Whose Waves These Are

by Amanda Dykes

  Bess turns at the doorway. “Steer clear of the hot spots,” she says, sloshing the pot toward the griddle. “Do five in the top row, three in the middle, five on bottom. Just like—”

  “An hourglass,” Ann says, joining Bess to finish the sentence.

  The color goes from Bess’s face. She opens her mouth to speak.

  Bess’s blue eyes study Ann’s face, peeling back years. Ann can almost see the calculations, the rapid-fire adding and subtracting as Bess surveys the present, trying to reconcile this stranger in her kitchen with the Annie she’d once known. Add freckles. Subtract two feet from height. Add waifish lost-girl looks. Subtract citified nonsense.

  “Where’s Fletch?” a burly voice booms. “Bess, you seen Fletch?”

  Bess shakes herself present. “Ayuh!” she hollers over her shoulder. “But not since right before he headed out to tow the sun up this morning.” She peels her eyes away from Ann and sets to serving.

  For the next hour solid, the kitchen is a time machine. Erasing years as Ann and Bess work around each other with practiced coordination. Lifting plates above each other’s head in a smooth dance. Flapping jacks, brewing coffee, Ann reaching into the past to anticipate Bess’s needs.

  As she works, snatches of conversation blow in from the dining room.

  The one that takes the wind right out of her—“Bob would’ve been proud of you boys today.”

  The one that pummels her with physical force—“He’d have done the same for us.” Past tense.

  She reaches for the counter to steady herself, bent over it as tears start and the truth sinks in: This is a wake.

  A wake is the ripple left after a departure.

  Bob has . . . departed?

  Numbly, she goes back to flipping Gretel cakes, thankful somehow for the blessing of this mindless task. It keeps her breathing through water-blurred vision.

  As she flips and passes plates, again and again, the same question pops around the dining room. “Where’s Fletch? He should be here.”

  “Hard tellin’ not knowin’” comes the reply. And “Maybe he wasn’t up for it.”

  No one asks “Where’s Annie? She should be here.”

  And when the dance is done—when the room quiets in the lull of content diners—Bess sidles up to Ann, takes the spatula from her hand, and places it gently on the counter.

  “Time we talked, girl.”

  five

  As Bess leads her outside and around to sit at a table on The Galley’s patio, the growing dimness closes in around Ann. She knows this feeling—the cold hollow pit inside, the way it grows, trying to block out what’s coming. Last time she’d felt it she’d been nine years old, almost ten, her father and mother taking her small hands to break hard news to her. To pull the anchor from her world, much as they wanted to spare her.

  This time, it’s Bess. And instead of her childhood living room down the coast in Casco Bay, it’s Ansel as the backdrop, birds singing their evening song in the greening square behind them.

  Ann spins her ring around her finger and wishes away the words she knows are coming. When she looks up, she can feel the pleading in her eyes. Begging whatever Bess is about to say to be untrue.

  Bess, who always has a word ready for everyone, only purses her lips now. When she speaks at last, there are no pleasantries or catching up. No clean-cut words to tell Ann what’s happened.

  What comes out is a story. And that’s a kindness. They could both feel it, Ann thinks. To say it straight out would be too much.

  “Bob came in about a week ago,” Bess says. “Sat in the corner, just like always, joked a bit with the fellas at the counter.” She looks up, remembering. “He got his coffee and cakes like always . . . and when he got up to leave, he turned at the door and said, ‘Bess, would you keep an eye out for my Annie? Keep that table for her when the time comes, will ya?’”

  Bess shakes her head with a sad smile. “The bell clanged when he left, and the gab went right out of Ed and Arthur. They just sat there with their heads turned, watching him go. He walked down to the landing”—Bess gestures down the harbor, where a line of piers juts out into the waves, joined by a rustic boardwalk—“and just sat there, mending lobster traps next to Fletch all day long.”

  There was that Fletch again. Ann blows into her cobwebbed memory, trying to find him there and failing. One of Bob’s fishing friends, probably.

  “Ed and Arthur each went and talked to him that day and said he seemed fine. Figured maybe he heard you were coming and that’s why he’d spoken that way. But our spirits weren’t easy about it, none of us. A trouble settled in this place, a fear that maybe Bob knew something we didn’t. He went home that evening and . . .”

