Tainted

by Brooke Morgan

  “Hang on a second, will you?” he asked just as they reached her car. “I’ve forgotten something. I’ll be right back.”

  Holly watched as he jogged back into the Lobster Pot, wondering what he could have forgotten, then turned her gaze to the sky. There were no stars visible, but she kept looking up anyway.

  Six months after her parents’ deaths, she’d seen an ad in the local paper for grief counseling. There was a weekly meeting of a group of bereaved people in a room in the Town Hall. “It might help” was the tag line on the announcement. The tentative “might” made Holly trust whoever had written it, so she showed up at six o’clock the next Wednesday.

  She couldn’t remember now most of what the twenty or so people had said. They were all distraught, though some were more accepting than others. Not one of them had lost two loved ones within days, and though Holly knew it wasn’t a competition, she felt set apart from the others. She listened without taking much in, never spoke herself and decided halfway through she wouldn’t return. Yet something one man said did make an impact. He was in his forties, she guessed, wearing a suit and tie, as if he’d come straight from work in a bank. His twin brother had died from a heroin overdose two years before.

  “I know this is going to sound really bizarre,” he’d stated. “But I have this theory. People we love who die can give us presents. What I mean is, they can make something good happen or not happen or send the right person into our lives at the right time or keep out the wrong ones. They’re allowed to give us three gifts from wherever it is they are.” He looked embarrassed then and squirmed in his chair. “It’s just my personal theory. Be aware of it—that’s all I have to say.”

  Where’d he come up with that? she’d wondered. And why three exactly? “Bizarre” was the right word.

  Or was it?

  Have you sent me Jack? Smart, funny, handsome, compassionate Jack? she asked the sky. Is he your present?

  Jack came out of the restaurant, holding something. When he was a few feet away he said, “Catch,” and tossed it to her. It was a Lobster Pot T-shirt and when she looked up to thank him, she saw he was wearing one over his shirt.

  “I almost bought us the pink ones with the garish lobster smoking a cigar plastered all over the front, but then I calmed down and decided the more restrained plain blue one with the discreet logo was better.”

  “Thank you, and good choice. The cigar-smoking one is a little scary.”

  Opening the car door for her, he asked, “Where exactly are we going?”

  “To Birch Point—it’s where I live. I have a flashlight in the glove compartment. When we get there, we can go down the path to the beach and walk there.”

  “Sounds perfect.” He closed the door, went to the other side and got in.

  On the way, he asked her about Shoreham and she told him all she could think of, including the story of Nancy the palm reader and her alleged interest in folding bills. As they were crossing the railroad track, she said, “Lift up your feet, Jack.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We’re going over a railroad track. It’s bad luck if you don’t take your feet off the floor.”

  Dutifully, he lifted his feet as they crossed the track.

  “And you do this too? While you’re driving?”

  “Yes, it’s a family tradition. I’ve done it forever.”

  Katy would always say, “Mommy, quick, pick up your feet,” with such urgency Holly sometimes laughed and sometimes frowned. She could tell Jack about Katy now. Or she could wait until they got to the beach.

  “Isn’t it dangerous? Driving with no feet?”

  “It would be more dangerous if I didn’t. Bad luck.”

  “Right. Of course. I see. Bad luck. I’m not even going to ask what happens if the car stalls while it’s on the tracks, when the ability to use feet might be crucial.”

  “That hasn’t happened yet,” she smiled over at him. “But if it did, I might jettison the tradition.”

  “Jettison. I guess with all the reading you do, it’s natural to use a word like jettison.”

  “I’m just trying to impress you,” she said, thinking, If this is flirting, maybe I can do it after all. “In a few seconds we’re going to pass the graveyard. You have to hold your breath while we do—when we’ve cleared it, you can make a wish.”

  “No bad luck and a wish. Any more traditions? Do we get out and crawl around the car when we pass the third lamp-post on the left so we can have certain good luck and another wish?”

