The Wreck

by Landon Beach

  Another customer entered, and Nate picked up the master lock from the counter. “How much did the lock come to, Tyee?”

  Tyee winked, “What lock?” and put the lock in Nate’s hand with no receipt.

  “I should really pay for—”

  “Forget it. Your father was a good man. You seem to take after him,” said Tyee.

  “Thanks.”

  “Remember, Hutch doesn’t like meeting new people.”

  “I can handle an old man myself,” Nate said.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  4

  Nate arrived home just after three o’clock. Brooke was eased back in a lawn chair wearing a yellow swimsuit and reading her new copy of Appointment in Samarra by John O’Hara. The sun had come back out, no surprise to Nate. The weather in Michigan could change over a bathroom break.

  “Any good so far?” Nate said.

  Brooke looked up from her book. “Not bad.”

  His interest in reading had started during one of the first summer visits to this beach house when he was ten. His grandmother had placed a well-thumbed copy of Twenty-Thousand Leagues Under the Sea on his bed in the guest bedroom along with a bucket containing two cans of Vernors, a bag of M&M’s, and a bag of popcorn. It was raining when his parents had dropped him off and his grandmother had told him that the blow-up raft, sunscreen, Kool-Aid, and beach towel would have to wait until tomorrow. His grandmother began to unpack his suitcase while he cracked open a can of Vernors and took a long drink. After shoveling a handful of popcorn into his mouth, he propped himself up on the bed and began to read.

  Page by page his surroundings transformed from a day bed nestled into the corner of a small room with a wooden floor into an underwater world full of mystery, adventure, sea creatures, and danger aboard a submarine.

  “Thought that might keep you company while it rains today,” she had said.

  From that summer on, he had read one Jules Verne novel a year at his grandparents’ house during his week-long summer stay.

  When he had read everything by Verne except for Mysterious Island (he had heard that Captain Nemo reappeared in it), he put the book in a box and swore it would be the last book he ever read—a journey through literature bookended by a Captain whose last name meant “no one.” He kept the box in the bottom drawer of his nightstand back at their two-story house in the woods a few miles from the town where they taught.

  “A candidate for our annual exchange?” Nate said.

  “Too early to tell,” Brooke said.

  They made deals with each other. He would suggest a book to her and he read a book that she chose. Some of the books ended up being more interesting than their own.

  He got closer. “Love the haircut,” she added.

  “Thanks,” Nate said, stopping at the foot of her chair.

  “Come closer and let me feel.”

  He leaned over, smelling her suntan oil. Brooke moved her fingers up the back of his head. “Very sexy,” she said.

  Nate tilted back his head and blew her a kiss, then held up the master lock. “I’m going to lock the boat and then head north out to the point,” he motioned at the shoreline in the distance.

  Brooke’s eyes followed Nate’s pointing finger to the area where the shore hooked out into the water, making a small bay. “What’s out there?”

  “Someone who might be able to tell me more about this,” he said, pulling the coin from his pocket.

  “I didn’t know anyone lived out there. From the water, it looks like the only part of Michigan the loggers never got to.”

  “Tyee told me. The guy I’m going to see is a retired Coastie who knows about the lakes.”

  “What’s a Coastie?” She said.

  “Coast Guard,” Nate said.

  “Why would this guy know anything about that coin?”

  “It’s worth a shot, babe,” he said, flipping the coin in the air, catching it, and looking out at the water.

  “I’m planning dinner for five thirty.”

  “I should be back well before then.” He moved behind her and began to rub her shoulders.

  Brooke put down her book and closed her eyes. “Mmmmm, you’re hired,” she said. “Are we still on for tonight, Casanova?”

  “Think we can top last night?” Nate asked.

  “Have we ever backed away from a challenge?”

  He kissed her on the cheek, moved to her ear, “Be ready,” he whispered.

  He started to walk away, but then turned around and kneeled down in front of her. “I haven’t said this enough,” he took her hand, “but I am excited to have a baby with you.”

  She hugged him. “Where did that come from?”

  “I just needed to say it,” he said, feeling the warmth of her body.

  5

  The point was no more than four square miles of land jutting out from the coast, the curving crest creating a natural bay, or bight, of water. From the air, it looked like a giant whitecap wave on its side. The area was carpeted with oak trees and contained only two houses.

