“Yes, it’s still his. I actually don’t know what will happen to it. Those papers haven’t been made available to me yet, which is inconvenient.” Fritz rubs his eyes again.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because until I came here, I lived there, too.”
“You lived with my dad?”
“Indeed.”
“For how long?”
“Ever since I can remember,” he says.
“Wow.” I shake my head in wonder. “What was it like?”
I meant what was it like living with my dad, but Fritz must’ve thought I was asking about the house. He misunderstands me so often that I’m beginning to think he does it on purpose.
“It’s really a gorgeous place,” he says. “I suppose it’ll be sold off, with the proceeds going to Mr. Pershing’s pet charities.” He sighs heavily.
“I want to hear all about him,” I say.
“There’ll be time for stories later. Now we have to get back on the road; if you’re ready to see your father’s favorite place in the world, that is.”
Thirty minutes later, we have to stop and wait for the swing bridge to turn before we can drive onto the island. Fritz is impatient. I know, big shocker, right? He doesn’t like to wait for the boats to pass by before the bridge can swing back and we can cross over it. I don’t mind waiting, not at all. I’m glad for the chance to sit here an extra few minutes and take in the scenes.
“Can you shut the window?” Fritz asks. “It smells like fish.”
I notice a fish smell, too, but it smells fresh, and it takes a backseat to the wonderful salty smell of the ocean. There’s a seafood market to our left. I can’t wait to go in and see what I can get.
“Don’t you like fish?” I ask.
“To eat, yes. To breathe, no.”
“You won’t believe my bouillabaisse. Especially with all the kinds of fresh seafood I’ll be able to get here…oh my. Can we stop now?”
“No. You can come back without me; I’m not the fish market type. And you said, only fifty or sixty times so far, that you want to see the ocean before the sun sets. We’ll be cutting it close as it is. Please shut the window; it’s too cold, and you’re messing up your hair.”
My goodness, he’s a grumbler. I see myself in the side mirror, and I know he’s lying about my hair. It’s like it was cut just for this wind! I roll up the window for Fritz, though, so he doesn’t grouch at me again. Or sigh.
As we cross over the swing bridge, I crane my head around to look both ways, up and down the intracoastal waterway. It’s like a wide, calm river in some fairytale land, with green, odd-shaped islands popping up in the deep blue water. The sun, fixing to set, shines on everything, like there’s a fun-loving wizard in the sky changing things from pink to orange and back again. Any seabird that happens to fly under his wand glows dazzling white—like a falling star, or a wish, or a blessing.
The wine still makes my head seem overly light, along with my crazy-short hair that I can’t help but touch every few seconds or so.
I have never seen houses like the ones on the island. They’re all built so high. Some of them show exposed stilts, some cover them up with garages, like modest ladies in long skirts. The houses are all sorts of faded colors: beige, sea foam green, pale yellow, soft white. Most are tall, windowed rectangles, three stories high. A few are shorter and look older, more weathered. The street runs down somewhere near the middle of the narrow island, like it was drawn by a child’s crayon, and she didn’t keep it exactly straight, but pretty good, with the ocean on one side and the intracoastal on the other.
On the intracoastal side, I catch glimpses of the green fairytale islands, now in deepening shades of sunset colors, like the wizard is getting tired of his game and is nearly ready to call it a night. On the ocean side, the houses form a more solid wall and are harder to see past. I watch closely for a view of the ocean. We pass a stretch of land where no houses are built on the ocean side because the road was drawn too close, and for a fleeting second, I see it!
I catch my breath.
Fritz points up ahead. He slows down and pushes a button on his keychain, which makes the garage door open on a very tall and beautiful green house with white trim. We pull in.
“We’ll worry about bags later,” Fritz says. “A more pressing point is the sun, which is about to disappear. I’ll show you to the deck, where you can see the ocean properly.”