  “There, look, the graveyard’s coming up. Take a deep breath.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  They inhaled together. After they’d passed the last grave, they exhaled together.

  “Whew. I should stop smoking.”

  “The cement road stops ahead here, see. And the road to Birch Point begins. That big white building on the left is a Catholic retreat, right at the beginning of the Point. We’re lucky it’s there; if it weren’t I think there’d be a huge development of condos.”

  “And that ‘No Trespassing’ sign? I assume that means the road is private.”

  “Yes.”

  “Look at all these trees. It’s a little paradise here. God—was that a deer I just saw bounding across the road up there?”

  Holly had seen it and was thankful that it hadn’t leaped out in front of the car in the dark. It was so easy to run into one at night and she dreaded the thought of badly hurting an animal, a Bambi, bounding through the woods. Henry had given her a small handgun and taught her how to use it in case she ever ran over one and had to put it out of its misery. The prospect of actually having to use it terrified her; having it in the house, even though she’d hidden it on the top shelf of her bedroom cupboard, was scary enough. She wasn’t about to tell Jack about it: he’d think she was another crazy, gun-toting American.

  “There are tons of deer around here. We have to be careful because they have ticks, and ticks carry Lyme Disease. We have to check constantly to make sure we don’t have a bite with a little red ring around it: that’s one of the signs. It’s a dangerous disease to get.”

  “But how can you possibly get it?”

  “It’s easy, you can get it walking through—”

  “No, I mean you’re all lucked up after the railroad track and you can make a wish that you don’t get it every time you drive by the cemetery. I don’t see how you could possibly catch a disease.”

  “Do you ever stop teasing people?”

  “I’m English, remember. We don’t talk much and when we do, we tease. And look, there’s yet another ‘No Trespassing, Private Property’ sign. That’s the third I’ve seen in the space of a hundred yards. It has to make you wonder. At what point do they think it will sink in? I mean, if someone isn’t deterred by the first sign, why would they be by a second? Or a third? Is repetition the key to control?”

  “I suppose it is a little overzealous.”

  She drove by a wooden sign posted on a tree with the name “Madison” on it. If she’d turned right then and gone on a few hundred yards, she’d be at Billy’s house. For the past five years, she hadn’t had to think about him as she drove up and down the road. The house was empty in the winter, rented out in the summer. Billy was right, though. They were bound to pass each other in their cars or see each other on the beach. She’d have to work out how to deal with him soon. But not yet.

  Jack Dane was silent as they drove the next half-mile to the house. When they pulled up into her driveway, he let out a small whistle. “I like those gables.”

  “They make for a great attic. Although there’s nothing up in the attic at the moment except for a couple of old beds. Come on, let’s go to the beach.” Holly grabbed the flashlight from the glove compartment, got out of the car, turned the beam on. “This way.”

  Jack, hands in the pockets of his windbreaker, followed her.

  “So you inherited your house when your parents died?”

  “Yes. We used to live in Bost
on in the winter and come here in the summer. After they died, I moved here year round. OK—we’re going to the left down this little path to the beach. Be careful—there’s poison ivy around.”

  “Oh, great.”

  As she shone the light, he lifted his feet up in exaggerated steps.

  The stench of low tide mingled with the mist, making it even more powerful a smell, but Holly liked it. It was so clearly a smell of the sea; and on a warm night like this, with the buoys rocking in the canal making gentle ringing sounds, there was a melancholy romanticism in the air, making her think of whaling ships and old schooners plying their trades. Jack was leaning down, untying his shoes; she did the same, following him too when he rolled up his trousers. He strolled to the water, waded in up to his knees.

  “There’s a massive amount of seaweed here.”

  “Yes.” Holly walked in and stood beside him. “At low tide it’s really seaweedy on the Back Beach. That’s what we call this beach, the one that fronts the canal. The other one, on the bay side of this dike here, is the Front Beach.” She explained about the dike coming into existence when the canal was built, then said, “You can swim in low tide over on the Front Beach. It’s pretty disgusting here.”