  Nate veered his Jeep off US-23 and took Old Point Road for a quarter of a mile to where it turned from asphalt to dirt. The Beatles’ song “A Day in the Life” started to play and he turned up the volume and began to sing. The Beatles were not his favorite group but they had been his father’s. He missed a line, hummed to fill in his mistake, and picked up the lyrics on the next stanza. Another half-mile and the road dead-ended in a cul-de-sac with a gate blocking the entrance to a narrow dirt driveway that curved off into the woods. Nate shut off the Jeep and removed his bike from the trunk. Next to the gate were two mailboxes. The top said, Hawthorne, the bottom, Hutch. The sun was behind a patch of clouds and a warm wind whistled through the trees. After locking the Jeep, he walked his bike around the gate, hopped on, and pedaled off into the woods. He glanced at his watch: he didn’t want to be late for his evening with Brooke.

  The driveway bent to the right, and it seemed to be taking him back toward the cul-de-sac when it curved left and then straightened out. Nate peddled, listening to the hisses, buzzing, and other sounds coming from the green foliage that bordered the path. The sun was back out and casting shadows across the ground. At the end of the straight line, the driveway banked right again, and the woods opened to a circular dirt plot.

  Nate stopped. Directly across the circle, maybe twenty yards away, was a wooden post marking a bicycle path going off into the woods. A rusted out pick-up sat quietly in the weeds to the left of the post. To Nate’s right stood a two-story white house with navy shutters, a red door, and an enormous porch. A dark green Suburban was parked in front. Nate began walking his bike toward the house when the front door opened and a small gray-haired lady stepped onto the porch. She was carrying a tray with a pitcher and two glasses.

  “You must be Nate,” the woman said in a voice that would calm enemies on a battlefield.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Nate said.

  “I’m Lucille Hawthorne. Tyee called me and said you might be out this way today. Come and have a glass of lemonade before you head up to Abner’s.”

  Nate went to put the kickstand down on his bike, but his shoe hit nothing but air as he looked down and remembered that he hadn’t put the new stand on it yet. He went to lay it down on the dirt, when Mrs. Hawthorne said, “You can prop it up against the porch.”

  Nate obeyed, albeit embarrassed, and walked his bike over to the porch.

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hawthorne,” Nate said while extending his hand, “Nate Martin.”

  “Call me Lucille and sit.”

  Nate sat down on a wicker chair and watched as Lucille filled both glasses. She passed one to him and he took a long drink. Ice cold. He finished the glass. The bicycle ride had made him thirstier than he thought. He set the glass down on the wicker table and Lucille refilled.

  “After Tyee called me, I spoke with Abner. He was out on the water but said he should be back soon and would call me when I could send you up.
”

  “I thought he didn’t have a phone,” Nate said.

  “Oh, he doesn’t. He’ll radio me on VHF. I have a set inside the house.”

  Nate took another drink of lemonade. As he tilted his head back to drink he could feel the porch’s ceiling fan blow on his face. He set the glass down and motioned toward the wooden post on the dirt circle. “Is that the path to his place?”

  “Yes. It’s a little less than a mile back. You can take your bike but be careful, lots of hills and sharp turns—night and day from the path you took from the gate to here. One moment of not concentrating and you’re likely to get bent up in the trees,” she grinned.

  Nate smiled back but thought it would be anything but humorous to be carried out in a stretcher and spend the rest of the summer cooped up inside the cottage counting down the minutes until school started again. “So, how long have you lived out here, Lucille?”

  “Ever since my husband passed away—lovely man, heart attack, fifty-three, went way too young. I sold the family fishing business and our restaurant to buy the land out here. I planned for my sons and daughters to build houses by me so I could see them more often and help with the grandchildren, but they don’t care too much for the Michigan winters. They’ll be up for the Fourth of July, though.”

  Nate thought about asking the question again, but chose not to interrupt.

  Lucille could read his expression. “Sorry, Nate. I’m getting off track. When you get to be sixty-four, it happens. I’ve been out here fifteen years.”

  Sixty-four? No way, Nate thought. If she dyed her hair, she’d pass for a couple of decades younger, but it would somehow take away from her beauty. When they had shook hands, he estimated her height to be around five feet. Her frame was slender. “How old is Abner?”

  “He’s just a spring chicken, sixty-two. Got as much energy as anyone I’ve ever known, includin’ me, and that’s sayin’ a lot because I still consider myself busy,” she said and downed her lemonade.

  Nate grinned. “He’s only two years younger than you.”

  “After sixty, getting two years older can sometimes feel like ten,” she said. “I’ve tried to tell Abner that, but the man still thinks he can do the stuff he did when he was around your age. Early thirties, if I’m not prying too much?”

  “Thirty-two,” Nate said.

  “Haven’t lost my touch,” she said, and hit his leg. “Anyways, I’ve known Abner for thirteen years. He was going to retire from the Coast Guard and was looking for a place for him and his wife to live once he got out. I was hesitant at first because I wanted family living by me, but he and his wife were such kind and good-hearted people, I couldn’t say no. When his wife passed away—”

  She was cut off by the radio inside the house.