  Ann bites her lip. Nods, as if to tell Bess it’s okay to say what was coming, that she understands it must be said. Even so, a knot burns in her throat.

  Bess’s face falls and takes Ann’s heart with it.

  Ann tries to offer words. “He’s . . . gone.”

  Bess jerks her head up, eyes sparking. “For pete’s sake, is that what you think?”

  Something twists inside. She tries to quell it, keep it from reaching the place marked hope. “He’s okay?”

  “Well, he’s a far cry from okay, but he sure isn’t gone yet. Gonna take more than something like that to put a cap on Bob’s life. That’s for sure. Subdural hematoma, indeed.” She spits the diagnosis as if it’s edged in fire.

  Ann exhales, shoulders relaxing from their fierce place.

  “It is serious,” Bess says. “And he may yet . . . well. Fletch found him the next morning, did what he could and got him quick to the hospital. They had to do a surgery to relieve pressure on his brain. The doctors say he’s not out of the woods, not by a long shot. His injury was so bad, they put him in a coma. If Fletch hadn’t found him when he did . . .”

  Ann winces. “But . . . he’s alive.”

  “Yes.” Bess reaches across the table, squeezes Ann’s arm. This from prickly Bess is like a warm and enveloping hug from anyone else. It’s a gigantic gesture for her. “He’s alive. Over in the hospital in Machias.” Ann remembers it as a town a few harbors south. “Fletch can take you there tomorrow for visiting hours. They’re over for today, or we’d get you there straightaway.”

  “So this”—Ann gestures to The Galley—“isn’t a wake.”

  “Pssshh.” Bess waves off the suggestion. “You know this lot. Someone’s down, they hop to action. They gave up the day to go lay Bob’s traps for the season.”

  Relief and worry intertwine. “Bob’s still lobstering?”

  “That man is as wiry and strong as the day is long,” Bess says. “Prides himself at being almost seventy-five and still out at sea. It’s not the record-holding age for it, but he’s aiming to beat that someday. Still takes the Savvy Mae out most days, along with some of the younger men. Says they gotta learn, and he can teach.”

  It’s not unheard of. These rugged lobstermen know hard work, and they know it long into their lives—working the ropes and rigs with a fierce pride. The work fueling them as they fueled the work. Still, Ann had hoped some days of leisure might find Bob one day. Then again, leisure is akin to torment to some people, and Bob is one of them. He lives hard, and he loves hard—cost him what it may. This she knows more than anything.

  “I’m sorry for the ad,” Bess says. “I didn’t know how else to reach you. Bob always showed us your notes, so I knew you’d be on the watch to hear from him. I got it in right before press time.”

  “Thank you, Bess.” Ann places a hand on the woman’s worn one. A glance toward Main Street tells her it’s still as good as deserted. “I don’t suppose I could find someone to take me to Sailor’s Rest?” Daylight is fading fast.

  “That shouldn’t be any problem.” Bess smiles warmly and says, “Come inside, Annie.” She says it as if inside might be a soft place to land.

  But Ann isn’t so sure. It means facing all those people. She may be one of Bob’s closest relativ
es, but compared to these people—who know him so much better than she, who share his language and life and the very rhythm of this place—she feels like an absolute imposter.

  As Ann contemplates, Bess stands. “Come in whenever you’re ready, Annie. And take a look at your corner table. He left something there for you.”

  The sun is dropping behind Birchdown Mountain, which stands sentinel over Ansel. The chill ushers Ann back inside, where the din has steadied to a warm hum, one that she skirts as quietly as she can as she makes for Bob’s corner.

  With daylight slipping into evening, there’s a glow from the lanterns at each table and the patio lights strung back and forth across the ceiling, and the familiarity of weather-beaten friendship. At last she stands before the corner table. The sight of Bob’s empty chair pulls her heart down. She curls her fingers around the top of the chair across from it, seeing a flash of the freckle-faced girl in haphazard braids who was beginning to believe maybe she could be something in this world. All because of the old sailor with the kind eyes across from her.