  Retreating from the water, they began to walk along the shoreline, toward the lighthouse.

  “Why did you come to America?” she asked.

  “A new beginning. A new life. I needed to get away.”

  “It’s the opposite for me; I needed to stay. I wanted to surround myself with memories and the familiar. I knew I couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened, but I wanted to have my parents around me, so to speak.”

  “There’s a point at which you have to . . .” he paused. “Jettison the past. Otherwise it never lets you go. I think—hang on . . .” He had stumbled and grabbed her arm for balance. “Sorry, I didn’t see that piece of wood. Not a very smooth move.”

  She heard the soft slap of a small series of waves hitting the beach, a subtle undertow from a passing ship. Even noise was quiet on nights like this, she thought. The crickets didn’t chirp as shrilly, the hum of boat motors took on a lower tone. Everything was dampened down by the moisture and darkness.

  “Someone once told me that you can’t move forward if you’re looking over your shoulder at the past. It sounds trite, I know.” Jack took her hand in his. “But trite works sometimes.”

  “But the past can’t help but affect you. At least, I can’t really escape it. I don’t answer the phone any more. When my father had his heart attack, I was the one who answered the phone when the hospital called. And then when my mother had her accident, I answered the phone when the police called. Now I let the answering machine take a message—always. I’ll answer my cellphone, but never the phone at home. Never again. I guess I think if I don’t, nothing bad will happen.” Holly closed her eyes for a second; when she opened them, she said, “I’ve never told anyone that.”

  “You’re full of superstitions, aren’t you, Holly Barrett? Come on.” He stopped walking. “Let’s race.”

  “What?”

  “I challenge you—let’s race.”

  “To where?”

  “I’ll count to twenty as I’m running; whoever is ahead when I say ‘twenty’ wins.”

  “But you might trip again. And I’m holding the flashlight.”

  “If I trip, I lose. And think of the flashlight as a baton. Come on. One . . .”

  Jack Dane took off, Holly shouted, “Cheat,” then took off after him, the beam of the flashlight jiggling up and down as she ran.

  “Twenty!”

  He was yards ahead of her, had turned to face her, with a huge smile on his face.

  “Jack . . .” she panted, when she reached him. “That was completely, totally unfair.”

  “Yes, it was. But I win.”

  Putting his hands on her shoulders, he leaned down and kissed her. It was an easy, slow, kind kiss. A thoughtful kiss. Holly’s initial surprise at the fact he was kissing her gave way to a different type of surprise—surprise that a kiss could be so warm and go on for so long.

  The last, the only, time she’d been kissed, the kiss had stopped quickly and the undressing had begun. This time, when Jack drew away from her, he stayed away. His hands went back into his pockets.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Couldn’t resist tricking you into that.”

  “I don’t mind.” Holly smiled at him. “Honestly.”

  Take that shit-eating grin off your face, Holl. Anna had popped up in her brain again. Play it at least a little cool, will you?

  I would if I could, Anna. But I can’t.

  “I’ll challenge you this time.” She tossed the flashlight at him. “One . . .”

  Jack reached out to grab her before she could run.

  “No way,” he said, dropping the flashlight on the sand. “I’m not going to take the chance. You might beat me.” He kissed her again, his hands moving from either side of her face, to her shoulders, to her waist.

  Holly understood then. What it was like to be held and touched. What it was like to feel real desire.

  And then he broke away from her, stepped back, out of their embrace.

  “Uh-oh. Referee. Time out.”

  “What?” Her heart felt as if it had been slapped.

  He put his hands up in the air.

  “Time out. That’s all. We’re getting ahead of ourselves.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Holly.” He put his hands back on her face. “Come on—let’s go back to your house and chill out and I’ll have a cup of coffee before I go home.”

  “Right. OK.” She wished she could shake her body the way a dog shakes itself when it gets out of the water, to try to rid herself of the feelings she was having, go back to where she had at least a modicum of control.

