The Second Home

by Christina Clancy

  Jason told him he’d meet him at the Shaws’ with the Gravely and some tools, and detailed instructions about how to mow exactly the way Shaw liked. “You can’t fuck up,” Jason said. “I need him.”

  Ann seemed excited that Michael would be at the house with her, and it made him happy that she felt that way. They snapped on their bike helmets, although as soon as they turned on LeCount Hollow Road, beyond Ed and Connie’s view, Ann stopped to take hers off and hung it on her handlebars. “I don’t want helmet hair,” she said, which seemed strange, like a lot of things lately. She dressed up to babysit, and took a long time in the bathroom before she left, emerging with mascara and lipstick. Her hair was usually wavy. Michael loved the way it looked when it was a bit messy, but before she went to the Shaws’ house she ironed it with a flatiron. “Let’s take the long way,” she said.

  They biked along Ocean View Drive, stopping at White Crest Beach to look down the bluff at the ocean, where a group of surfers paddled around in the water waiting for waves. Then they passed Long Pond. The water was so clear he could almost see to the bottom at the deepest part. Here, away from the back shore and the cove, the air smelled like pine and oak, a scent Michael found intoxicating.

  By the time he got to the Shaws’ house on the bay side, that scent was diluted. The haze was beginning to burn off. Michael looked at the big brown house. It was too big. Too brown. The rolling lawn that surrounded it was too lush, too green. It was a yard that looked unnatural, a boob job of a yard.

  The house was surrounded by healthy bushes bursting with pompons of big, blue hydrangeas. “Cape Cod clichés” was what Jason called them. Light pink roses bloomed on the trellis. Earlier that week Jason had taught Michael how to prune, a task he enjoyed from the start. “For roses,” he said, “you have to hack the shit out of it. Take it down hard. Don’t be kind. I’ll know you did a good job if they look ugly.”

  “That’s him,” Ann said, propping her bike up against the garage. “Hi, Anthony!” She stood on her toes and waved, a shy smile on her lips. What was with the wave and the smile?

  Mr. Shaw waved back, but not before looking her up and down.

  Ann seemed nervous and excited, her face red from biking up the hill, her breathing deep and heavy. “I’ll see you later,” she said. “Have fun.” She straightened her shirt and ran into the house, leaving Michael with a funny feeling, like he’d walked into a party he hadn’t been invited to.

  Mr. Shaw stood with his hands on his hips, staring off into the distance, his expression serious.

  Here he was, Anthony, the real deal, live and in person. Michael walked to where he stood. He stuck his hand out to offer a handshake, but instead of accepting it, Mr. Shaw pulled up the hem of his sweat-stained Penn T-shirt and wiped off his damp forehead.

  “I just got back from a long run,” he said, as if this should impress Michael. It didn’t. This Anthony guy was fit, sure, but he didn’t have a runner’s body. He was a bulldog of a man, squat and strong. Michael could outpace him no problem.

  Anthony eyed his property as if he thought Michael was there to take it from him. He seemed like the kind of person who believed everyone wanted what he had.

  “Is there something wrong?” Michael felt like he’d already done something to piss the guy off and he hadn’t even started work.

  It seemed everyone on the Cape was good-natured. They were on vacation, so why shouldn’t they be? But this guy’s expression was dark and brooding, like he’d never had a good time in his life. He gave Michael the feeling he was about to whip a knife out of his pocket.

  “I’ll tell you what’s wrong,” Anthony said. He gazed out at the vast expanse of emerald-green grass in front of him, and the twinkling bay in the distance. “My lawn looks like hell.”

  “Looks nice to me,” Michael said.

  “Then you should go home. If this looks nice to you, you aren’t the right person for this job. I need someone with standards.”

  Michael actually did have standards. He appreciated the Gordons’ long-neglected lawn (was it even a lawn?) on the cove, even though it was mottled with patches of fusarium, creeping Charlie, prickly pears, and bayberries. The vegetation gave it color and interest. It looked natural, like it belonged there. The Shaws’ lawn might as well have been a putting green. The smell of lush grass was almost strong enough to make Michael forget he was next to an ocean, surrounded by bogs and marshes. It made him glad he wasn’t back in Milwaukee, where it seemed everyone wanted a boring lawn like the Shaws’.

