“What are you saying?”
“I know this is hard to hear, but it might be easier for you to set a low price to reflect the deficiencies.”
“‘Deficiencies’?” Ann felt deflated by that word.
“Given the lot size you can probably get a larger septic system, and that’s a good thing, but it’s expensive to upgrade, I’m guessing about twelve grand. And you’ll need a new well. Water is a problem in this area.”
“What do you mean it’s a problem? We’ve always had water.”
Ann walked over to the kitchen sink and flipped the faucet on, but nothing came out; worse, the handle fell off, clattering when it hit the bottom of the metal sink. “Well, it’s turned off in the winter. There’s water. There’s always been water.”
Carol shook her head. “It’s a known problem.”
“Great,” Ann said. Her stupid suit did nothing to make her feel more in control.
“People want to swoop in for a few days, unwind, drink, play in the sand, whatever. They think about how much they can get for rent in the summer, and a place like this is hard to rent out until it’s fixed up. The house is very special, it is, but it’s easier to rent a cleaner-looking, more generic space. And it’s on the water I guess, but you’re set too far back to get a good view of the cove.”
“You’re saying it’s hopeless.”
Carol’s smile was as unexpected as it was refreshing. “Of course not! I just want you to be realistic. You’ll find a buyer who’s into history, who gets into the old hardware and square nails, the big fireplace, the bean-pot cellar. For those people, the smell of an old house is like the smell of a baseball glove for a baseball player. You’re looking for a romantic.” The way Carol said it, she might have said, You’re looking for … a hopeless loser. “But a more likely scenario is that your buyer will want to tear it down.”
“But it’s, it’s historic. They can’t.”
“It’s not in the historic district, and it’s not listed on the National Register.”
Ann felt like cleaning out her ears. Did this Realtor just talk about the house being torn down? Out loud, in the light of day, practically within earshot of Ann’s dead parents? Selling was one thing; bulldozing the house was something different altogether. It would be like killing a living thing.
Ann said, “Can we make it so that whoever buys it can’t?” She paused. “Can’t tear it down?”
“Maybe you could put a restriction on the deed, or impose a short waiting period, but that’ll drag down the value. If you want to sell, and it sounds like you do, I suggest you try to set your emotions aside. I understand that can be difficult with a family home.”
No, Ann thought. Carol didn’t understand. Carol didn’t have the slightest idea what Ann was going through. Carol wouldn’t want to know.
“So how would you price it?” Ann tried not to sound desperate. Maybe she could finally start her own business, something she’d dreamed of doing since she got her MBA. She wanted to advance out of her old life and into a new one. No matter how bad things got, Ann always believed she could start fresh.
A low number: she could tell by the way Carol looked around and bit her lower lip that that was what she was thinking. Before Carol arrived, Ann thought the house was special and valuable. Now? She felt like she’d have to pay someone to take it off her hands.
“I need to run some figures, look at the comps. What about the title? I’ll need a CYA to be sure you have legal authority to proceed with the sale.”
“A CYA?”
“I’m sure it’s not a problem, but we don’t want to get into a legal snarl with heirs. Happens with houses that have been in the family a long time. I’ll need to know that the title is clear.”
The word “title” made Ann’s stomach twist. She thought about Michael. She couldn’t help but see him here: his thick, dark hair that always hung over his intense brown eyes. She could hear his footsteps on the creaky stairs, see his sandals on the mat by the door, smell the Old Spice he insisted on using because that was what her dad wore, imagine him curled on his side in the twin bed under the eaves in the attic. She felt him here, present to her in a way he hadn’t been in years. She swore she could almost feel his breath. Who knew where he’d gone off to? She wasn’t about to try to find him—certainly not now, even though she knew she probably should.
“The title is all clear,” Ann lied, the same way she lied to the probate court officer when she filed to be the administrator of her parents’ estate. She felt bad about lying, she did, but she was beaten down, desperate. “It’s clean as a whistle.”