He unlocks the glass door from the garage into the house and leads me up four half flights of stairs to the top. The stairs end on the level where the kitchen and living rooms are located. They’re big, pretty rooms, but I don’t really take them in because my eyes are drawn to the view beyond the windows.
Have you ever built something up in your mind until it became a hundred times bigger and better than it actually was? Like when you were a little kid, did you ever see a certain park or building or waterfall, and it just seemed so gigantic that it nearly boggled your mind? And when you thought about it later, you just shook your head in wonder?
It used to happen to me. But when I’ve seen those same things again as a grown-up, I’ve had to laugh and say: That? That’s what I thought was larger than life?
I suppose I’d been a little worried that the same thing would happen when I saw the ocean. Although I’d never seen it in person, I’d studied pictures, and glued myself to the television during sea-centered nature shows, and dreamed about it enough so that I could have sworn that I’d actually been there before. On the drive out, I wondered if maybe I’d built it up too much.
Well, let’s just say I shouldn’t have worried.
Oh my Lord.
Fritz opens the patio door to the deck, and I feel a rush of cool air. I follow right away, skipping fast across the big room. It feels wide open when I step outside. There are no trees overhead, just endless sky.
The prettiest shade of pink catches on the rolling whitecaps and crowns them like jeweled tiaras over the mild blue color of the water, which is already fading away into darkness, becoming harder to see. I hate to have it happen—I want to keep watching!
Fritz points to the intracoastal side of the island, visible through a vacant lot beside us. We watch the orange/red sun sink down, and I want to cry at the beauty of it, or laugh. Or both at once.
On the far side of the wide deck that spans the entire house, I hear a noise that isn’t part of the roaring ocean. It sounds like a man chuckling—a pure sugar laugh, not aspartame. I turn toward it and can’t make out anything but some outdoor furniture in the fading light.
I figure that I must have imagined the laughter. Fritz would have told me if someone else was here. But then I make out the silhouette of a man standing at the rail.
“So there you are, Merry.”
I put my hand to my heart, and if not for Fritz’s arm going around my waist and steadying me, I’m sure I would fall over.
The lines from the letter I read yesterday morning play in my mind, in the voice of the old man I just heard, or maybe only imagined:
If I could choose my heaven…you would find me standing on my deck now, a happy shadow, looking out at the water and waiting to finally meet you.
Chapter Five
IN WHICH JACK IS DISTURBED AT DAWN
As told by a shivering Mr. Morningstar
Awakened by the sound of a telephone ringing, I stumble into the kitchen and answer it.
“Jack? Hey buddy.”
It’s my father on the line. He’s been calling me “buddy” since Katie’s accident, like I’m six years old again. I squint out the window and discover that it’s dawn.
“You woke me up. Is something wrong?”
“Not anymore. It’s so good to hear your voice. It’s been awhile, hasn’t it? It’s really good to hear you, to know that you’re right there on the other end of the line.”
My father, a PhD psychologist, has had a private therapy practice since before I was born. Friends of mine always thought he wasn’t necessari
ly cool, but pretty cool for someone’s dad, until they found out what he did for a living. Then they were very guarded around him, apparently under the impression that he could find out anything they were thinking, or what they’d been doing, just by having a casual conversation about English Lit or basketball. Martin was my only friend who wasn’t discomfited by my dad. I thought it was because Martin didn’t have anything to hide.
“Did you need something specific? Or did you just want to wake me up and hear me?” I ask. I’m standing barefoot in my boxers, shivering.
“Your mother and I would really like to come see you, buddy,” he says.
Dad mentions this fact constantly—in e-mails and voicemails and, in this case, live on the phone since he caught me so off guard that I answered.
I can’t agree to a visit, which would just be an excuse for him to lecture me, or try some quack new therapy he read about, or devised himself, that he’s sure will shock me out of my gloom. He has always been game to try new approaches when his tool kit doesn’t seem to have just the right wrench.