  Anthony crossed his arms tightly over his thick chest. He gazed at the vast slope of his grand property and sneered. “Jason’s last guy didn’t know a lawn mower from a toaster oven. Look.” He made a wide, sweeping gesture with his arm. “You can see he didn’t set the casters on the mow deck evenly. See how there are lines on one side? It looks like he was planning to plant corn here, not mow a lawn. He didn’t get close enough to the trees or bevel the edges by the road. And the leftover grass cuttings, just look at them.” He reached down and grabbed a fistful of grass in his hand. “Don’t even get me started on the cuttings. Unacceptable. Entirely unacceptable.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  Jason had warned Michael about using the Gravely on Shaw’s yard. He said you steer with the handles, and no matter what, you have to maintain a perfect line. “I don’t care if a horsefly is chewing up your arm, you don’t stop, you don’t swat it away. You keep the lines straight.”

  Off in the distance Michael saw a tall, thin lady lean over the porch rail. “Anthony! Let’s go!”

  “She wants us to look for furniture for the patio you’re going to build for me. Then she’s dragging me to a play.”

  “The play sounds like fun.” Connie had already taken Michael to two plays in the little theater by the town pier. One was based on Death of a Salesman, but it was told from the mistress’s perspective. The other one was Three Sisters. He liked them both, or maybe he just liked having Connie to himself since Ann and Poppy were always busy.

  “You’re young. You don’t have the first idea of fun yet. Tell you what, Michael: enjoy your youth. I used to be young like you, and now here I am, worrying about my yard, going to a play followed by another insufferable dinner with Janey and Bill Bingham. You know what she said the last time we went to dinner? She told me she makes a list every morning of all the things she thinks she should worry about. A goddamn worry list. She says it gives her control. That’s what we talk about. And Bill’s golf swing. Sometimes, at these dinners, I feel like I’m a character in one of those James Bond films who gets trapped in a room and all four walls move in on him. You say that sounds fun? You’re lying to me, and that’s OK. I respect that. You should lie to me, because you want me to keep you on the job so you can make some money, and I appreciate your work ethic. Tell me what you think I want to hear, that’s a good strategy.”

  “I’m not lying,” Michael said. “I don’t lie.”

  “Yeah, you seem like a straight shooter. Look, I know what you’re thinking,” Shaw said. “I’ve got a beautiful house, a beautiful life. Who am I to complain? It’s not that I don’t appreciate it. I do. But tell me, Michael, what’s all this for?”

  How was Michael supposed to respond? He said nothing. He wasn’t a therapist. He knew nothing about this guy’s life. He didn’t want to know.

  Michael looked down the road to see if Jason’s truck was anywhere nearby. He said he’d be there around nine o’clock to drop off the rake and mower. He’d spent enough time alone with this guy.

  “So how about that sister of yours,” Anthony said, lingering on the word “sister,” like it was the punch line of a joke.

  “What about her?”

  “She’s something to look at, huh? Must be hard to sleep under the same roof.”

  “It’s not.”

  Anthony slapped Michael on the back. “Oh, come on.”

  “I don’t look at her that way.”

  “Sure you do. I saw th
e way you just looked at her, just now. You’re the bug, she’s the windshield. It’s OK. You look at her the way any man would.”

  Michael felt a heat rise up in him. Then he thought of Jason: Don’t fuck up. I need his business. Don’t fuck up!

  “I know she’s not your real sister. Anyone could tell you’re not related.”

  What had Ann told Shaw? Had she felt sorry for Michael—was that why he was here? Because Ann said he needed the money? Had her parents asked her to find work for him to get him out of the house, out of their hair?

  “I’m just here to work, all right? I don’t want to talk about Ann.”

  Anthony winked. “She ever put the moves on you?”