Part One
1999
ONE
Michael
Ann ordered Michael to drop his bag next to a long, skinny door that had an iron lever for a doorknob. “Your room will be upstairs,” she said, although there were no stairs he could see. Michael struggled with the handle, and Ann, impatient, pushed his hand away. “Everything here is old and weird. Here—”
She showed him how it worked, pressing the lever with her thumb and tugging the swollen door from the frame, revealing a staircase unlike any Michael had seen. It was so steep it was almost a wall, with only enough room on each narrow step for the balls of his feet, and the pine risers were riddled with scuff marks. “These are the captain’s stairs,” Ann said.
He lifted his leg to begin his ascent, but Ann pulled him back. “Later. We need to get going.” She swung the door shut with a disheartening thud.
Michael wanted to explore the house, but the girls explained that they’d stay only long enough to change into swimsuits and head straight to the beach. This was a family tradition, the first thing they did after their annual drive halfway across the country from Milwaukee to Wellfleet. But Michael wasn’t ready to leave.
The house had seemed peaceful and dark when they’d first walked in, as if it were sleeping. It wasn’t like any home he’d ever been in. It even smelled different, because it sat closed up all winter long. Now the house was already buzzing with life. Connie pulled the sheets off the furniture. Michael walked to the couch to help her, but his mind was still on those stairs. He wanted to know where he’d sleep—no, he needed to know. He’d spent too many nights not knowing.
Ed walked with purpose to the window and pulled up the heavy wood blind with a hearty yank of the yellowed cord. Dust rose and lingered like confetti in the abrupt sunlight, revealing four playing cards, all aces, nailed to the wall above the door to the sunporch.
“What are those?” Michael asked.
Ed smiled. “Oh, that’s the stuff of legend. My grandfather Cullen, he won this house in a game of poker.”
“He won a whole house in a game?”
“They were gambling out here. The homeowner, Hopkinson, he’d built the newer house next door to be closer to the cove. At the time, this was just the back house—his man cave. Anyway, Cullen was way up. Hopkinson was low on chips but he wanted to stay in for one last game. He had a winning hand, and you know what he did? He bet the house.”
“The house?” Michael couldn’t imagine being so reckless.
“Well, at that time it wasn’t worth a plug nickel. And Hopkinson, you know, he didn’t think he’d lose. He had four kings. But that was Cullen’s hand.” Ed pointed at the playing cards, pinned unevenly to the wall and stained from the long, rusty nails. “He’d tell that story to anyone who would listen.”
Connie playfully swatted Ed on the behind with the dust rag she was holding. “You’ll tell it to anyone who will listen.” She wiped down the top of the bookcase. “The little room next to ours is a birthing room, where women had their babies so they could stay warm near the fire. And this room we’re in, this is called a keeping room.” She was happy to show off the old house, and clearly happy to finally be there. “See these tall, thin doors? They called them courting doors because of the tiny windows above them.” She pointed up. “For spying.”
Poppy opened a cabinet on the side of the large, squat fir
eplace that dominated the room. “They used to bake bread in here,” she said. “Check this out. This is the best part.” She walked over to a bookcase on the other side of the fireplace and gave it a push, revealing a hidden compartment one or two small people might fit in if they huddled together. “A hiding place.”
“To hide from what?” Michael asked.
“Well, as you can imagine, back in the day the natives weren’t too happy with the colonists.” Ed’s statement was innocent enough, but it hit Michael sideways, heightening his awareness of insiders and outsiders, natives and impostors.
Still, he was happy to be there. More than happy. He found the house, with its leathery smell and unexpected spaces, even more magical than he’d anticipated—as magical as he found the Gordon family with their traditions, games, inside jokes, Sunday dinners, and summer vacations “out East.”
Ann emerged from the bedroom. He looked beyond her and saw her clothing already scattered all over the twin beds in the room she and Poppy shared. She adjusted the shoulder straps of her suit with a snap. “Let’s go. I’m dying to swim.” Ann dabbed some Coppertone on her cheeks. The room smelled suddenly of coconut. He wished he could reach out and smooth out the glob of lotion next to her nose that she’d missed.
