found … Coast Guard Calls Off Search for Black Magic Survivors.
Brandon read them all: October 8, 1989, the alarm sent out when Nikki didn’t call; October 9, Black Magic reported last seen resupplying in Charleston, September 23, October 12, the Coast Guard searching thousands of square miles; October 17, just five miles off of the South Carolina coast, a fishing boat picking up a cushion, and the life jacket with Black Magic written on it in marker; October 30, Nessa holding out hope, having read about sailors who survived for weeks and months in a lifeboat. Black Magic was equipped with a life raft.
And through all of the stories, this: authorities had only identified two of the crew; Marshall Dean III, 29, of Santa Cruz, California, the owner of the boat, and Nikki Blake, 23, of Portland, Maine. The Press Herald added this:
Blake is the daughter of Mrs. Vanessa Blake of Portland and the late Dr. Luther Blake, a local physician who died in 1981. Vanessa Blake said her daughter had gone along for what was to have been for her a one-way trip to the Caribbean. At that point, Blake was to have flown back alone to Maine. Vanessa Blake said she had met the men on the crew only twice and did not know the boat’s ultimate destination.
“Of course she was coming back,” Mrs. Blake said of her daughter. “She has her little boy here. A job. She was just taking a break.”
The boat reportedly arrived in Portland from Canada, after stopping at Halifax, Nova Scotia. U.S. Customs officials say they have no record that Black Magic put in at a port of entry as it crossed into the U.S., as required by law. It seemed unlikely that the sailors would have been unaware of that procedure, sources said.
“They seemed to have sailed all over,” said Maura Walters, who worked with Blake at the Seafarer, an Old Port bar. “Australia, Africa, the Azores— I’m not even sure where that is—they’d been everywhere.”
Portland residents who met the sailors said locals only knew the newcomers by their nicknames: Ketch (identified as Dean), Timbo and Lucky.
But how lucky could he have been?
CHAPTER 14
Brandon laid the clippings back in the folder, put the rest of the stuff back in the box, and slid the box back onto the shelf. He listened at Nessa’s door, heard her snoring softly. He walked to the kitchen and out the back door, locking it behind him. It was like a door had been cracked open that he thought was nailed shut.
Someone had come back from the dead, bringing all their baggage. And his.
The folder under his arm, walking down the dark driveway, Brandon made a mental note to try to find Maura Walters. The Wayfarer was long closed, but maybe she was around. Maybe she had been sort of close to Lucky, maybe he’d call her. If not, she still might know who he would look up in town.
Brandon dug for his keys, was almost to the truck. Reached for the door handle, felt something move behind him.
He turned, saw a man, a mask, a black bat, the guy sprinting toward him. Brandon put one hand on the edge of the pickup bed, started to vault over, felt the bat graze his foot, hit the truck bed. He was across the truck in a step, the guy coming around the back, moving fast. Brandon was off the truck, in mid-air for what seemed like forever, hit the pavement as the guy came around. Brandon skidded on sand, did a split, rolled as the guy came at him.
Trying to get away.
A blow to the hip, a jolt of pain. On his feet, one side numb, a stumble, a swish as the bat almost missed, clipped his shirt at the shoulder. The guy was on him and Brandon turned, rushed at him, got inside the swing, grabbed the bat arm with both hands. Thought of screaming, but nothing came out, just grunts, the guy cursing between clenched teeth.
Brandon took the forearm, both of them spinning now, the guy kneeing at Brandon’s groin, wrapping the other arm around his neck. He squeezed and Brandon could feel the arm getting under his chin. He took a hand off the guy’s bat arm, pushed the arm away from his neck.
Dropped his chin and sunk his teeth into the guy’s arm.
A bellow, the guy writhing to get loose. The bat flailing, hitting Bran-don’s head, his neck, his shoulders. Glancing blows and Brandon kept pushing into the guy, remembered a self-defense brochure he’d seen at the S.O. For women. Stomp the tops of the assailant’s feet. He did, pounding at them like he was stamping out a fire, the guy’s work boots absorbing the blows. Brandon kicked back at the guy’s shins, started to spin, the guy still on his neck but the grip loosening, the arm stretching out like they were figure skaters locked in a pirouette.
Brandon got both hands on the bat, jerked it, hit the guy in the back of the head with the handle. Heard the guy’s breath burst out. Banged him again, and the guy shook loose, raised the bat.
And then a car, lights showing through the cedars. The guy swung, missed, ran.
“Hey,” Brandon shouted, started after him, felt a jolt of pain in his hip and slowed, limping. The guy went right, through the deserted streets. Brandon was out in the road, running slowly. The guy was gone, rounding a corner, the sound of his footsteps fading.
Brandon stopped. He heard a car motor rev in the distance, knew he should have pulled the mask.