  God, Michael wanted to land a punch right on this guy’s nose. Judging from the looks of it, he wouldn’t be the first person to break it. Don’t fuck up.

  “Look, I think of her like she’s my sister. She thinks of me like I’m her brother.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “I just want to get to work.”

  Sometimes, after a deluge of rain in Milwaukee, the pressure would build enough to pop three-hundred-pound manhole covers into the air. That was how Michael felt, like at any moment he might blow. Who the hell did this guy think he was, looking at Ann the way he did, talking about her like she was a piece of ass?

  “Hey,” Anthony said, his voice softening. “No offense. I thought we could be honest with each other. We’re not so different, you know, you and me.”

  “We’ve got nothing in common.”

  “Oh, come on.” He nudged Michael and laughed as if they were at a bar, joking around. “Lighten up, sport. I helped you get this job, you know. I’m not out to get you. I know what it’s like to need to earn your own keep. Those new parents of yours, they did a great thing for you, and you know it never hurts to claim another dependent come tax time.”

  “What?”

  “Big deduction. I’m sure they care about you, but don’t forget that they get something out of the deal, too.”

  It never occurred to Michael that the Gordons could have selfish reasons for adopting him.

  “We’re the kind of people who like to pay our own way in life. Let me give you some advice, Michael: never turn down an opportunity to make an honest buck. I’ve got plenty of work for you to do here. I told Jason that I can keep you busy all summer long.”

  All summer? Michael hadn’t even started and already he wanted to quit. This guy wasn’t worth the shitty pay Jason offered him. But then he thought of Ann. He thought of her smile and the way the sunlight glinted off her hair, and the way she’d asked him to take this job. He’d do it, mostly because he didn’t want to leave her alone with this guy.

  TEN

  Poppy

  One thing Kit didn’t teach Poppy soon enough was that you never dropped in on another surfer’s wave—especially a local’s. That’s what she did one morning. The surfer didn’t see her coming. When they got to shore he popped up and she joined him. He was older, maybe even as old as her dad. He lifted his arm to reveal a gash across his torso. He’d been sliced by her fin.

  “Look what you did.”

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”

  “You didn’t pay attention to what the hell you were doing. You should be sorry. Hurts like hell, you stupid washashore.” He inspected the gash. It was clean-looking, at least. “You people, you and your little friends, you think you own everything. Go back to Manhattan.”

  “I’m not from Manhattan.”

  “OK, Connecticut.”

  “Wisconsin.”

  When Poppy told Kit she was from Wisconsin it was a joke, but somehow this revelation redeemed her in the leather-skinned surfer’s eyes. “You a Packers fan?”

  “Of course.”

  “Super Bowl champs! How about that? The green and gold. Nothing but Patriots fans out here. Tired of ’em. I’m Dirk.”

  “Poppy.”

  He slapped some seaweed on his cut and swore when the salt stung.

  “Takes years to learn to surf. Years and years. You’re off to a good start. I watched you. You’ve got good balance and you’re quick. Watchful. And you’re a girl. Not a lot of girls out here.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Show up at LeCount before sunrise tomorrow. I’ll introduce you to some people who can help you work your board. Real surfers.”

  “That’s early.”

  “That’s the best time of day.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  * * *

  RYE AND SKIP COULDN’T BELIEVE Poppy had dropped in on Dirk and survived. He was one of the outer shore’s resident surfing legends, one of the old guard who got started in the seventies. For the old guys, surfing was as much a spiritual thing as it was athletic.

  Poppy didn’t tell Kit about her meeting with Dirk, because it was like discussing a party only she’d been invited to.

  It was tough to get up before sunrise the next morning, but she woke early and went to LeCount Hollow, where he told her he’d meet her. She sat on the bench where the parking lot met the steep bluff that led down to the ocean. The sun was beginning to rise, and a layer of yellow like a line of highlighter shone at the crease of the horizon. The wind pushed the cold off the ocean to shore and made her hair whip around her head. She could taste the salt on her lips. She liked being there early. It made her feel like she had the world all to herself.