“You go ahead,” he said. “I can wait here.”
“Don’t you want to see the back shore?”
He did, he supposed, but he hated the idea of leaving. “I want to unpack.”
Ann walked toward the door. “You’ve got all summer to unpack. Come on, get changed.”
“I’ll just wear my shorts,” Michael said.
He didn’t want to tell her that he didn’t own a swimsuit.
* * *
MICHAEL RACED DOWN THE DUNE behind the girls, so intent on staying steady in the deep, rust-colored sand that he didn’t look up or ahead as he followed their winding tracks around beach blankets, Frisbee players, coolers, sandcastles, and the lifeguard stand. They stopped just short of the surf. Michael stood next to Ann and stared in awe at the limitless expanse of blue sky and churning gray water spread out in front of him. His lungs and legs burned. He’d seen Lake Michigan plenty of times. The lake was just a puddle compared to the Atlantic. The ocean was as frightening as it was beautiful. He felt as if he were standing at the mouth of a massive and hungry living thing.
Poppy squealed with delight when a wave broke against her leg. She was always in her own world, daydreaming and doodling palm trees on her folders and the textbook covers she made out of old grocery bags and Scotch tape. She changed when she got near the water. It was as if he could see her snap into herself, become her own person.
“It’s even colder than I remembered.” Poppy’s smile was broad, her shoulders glistened, and the thick rope of her braid hung over one bare shoulder. He’d always been so preoccupied with Ann that he felt as if he was only now seeing Poppy. Her looks were more rugged and outdoorsy than Ann’s. Poppy didn’t seem like she’d just arrived at the beach; it was as if she’d been there all along. “Put your foot in, Michael.”
The girls watched Michael expectantly as he took in the rise, curl, and crash of waves against the shore. He couldn’t move. He was overwhelmed by both the power of the surf and the girls’ intense focus on him. He began to feel there was something pressingly selfish about their interest, as though they didn’t really care if he connected to Cape Cod; what they wanted was for him to recognize their attachment to the place.
“C’mon,” Poppy said in her dreamy voice, splashing the water like a dancer. “It’s amazing.”
“It’s cold at first,” Ann said, “but you’ll get used to it.”
He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t shake his fear that the Gordons could still change their mind about him. During the drive out, he was convinced they’d leave him stranded at a gas station or rest stop. He couldn’t believe they’d asked him to come along to this place Ed called “the outermost Cape.” “Outermost” was right: it seemed about as different and as far away as he could possibly get from Milwaukee.
He thought he’d known what to expect. Poppy and Ann had shown him their scrapbooks stuffed with pictures of Wellfleet. The photos made the place seem quiet and peaceful, and he looked forward to going there the way his mother had talked about going to heaven. He hadn’t anticipated the wind ripping in his ears, the ocean roaring like a freight train, and the girls staring at him.
“Don’t you want to swim?” Poppy asked. It was as if she thought the ocean could change him, and she was right. It could. The ocean could change him from hot to cold, change the air in his lungs to water, change him from living to dead.
Michael looked down at his feet to anchor himself but got dizzy watching the small pebbles crash against each other, roll forward, skitter back, forward, back. They were powerless, grinding down to nothing against each other.
The air tasted like salt. Gulls swirled overhead and the wind ripped at his hair. Children misbehaved and their parents in plaid swim trunks and polo shirts scolded them in their strange East Coast accents. Daniel, I tooold you not to put sand in your brotha’s eyes and Whea’s your noodle? They were the kind of people who belonged here, people who set summers aside from the rest of the year, people who had money and families, who knew how to swim and thought nothing of it. People who thought this beach was relaxing.
Ann reached for his hand, and her touch sent a familiar shock through him. “Isn’t it amazing, Michael?”