He told the South Portland cop this and the cop, a woman with a stern face and short-cropped hair, looked at him and frowned. “You’re right. ’Cause this isn’t much to go on. A big guy with a ski mask, work boots, a baseball bat, except he won’t have the mask or the bat, or maybe the boots. That leaves us looking for a big guy.”
“He had leather gloves on. Did I say that?”
“They’ll be gone, too. Didn’t say anything? Demand money? Try to get your wallet?”
“No. I wrestled with him for maybe thirty seconds. Hit him twice on the back of the head, but not very hard. And I bit him.”
The cop brightened.
“Good for you. Break the skin?”
“Yeah. I kind of freaked out.”
“Sure. That’s okay. Most people would.”
“I mean, I’ve never been just attacked like that. Just a couple of days ago was the first time I really—”
“Where was it?” the cop interrupted.
“Where was what?”
“The bite?”
“Oh. Lower right arm. Above the wrist.”
She spoke into her shoulder mic, said the assault had occurred fifteen minutes prior, told the dispatcher the subject should show a bite wound to the right arm, possible injury to the back of his head.
Another patrol unit called in, said they’d take the Portland bridge. Brandon waited, then said he was taking a law enforcement class at the college.
She looked at him, whoop-tee-do.
“I was sort of threatened,” Brandon said. He told her about the funeral parlor, Joel Fuller and his mom.
“You think it was this Fuller guy?”
“Way too big.”
“Could have brought a friend. Called in a favor.”
Brandon rubbed his hip, already feeling better.
“So if this was something to do with this fight on your ride-along, doesn’t sound like they got even,” the cop said.
Brandon shook his head.
“Yet,” the woman cop said.
The folder was in the truck bed, the photos and papers scattered. Brandon collected them, brushing off dirt. He walked back into the house. Nessa was standing in the kitchen, red bathrobe on, hair flattened on one side, eyes wide.
“It’s okay,” Brandon said.
“What? What happened?”
“Somebody tried to jump me.”
“Oh, my God,” she said. “You mean, like mugged you?”
“Sort of. We wrestled around and he ran away.”
“You’re limping. Are you okay?”
“Fine. Just a little bump.”
“What did they want? To rob you?”
“It never got that far.”
“Druggies,” Nessa said. “They’re everywhere now. It’s on the news.”
“Police are looking for him.”
“So he won’t come back?”
“I don’t think so.”
If it was Fuller, he’d been following along, watching the house. In the code of retribution, maybe grandmothers and mothers were of equal value.
“I’ll sleep on the couch, Nessa. Go back to bed.”
It was a fitful night, dreams of someone chopping at his boat with an axe, Brandon stuffing rags in the holes to keep the water from pouring in. He awoke at 6:30, pulled on his jeans, made his way barefoot to the kitchen. Nessa was sitting at the table, holding a mug of tea.
“You’re up early,” Brandon said.
Nessa sipped, said, “I’m up late.”
“You were up all night?”
“I was thinking.”
“About Lucky?”
“About your mother. I’ve been wondering what she’d look like, trying to picture her. There was a show on TV, this computer thing where they can make you look old. They had a little boy and he’d been kidnapped when he was four and now he would be fifteen. And the computer did this thing and there he was.” She sipped again, her face haggard and old. “So I was thinking I could send them a picture of Nikki and they could change it to what she looks like now. And we could maybe put it on television, on those shows about people who are missing.”
Brandon sat down.
“Nessa,” he said. “Nikki isn’t missing. She’s gone.”
“We don’t know,” she snapped. “We just know she didn’t come home.”
“Oh, please, Nessa. Just because this guy supposedly shows up. It could have been somebody who just looked like him. It’s been a long, long—”
“It was him. Like a ghost. Maybe there’s a mother somewhere thinking he’s gone forever, and here he is walking down the street in Portland, Maine.”
“If his mother hasn’t seen him in seventeen years, then he might as well be gone,” Brandon said, “staying away all that time.”
The thought of Nikki out there, abandoning him.
“No,” Nessa said. “That’s not true. I still need to see her. I need to talk to her. I need to hear her voice and see her. With what? Gray in her hair? Lines in her face?”
Her jaw clenched, her face went taut, her lips pressed like she was trying not to cry. She lifted her mug and it shook with her hand. She put it back down, closed her eyes.
“I just need to know if she’s alive,” she said. “I just need to know that.”
Her eyes opened.
“Don’t you, Brandon? Don’t you need to know?”
He hesitated, a near lifetime of bitterness and resentment swirling to the surface. And then he choked it down.
“Of course,” he said.
CHAPTER 15
A fresh morning, the mist burning off the harbor early, the water calm, the wakes of outgoing boats long and sweeping like tails on exotic birds. Brandon drove across the bridge, the attack of the night before made even more surreal by the day, beautiful, full of promise.