  “You can’t sit there.”

  The abrupt voice from behind rips through the memory like a knife. That awkward-braided girl would have stood up, planted her hands on her hips, and said, “Wanna bet?”

  But pin-stripe-suited Ann turns slowly and levels her voice. “Pardon me?”

  A man stands there, arms crossed as if he’s the lone guardian of this plot of planks. He’s maybe thirty-five, but the look on his face is older, much older. Shadowed and resolute, with a wildness about him. Like someone has anchored the wind and trapped it, chains and all, inside of him.

  “Sorry,” he says. “You can’t sit there.” The words are polite, his voice resolute. He has nothing of the Maine way of speaking and yet all of the Maine ways of being. Strong, wary.

  Dark stubble lines his jaw. Like it’s been a long day. Or a long few days. “That table isn’t . . .” His eyes shift toward “that table.” He tries again. “It isn’t . . .” It’s as if his words are tangled somewhere in there, caught. And suddenly Ann doesn’t feel so indignant. His gray eyes land on hers at last, and what she sees there is sorrow. A depth of it that mirrors her own and makes her ache.

  He hangs his head. And without a glance or another word, he strides to the door.

  “It’s okay,” she says, raising her voice to be heard above the growing noise as the door slams behind him with a ring of the bell. “I won’t sit there.” Realizing she is talking to no one, she picks up the envelope.

  The room has quieted, and suddenly her voice is too loud. People are staring. She feels the walls go up between them, the suspicious looks. She is the PFA—Person From Away, as they like to call outsiders. She feels the burn of questions, of intruding into this gathering that so honors her great-uncle.

  “Hey!” A spry voice wound with age and spunk comes from the counter. “It’s her!”

  She searches out the face that belongs to the voice. A grinning man, weathered and rounded, stands from his stool and points. His fishing hat dangles with lures and joy. “It’s Emma!” He points, finger bent.

  At first she’s embarrassed—for her, for him. She’s not who he thinks she is. But then something tugs at her from the corners of a memory.

  An image of Bob and his two friends, Ed Carpenter and Arthur Baxter, perched like barnacles on barstools.

  Bob had brought her to The Galley to introduce her the summer she’d stayed with him. “Emmanuelle Bliss,” he said. “William’s girl.” They’d felt like two mismatched puzzle pieces back then, not sure how to fit together while her parents were deployed.

  “Emmanuelle.” Arthur had turned her name over as if Bob had just spoon-fed him something bitter.

  Annie felt the heat of defense, and with Bob’s hand clutching hers safely, she had told the man that her mother picked her name, and she liked it. That it meant “God is with us,” so that she would never forget that truth. She thought that would put his protests to rest.

  “Emmanuelle?” Arthur’s face scrunched up as he repeated it. “That name’s too big on a girl like you. What say we call you Emma,” he said, putting his hand out.

  “Why not Elle?” This from the man her great-uncle had introduced as Ed, Arthur’s counterpart in every way. Voice warm and deep. Words southern. Tall as the pines, skin rich black, and with a gravitas about him that balanced Arthur’s jolly ways.

  Bob studied her, stooped to look her in the eyes. “What do you say? You want a nickname?”

  She’d bitten her lip, shy in this foreign place so far from home, ducked her head. “Annie,” she murmured. “Mama calls me Annie.”

  How faraway her mother had seemed, with her an ocean away in a country she couldn’t even disclose to her family. Military life. That had been the first time her parents’ deployments had overlapped—for three months. And her mother insisted she go to Ansel, something her father seemed strange about. Not quite angry . . . and not quite sad.

  At her admission of her mother’s name for her, Bob squeezed her hand and turned to his friends. “This is Annie, and that’s that,” he’d said.

  But that whole summer, any time she entered the diner, the string of greetings had sounded in a row like a familiar song.

  “Emma!” Arthur would say.

  “Annie.” Bob would correct.

  “Elle.” Ed would lift his hand for a high five. He had a scar on his arm, knotty and otherworldly to her. At first Annie had high-fived him gingerly, worried she’d hurt him. “Don’t you worry, Bob’s Annie,” he’d say. “Nothin’ can hurt that any more than it already has. Good Lord heals, you know.” And he’d thrust that hand out again for another high five—a real one, which she’d give with glee.