It was amazing and it was theirs—the roaring ocean, the old vacation home, their nice parents, everything. The girls thought they were sharing it with him, but he felt like they were rubbing their perfect lives in his face, saying, This is ours, ours, ours—we know all about it, we come here every year. You have no history, you know nothing, you have nothing, you are nothing.
Ann’s hand was nestled into his own, warm and soft compared to the cool ocean spray, but just as dangerous.
On the drive out, she sat next to him in the cramped backseat and pressed her thigh against his. It made him crazy, and he had a feeling from her faint smile that she knew it would. He’d tried his best to concentrate on the family game they called “Anibitz.” Ann and Poppy said they’d made it up and played it since they were little. Someone would name an animal, like a sea lion, and someone else would name another one, like a tarantula, and whoever was “it” had to draw a combination of the two and come up with a combined name, like “sealantula.” Or they’d draw a creature and everyone else would try to guess what it was made out of—a roach, a monkey, a polar bear: a “romopobear.”
By the time they reached Cleveland they could mash together three, four, five creatures into one, and they added real people into the mix, like Prince and Mrs. LaSpisa, the guidance counselor from school who gave him a beeswax candle when she’d heard his mother had died. Michael thought the game was stupid and funny and charming. He was excited to see Cape Cod, and the ride out there—with all of them close together, playing games like a real family—would have been perfect if he hadn’t been so distrustful of his good fortune to be included, and so skeptical that his luck would last.
After their stop in Syracuse, Ann fell asleep with her head on his shoulder. He couldn’t help it: the feeling of her breath on his neck and the fruity smell of shampoo in her long, straight hair made him hard. Of course she turned him on. She was pretty, but there was more to his attraction to her than that. He’d heard kids at school say she was stuck-up, and he supposed she could be, but he admired her confidence and drive. Plus, she’d allowed him to see a side of her that other people didn’t see. He’d be forever in her debt for taking an interest in him when nobody else did. If it weren’t for Ann, he’d be in some foster home or out on the street.
He could practically taste her, smell her, feel her soft hair in his hands. He studied everything about her: the dimple on her cheek, the bump on her nose, the way she frowned when she did homework and tapped her fingers against her leg when she was bored. He couldn’t
explain it; it was as if she’d been imprinting herself on him.
The waves kept smashing against the shore, and the wind whistled in his ears. Couldn’t everything just stop for a minute? Couldn’t there be quiet? He didn’t know what to do; he only knew that Ann’s hand felt like an anchor. He wanted her to keep holding on as much as he knew she should let go. He wasn’t her boyfriend.
“Let’s swim,” Ann said. A strand of her hair had gotten caught in the bubble-gum-scented lip gloss she always used, and it was all he could do not to reach out and pull it away for her. In the sun, her hair looked as golden as the tinsel on a Christmas tree, while Poppy’s hair had a copper cast to it. They were both wearing one-pieces, the kind of modest suits girls wear to swim meets, but it was cold near the water and he couldn’t help but notice Ann’s nipples poking through the fabric. Michael looked away, embarrassed.
Ann stepped closer to the water and tugged on his arm. “Come on. Don’t you want to swim?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t. Go ahead.”
Ann, as usual, caught on quickly. “Oh my God, you don’t know how, do you?” Her reaction might not have been so devastating if she hadn’t dropped his hand when she said it.
Michael had been so anxious about this moment that he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to swim. He never spent his summers in a place like this. He didn’t know anyone who would have bothered to take him to a pool or Lake Michigan and teach him. Besides, he hated water, because it was his mom’s boyfriend’s favorite form of punishment. When he was little and he got in trouble over what seemed like nothing, Marcus would make him sit in an ice-cold bath, or in water so hot it burned his skin.
“It’s OK,” Poppy said. “I can show you how. But you should learn in the ponds, not here, not with the riptide.”
Michael didn’t know what a riptide was, only that it sounded terrifying: rip.
“I’ve never met anyone our age who couldn’t swim,” Ann said.
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