My eyes have adjusted enough to see the squalor I’m living in. This house is beautiful, but you’d never know it if you walked in now. Before I married Katie, I had someone come in to clean twice a week, to make sure rats didn’t invade my apartment. My only saving grace against infestation now is that I don’t cook. I live off power bars, chips, coffee, and soda, so at least I don’t have food rotting in pans all over the kitchen.
There’s dog hair and dust everywhere, though. And enough sand to fill a sandbox, if someone swept it all up. I’m sure it smells terrible. It’s not the main reason I won’t let them visit, but it’s on the list.
“We want to bring Marty down. You two need to talk,” he says.
My dad has always spoken at interminable length of our family interconnectedness—how we count on each other, and depend on each other for support, for encouragement, for the steadying ballast that keeps us all on course. He actually says shit like that.
“Not happening, Dad.”
“I know you’re going through tough times, son. But Marty is, too. He fears that you hate him, and he’s also been traumatized by the accident.”
I know my dad thinks that I want him and Mom to sever ties with Martin, their close-second son, who they all but adopted because we were inseparable friends. I’ve told him it’s not true—that as far as I’m concerned, they can all keep each other. I just need them to let me go. I refuse to be part of their dysfunctional family unit anymore.
“I do hate him,” I say.
“I know you don’t mean that, buddy.”
“Nice talking to you, Dad.” I hang up the phone.
I’d challenge anyone who thinks I’m a jerk for cutting off my dad to sit through one of his lectures. They loop and repeat, so if you happen to miss something, you don’t have to worry because it’s coming back around again.
Since I’m up, I open the folder of design documents for the Langdon Logistics project that Varun and Sam sent for my review. I try to focus on it. I know I need to. But I find myself rereading the executive overview for a third time and still not absorbing it. My dad keeps intruding.
I am well aware of what he would’ve said on the phone if I had given him the chance. He has said it all before.
He’d say that Katie is gone. As if I didn’t know that, as if every time I wake up, I don’t spend my first sentient moments reestablishing that truth in my mind. A fact being obvious doesn’t stop my dad from stating it, though.
He’d say that Katie is gone.
He’d say that sequestering myself hundreds of miles away from everyone I love, trying to commune with my wife’s memory, is indulgent and defeatist. He’d say that life is for the living. He’d say that he and Mom are here, and that they love me so much it kills them to see me suffer alone.
He’d say that Martin is here and needs my support and forgiveness to get through these dark days. He’d say I’m the only one who can really help Martin understand that it’s OK to be alive, even after such a terrible tragedy.
My dad would actually think he was helping me while he tore open the tremulous scab I’ve formed over the gaping hole in my heart. He’d think he was fixing my problems while instead he was opening me up to a tidal wave of pain and fury that might drown me for good. He would say the very last words that I want to hear.
He’d say that Martin loved her, too.
Chapter Six
IN WHICH MERRY TWIRLS IN THE MOONLIGHT
As told by the newly renovated Ms. Strand (a.k.a. Dorothy)
I’m not squeamish, but I tell you what: I nearly faint when I see that ghost standing at the deck rail. Lucky for me, my grumpy genie is there to catch my arm and hold me steady.
“You’re still here?” Fritz asks, which means he sees someone there, too. Thank goodness. I’d sure hate to lose my marbles just when life got interesting.
“Hiya Merry, I’m Max,” the ghost says. But when he steps out from the shadows into the moonlight, I see that he’s actually a live old man. He kisses my hand like we’re both royalty.
Fritz sighs—maybe his heaviest one yet. “This is Mr. Pershing, Merry. He’s called Max. You read about him yesterday in your father’s papers. I believe he was referred to as a ‘curmudgeonly old bastard.’”
It dawns on me—Max is my dad’s brother, the one who will get the beach house if I don’t. I think it’s pretty rude of Fritz to tell Max what his brother called him, but I suppose that’s Fritz for ya.
“Yes,” Fritz says, more to the old man than to me. “This is Max the black sheep, who has unceremoniously descended upon us here. Though it complicates matters considerably, it looks as if he means to stay awhile.”