  She blinks, bringing herself back. “Arthur?” Crossing the room to the hatted man, she holds out her hand. He takes it, searches her eyes, and she feels that in this instant she is standing trial. Whatever comes next will determine her fate among these people.

  He drops her hand, eyes lined in troubled creases. Her stomach sinks. But a split second later, he extends an arm slowly, pulls her in, and wraps her in an embrace.

  There’s Ed, farther down the counter. He stands more slowly, and his eyes seem to focus through Ann, rather than on her. “Now, can that be Elle?” He reaches out, waiting . . . and she realizes he cannot see her.

  “Ed,” she says warmly, enfolding his hand in hers. “It’s so good to see you both.”

  “Bob’s Annie.” Ed shakes his head as if witnessing a miracle. “He always said you’d come back home. Just a matter of time.”

  Home. The word hits her hard in the chest. She’d given up on feeling anything close to home a long time ago.

  Arthur turns to face the rest of the room, a ragtag collection of onlookers. “Bob’s her uncle!” he announces with glee.

  “Bob’s her uncle?” someone echoes.

  He turns to Ann and winks. “Bob’s your uncle.”

  “Well”—she tips her head to the side, confessing—“great-uncle.”

  “Sure as shootin’, he is great,” Arthur says. “Grab a seat.” He pats the stool that sits conspicuously empty between him and Ed. Bob’s stool.

  She slides onto it tentatively, clutching the letter in her clasped hands.

  Arthur’s laugh goes low, then high, and he grips Ann’s hand into a fist and thrusts it into the air as if she’s just won a boxing match. “The girl is back!”

  “Well,” Ed says, “you’d best open that envelope, then.” And he nods like he can see through his blindness to what she’s holding.

  She doesn’t want to. She wants to squirrel it away, read whatever’s inside when she’s alone. But one look around the room tells her these people would give anything for a word from their friend. If there’s something in here that can help them . . .

  She slips a finger into the envelope and gingerly opens it.

  six

  At first she thinks it’s empty. No missive containing Bob’s wisdom.


  Ann peers over the envelope at the people before her. Their hope is palpable.

  She peers farther into the envelope. There, in the bottom corner, is a single slim object. Scratched metal, but bright enough to catch the light a bit. She pulls it out and holds it up.

  A key.

  Not the pretty, mysterious sort of skeleton key from the tales of old, but just as storied in its humble, clunky form. A padlock key with the word Master nearly rubbed off its worn surface.

  She holds it up, a question on her face. But no one in that room has an answer for her.

  “That’s Bob for you.” Arthur slaps his knee and spins back to face the counter. “Never one to waste words.”

  Ann has to ask. “Do you know what this unlocks?”

  “Beats the tar out of me,” Arthur says, then turns to Ed. “You know what an old padlock key unlocks?”

  Ed takes his time answering, and Ann gets the sense he knows more than he’s letting on. “I suppose,” he begins in his southern way, “if Bob wanted to spell it out, that’s what he’d have done. But it seems like an invitation to me.”

  “An invitation to what?” Ann asks.

  Ed whistles low. “No tellin’ with Bob. Adventure, maybe. Riches, if he’s been holdin’ out on us all.”

  Arthur howls with laughter, and Ed grins but sobers as he faces Ann, seems to see right through her. “Answers is where my guess is.”

  “Answers?” Ann turns the word over, and it breeds a thousand more questions.

  Bess slips in through the front door, the bell sounding softly.

  “Sorry, fellas,” Bess says, bustling over to Ed and Arthur. “Gotta steal this girl away. Sure you’ll see her again soon, though.” She raises her eyebrows to Ann.

  “Yes,” she says with conviction. “That’s right. I’ll see you soon.” And as Bess pulls her to the front door, she asks, “Where are we going?”

  “Fletch is here,” she says, as if that’s all the explanation needed. As if she should know who that is. And maybe she should. She presses her eyes closed, trying again to remember. Two decades have passed, and she’s finding the limits of a child’s memory are no small obstacle.