  A few minutes later a caravan of trucks drove into the lot, led by Dirk. His truck was white and covered with bumper stickers her dad would approve of, like the Grateful Dead marching bears, RELAX, a mustache, a Greenpeace logo, RALPH NADER FOR PRESIDENT OF OUTER SPACE. A series of doors slammed and a group of guys close to her own age gathered around her. The last person to approach was a girl.

  “Kit?”

  “You didn’t know I’m a local? I guess you are too, now, Wisconsin.”

  * * *

  UNLIKE THE “WASHASHORES” WHO started surfing in the afternoons and evenings—after their hangovers began to lift—the locals got started first thing. Their days began with a sacred ritual of coffee at sunrise. Then they’d check the breaks to see where the surf was best. They’d cruise the coast from Truro to Orleans chasing swells.

  “You have to be gnarly to surf with them,” Kit said, and Poppy soon learned what that meant. Dirk taught Poppy that surfing with the locals meant peeing in your own wet suit. It meant shitting in the dunes. It meant staying in the cold waters of the Atlantic as long as the swell would last, because it might be another tide or day or week before you’d hit a good one again. It meant keeping up with the guys, some of them about her age, some as old as Dirk. They felt like a family of brothers who were different than Michael. Poppy felt protective of him, while these guys looked out for her safety, taught technique, and let her drink and get high with them.

  Sometimes they went to Dirk’s. He was such a hippie, he made Poppy’s dad seem like a WASP by comparison. Dirk lived on a plot of land deep in the woods near Cole’s Neck. He slept in the back of a caramel-colored International Harvester Travelall parked next to a giant boat hidden under a tented tarp. He’d proudly rip it off when he showed it to his guests, like the host of a game show revealing the contestant’s prize. The wooden boat was beautiful but far from seaworthy. The boat was what Dirk worked on when he wasn’t surfing or taking on odd carpentry jobs. Poppy had a feeling that Dirk, like her dad with his local history and house projects, put a lot of work into things he would never finish.

  Dirk loved it when Poppy and the other surfers came to visit him. He liked being the center of attention, and railed about Marxism and capitalism and the evil war machines and NAFTA. He told Poppy that he was a typical old-school “Fleetian.” He didn’t follow anyone’s rules, didn’t care about the countless citations the town slapped on him when the neighbors complained about the mess in his yard. He seemed so right about everything and so cool and wise that when he passed around sheets of LSD, Poppy didn’t hesitate to se
t one on her tongue.

  Why not? Nobody seemed to care what Poppy was up to. Michael and Ann were always at the Shaws’ dumb house, and her parents, whom she’d seen get high plenty of times, didn’t seem to notice. This past year they’d been so focused on Michael’s adjustment and so busy with the logistics of his adoption that sometimes Poppy felt overlooked.

  She didn’t say a word about Dirk and Kit and Mickey and Nick and Paul, her new best friends. Her parents seemed pleased that she wasn’t bored anymore. She’d crawl into bed after the end of a long day and feel like she’d just experienced the whole world—a world that felt bigger and more expansive.

  Poppy felt herself change between waves and bonfires and drunk kisses with her new friends—the boys and even Kit. She couldn’t tell if she was losing her former self or becoming the person she always thought she was. It was exciting and fun and scary, like catching a wave just before it crested. She rode straight into it the way Dirk taught her. She rode into it until it rode her.

  ELEVEN

  Ann

  Ann stood on the porch and watched Michael work. She’d only seen him this focused when he ran—he had a sort of zen concentration she admired. He cut the grass in a perfect diamond pattern, cleaned up every clipping, and snipped away all the stray grass that grew around the base of the trees. Maureen joined her on the deck and offered her a glass of water with a wedge of lime hanging off the rim. “Anthony thinks your brother isn’t bad. High praise coming from him. You’ve probably noticed that my husband isn’t easily pleased,” Maureen said. “It drives me crazy sometimes, but that’s why he’s so successful at running the business.”