When Phil gets mad at his mom, or one of the busboys or waitresses, he does this type of thing. He explains to me, in front of them, what they did wrong instead of just telling them directly. I hate it when he does that.
“Thank you for such a fine introduction, you pompous little ass,” Max tells Fritz under his breath. Turning his back on him, he takes my hand again. He comes closer, until I can see his face in the light coming from inside the house. “How are you, dear?”
Oh, he’s perfect! He’s got twinkling blue eyes and white hair. He’s the very picture of a kindly grandpa. Or I suppose, in this case, old uncle.
“So you are Claude’s daughter?” he asks.
“Yes, sir. That’s what Fritz here says,” I reply.
He smiles and squeezes my hand tighter. “You look so very stylish; you’re quite a fashion plate! I’m afraid Fritz had rather prepared me for a barefoot, backwoods, illiterate girl. I wasn’t expecting a sophisticated young lady like you.”
“Don’t listen to the old fool,” Fritz says. He turns to Max. “If you remember correctly, I prepared you to leave.”
Max ignores him. “I understand that, with Fritz’s help, you’re trying to steal away my beach house?” he asks me. “I felt as if I should stay around and protect my interests. You don’t mind, do you dear?” He laughs quietly, but it soon turns into a coughing fit.
Fritz looks at him with that frown I’m already used to because he puts it on so often. This morning I thought he looked tired, but now he looks downright exhausted. Sure, he’s still dressed to the nines, and from far away he probably looks like the handsome young man that he is. But the closer you get, the more Fritz appears to be carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“Have you gotten much rest today?” he asks Max.
Max shakes his head and waves him off. “You’re so very solicitous. My brother must have been a helpless old coot at the end if he needed constant reminders to rest and whatnot.”
“Claude Pershing was unwaveringly generous to me throughout my entire life. I felt it was not only my duty, but my pleasure, to help him in any way I could,” Fritz offers his arm to Max, who looks weaker and smaller after his coughing episode.
Max accepts Fritz’s help to get inside. “Well, I did r
est quite a while. I think the sea air does me good.”
Fritz turns on a lamp, creating a little golden pool of light. He delivers Max to a seat in the center of it. “Here you are: the shabby chair you’ve adopted.”
“A bit like my brother, am I? Adopting shabby things.”
“If you’re referring to me, I was never adopted,” Fritz says. He points to the side table. “I see that you have a very full ashtray here, which proves that instead of resting, or leaving as you were supposed to do, you sat and smoked like a stubborn chimney for the past two days.”
“Henpecker,” Max says under his breath. His frown looks like a deeper, more practiced version of Fritz’s.
“Merry, here’s a matching chair to your relative. You two can sit in this horrible conversation area and get acquainted.”
“It’s not horrible,” I say. “It’s so pretty here!” It really is such a nice, big room. I still hear the ocean, even with the door closed. If Fritz doesn’t even like this place, I can’t imagine what would ever be good enough for him.
“Everything’s always so purdy,” he mocks.
Max reaches over and pats my arm. “It’s a bit faded here and there, and scratched, and so forth. You don’t have to pretend it isn’t, Merry. Claude knew it wasn’t perfect. It made a lot of people happy, though, lots of families. It was used as a vacation rental during his long absences.”
“A few scratches don’t worry me,” I say. “I’m not used to anything fancy. Besides, the ocean is right out there.”
Max smiles. “Here, here. Could you pour me a whiskey, dear? The bottle’s on the counter.”
Fritz shakes his head. “Why don’t you skip the whiskey tonight? You look pale.”
Max’s hand shakes as he lights another cigarette. “No ice, Merry. I like it neat,” he says.
“Have you eaten anything?” Fritz asks him.
“Look how familiar you are! It’s as if you’re transferring all your overzealous ministrations for my brother right over to me. How charming a bullying nag you are, Fritz. What a lovely stay we’ll all have here together…”
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