Maybe it was just some nut, thought he’d knock him down with the bat, grab his wallet. As Nessa said, there were druggies everywhere now.
Pretty to think so. He took out his cell and called.
He was rolling up to the marina when she answered.
“Hey,” Brandon said.
“Hey yourself,” Mia said. “Up early.”
“Did I wake you?”
“No, I just got back from a run.”
“Nice day for it,” Brandon said.
“Beautiful.”
“Most days like this, I’d go for a row.”
“But not today?”
“I’ve got something I need to do. And I was just wondering. I could use some help and I thought maybe—”
“What kind of help?” Mia said.
“Asking questions.”
“Questions about what?” Mia said.
“Finding a guy,” Brandon said.
“What guy is that?”
“I’ll tell you. There’s a diner. Milk Street, off Middle.”
“When?”
“A half-hour?”
“Okay, what should I wear?”
“For clothes?”
“Yeah,” Mia said. “Who are we asking these questions of? If it’s some fancy lawyer, I dress one way. If it’s some lobsterman—”
“Look nice,” Brandon said. “You know, maybe a little—”
“A little what?”
“Pretty.”
“A little pretty? Thanks a lot.”
And then he was out of the truck, on the way to the boat. He didn’t notice the white van slowing out on the street. On its side was illegible lettering sprayed over, dull gray filler around the rusting rear fenders. It coasted to a stop on the shoulder.
“Well, look at that,” Fuller said, peering out through mirrored aviators under the visor of a black baseball cap, both shoplifted at the dollar store in the strip mall down the road. “Our boy belongs to the freakin’ yacht club.”
“So we knock him around and send him swimming,” Kelvin said, rubbing his arm, red welts showed in the crescent of a bite mark.
“You think small. This guy hangs out here, we don’t give him a beat down. We milk him like a goddamn cow.”
They had parked on the edge of the lot, the back of the van facing the marina, mirrors adjusted so they could see the boats. Ten minutes passed since Fuller had spoken, the thing about the cow. Kelvin had been puzzled at first, then figured that it had to do with squeezing money out of the guy, not any sort of bodily fluids.
“How you gonna do that?” Kelvin said. “Guy didn’t exactly roll over.”
“It’s all about pressure points,” Fuller said, used to the way Kelvin thought, the weird timing.
“The old lady?” Kelvin said.
“You’re not half as dumb as you look.”
“You gonna threaten to burn her house down?” Kelvin said. “That worked real good that one time.”
“Don’t know,” Fuller said. “I feel like this one is just unfolding, like maybe we better sit back and watch.”
“You can watch. I’m going home.”
Fuller took a long drag on his ci
garette, flicked it out on the sidewalk.
“Speaking of home, I need a place to stay. Camper still out there in the back woods?”
Kelvin nodded hesitantly, knowing what Crystal would say if Joel came back.
“Okay with you? Or you gotta get permission from the boss?”
“No, it’s fine,” Kelvin said. “But I ain’t been down there since you left. Probably mice and—”
“You know what they called me in third grade?” Fuller said, something stirred up by the gleaming boats, the silvery masts, and tinkling rigging, the unfathomable amount of money it all cost.
Kelvin took a drag on his cigarette, shook his head.
“Cootie. You know why?”
“Nope.”
“’Cause I had lice. Bitch nurse, picking through my head like a god-damn baboon, tells the teacher right in front of everybody. Whispers in this loud voice. They all laugh, run to the other side of the room.”
“Fuck them,” Kelvin said.
“I get home and I tell Ma and she tells the old man to get off his ass, fix the furnace, there’s no hot water so nobody wants to take a bath. ‘Now the kid’s got bugs.’ ”
He lit another cigarette, the smoke reflecting in the glasses.
“So he drags me by the arm out into the garage, pours gasoline on a rag, and scrubs my head with it.”
“Nobody light a match,” Kelvin said.
“I’m screaming and yelling, practically passing out ’cause of the fucking fumes. Old man’s got his hand clamped on my forehead, squeezing so hard I felt like he was gonna bust my skull. I’m squirming and finally he takes the rag hand and hauls off and smacks me in the face.”
“Huh.”
“So now I’m bleeding and he’s scrubbing gas into my head, calling me a worthless little bastard, filthy little shit.”
“Wasn’t your fault.”
“I’ll never amount to anything, he doesn’t know why he even had me, I’m just there to make his life miserable, just like my mother.”
He paused. Took a swallow of beer and reached for another cigarette. Smiled coldly.
“Drags me back in and turns on the shower, ice fucking cold, shoves me under, still in my clothes, my sneakers on. My only sneakers. My mother’s screaming, ‘Get him outta here, you’ll stink up the whole house.’ The old man scrubbing my head with soap, my nose still bleeding like a faucet so the water is getting these pink drips in it. I remember that.”