  She picked up the flashlight and they turned around, headed back to their shoes and the path. Side by side but not touching.

  Holly stared at the flashing red lights on the towers of the railroad bridge in Buzzards Bay. An ingenious edifice, its middle section, which ran between the towers, had a track on it; when a train needed to cross the canal the section was lowered. In its normal, upright position, it looked like a huge steel goalpost.

  Time out, he’d said. Referee. As if this were a game. He must have had so many girlfriends. English girls with perfect complexions and perfect bodies. Outgoing and self-confident girls who knew exactly how to kiss and how to flirt and how to tease him back. Girls with names like Emma and Sophie who rode horses and played tennis.

  “So . . .” She felt the weight of his hand on her shoulder. “Holly Barrett. What should we do next time we see each other? I was thinking bowling. Or maybe mini golf. I think we should take a pass on Nancy the fortune teller, don’t you?”

  Pleasure and relief coursed through her just as the blush had on the bus.

  “That might be wise.”

  The rising tide had almost claimed their shoes. Holly slipped hers on, felt the sand crunching into her feet. Normally she wouldn’t have noticed, but Jack Dane had thrown a physical switch on in her: her mouth, her shoulders, every place he’d touched her felt alert, wholly present. Waiting for more contact. She had begun this walk thinking they were going to talk and get to know each other more. She was ending it in a state of hypersensitivity, as if she’d taken a drug which had woken up all her nerve endings.

  “I’d opt for mini golf,” Jack said. He seemed to be in control, but then he always seemed to be in control; even when he was kissing her. “Bowling might be a little hectic. There’s a lot of noise in bowling alleys.”

  “You’re not a big fan of noise, are you?”

  “No. No, I’m not.”

  “Sorry about the Lobster Pot. It’s very noisy in there.”

  “Hey—don’t knock the Lobster Pot.” Unzipping his wind-breaker, he pointed to his T-shirt. “I’m fiercely loyal to my brand. Uh-oh, I see we’re coming to poison-ivy territory.” Again, he picked up h
is feet and tiptoed with ridiculously huge steps.

  When they reached her house, Holly opened the screen door, flicked the living room light switch on. “I’ll go make you some coffee. Sit down anywhere, I’ll be right back.”

  Flicking another light on in the kitchen, she got the coffee out of the cupboard, poured the water in the coffee maker, stretched up to get the filters from the shelf above the sink. She hadn’t made coffee here for anyone but herself and sometimes Anna since her parents had died. Every morning at nine o’clock, she and Katy would go to Henry’s for coffee on his porch. Katy would get a mug like theirs, but hers would be full of apple juice.

  Katy.

  I haven’t—

  “Holly.” Jack Dane was in the kitchen doorway. “Listen, don’t bother with the coffee. I have to go. Can you drive me back into town?”

  “You have to go right away?”

  “Yes.”

  “The coffee won’t take long.”

  His arms were crossed over his chest. He looked so distant she found herself stepping forward, trying to close a gap. He took a step back.

  “You have a daughter, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Katy. I—”

  “I saw the photographs. Where is she?”

  “At Henry’s—my grandfather’s. Next door. I was going to tell you. In fact, I was just thinking how strange it was I hadn’t told you yet. I was just about to. I’m a single mother . . .” She was aware her words were speeding up, her voice was sounding nervous. “She’s five years old. And she’s so sweet, Jack.”

  “I’m sure she is.”

  “Is this . . . I mean, does Katy . . . Do you still want to go to the mini golf?” Every word of that sentence was feeble, lame, desperate, she knew.

  “I don’t think so.” He shook his head. “No. I’m really sorry, Holly, but I can’t.”

  “Because of Katy?”

  “It doesn’t work for me. I’m sorry.”

  “But why not?”

  “There’s no big reason. Just that a child complicates things.”

  “But we could get to know each other and you could get to know Katy.”

  “And what if it didn’t work out? That would be harder on everyone. It’s better if I leave now. Really.”