  “Excuse me, Nate. That’s him.”

  Lucille went inside and returned a minute later. “He’s ready for you.”

  Nate finished the rest of his lemonade and rose to leave. For a moment, he thought about asking Lucille more about Abner Hutch, but decided to shelve it for later.

  “If you come out again, call ahead and I’ll make sure the gate is open so you don’t have to ride your bike to this point. Don’t bring your own bike either, I’ve got one you can borrow,” she said and handed him a piece of paper with her phone number.

  “Thanks for the drink.” Nate descended the porch steps and wheeled his bike over to the path. When he turned around to wave goodbye to Lucille, she was already inside the house.

  ✽✽✽

  Brooke Martin faded in and out of sleep as the clouds covered and uncovered the sun above. From behind her beach recliner a voice said, “Mrs. Martin, you’re looking splendid today.”

  Brooke turned around and saw the owner of the voice, Tim Gibson, walking across the back lawn toward her. She rose with a grin.

  6

  “I’ve been trying your doorbell for the past thirty seconds with no luck, so I thought you might be out back,” Tim Gibson said.

  “Thirty seconds? I thought you’d figure it out faster than that,” she flirted. She and Nate had met Tim and his wife Jane at the end of last summer. They lived four houses down the beach in a sizable two-story compared to the Martins’.

  Gibson put his arms out in front of him and shrugged as if to say you got me.

  They hugged and Brooke offered him a chair.

  Gibson spotted Brooke’s novel lying on the chair. An index card was sticking out about half-way through the book. “It’s nice you don’t turn down the corners of the page to hold your place,” he said.

  “I would feel like I was abusing the book if I did that,” Brooke said.

  “Exactly how I feel,” Gibson said. “Nate around?”

  “No, he’s out right now. And Jane?”

  “Back at the house unpacking. We got here this morning and just made a grocery run. I saw that your grass was cut and thought I’d stop by to say hello. When did you guys get here?”

  “Yesterday,” said Brooke. “Want a drink?”

  “Sure.”

  Brooke headed inside and returned with two icy beers.

  “Thanks,” said Gibson as she handed him his beer, “I see you’ve got the boat in.”

  “Yeah, Nate put it in yesterday,” Brooke said. “How long are you guys up for?” Up for was a relative term. People traveled to Lake Huron from all over Michigan to enjoy the white sandy beaches and water activities, but most of the people that Nate and Brooke knew were from south of Hampstead. The Gibsons were from Ann Arbor. Tim was a professor of finance at the University of Michigan’s Business School, and Jane taught yoga at an upscale fitness club.

  “Probably until just after the fourth,” Gibson said. “I’m teaching the second summer semester. How about you and Nate?”

  Something looked different about Gibson to Brooke. He was almost the spitting image of her husband but a few inches taller. He had parted black hair that was graying at the temples; the gray stated he was old enough to know how to do things, the black stated that he could still do them. Hair. That was it; his beard was gone, admittedly taking his age down from forty-two to the mid-thirties. His white teeth sparkled in contrast to his already tanned face. “Probably the whole summer,” she said.

  “Sounds great,” Gibson said. “Do you and Nate have plans for tonight?”

  Brooke was in the middle of a swig and held it a little longer to think of her response. She lowered the bottle and saw that it was already half gone, but it was hot outside and tasted good. “Nothing officially scheduled.” Except trying to conceive a child, but she couldn’t tell him that.

  “The four of us should get together,” Gibson said. “When should Nate be back?”

  “I planned dinner for five-thirty.”

  He brought the beer up slowly, tapped the top on his lips a few times, and then took a sip. “I wonder—” his voice trailed off.

  He’s trying to figure out how to invite us over for dinner and not spoil what I might have already prepared at the same time. I have enough food for the four of us. It might be fun. “I have an idea.”

  “Oh, I love those,” he joked.

  Brooke laughed back. “Would you and Jane be up for dinner here and then some drinks on the beach?”

  “Sounds lovely, but I feel as if I’ve invited us over.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “One of the joys of summer, letting plans come together.” Where was Nate when she needed him? Letting plans come together; he would be so proud—and still making love to her tonight.

  “Let me run it by her when I get home, but I don’t foresee it being a problem.” Gibson paused finishing his own beer. “Have we known each other long enough for me to give you a personal compliment?”

  “Go for it,” she said.

  “You look very nice today. Do you and Nate still work out?”

  She had lost five of the ten pounds that she wanted to take off but didn’t think it was noticeable. “That was sweet, and yes, we still do. It’s eas
ier over the summer. More time, you know?”

  “I do. Our kids are away at camp, so we’re getting used to having time to ourselves again.” He turned his attention away from her and to the water. “Looks like Leonard is up, too.”

  Brooke stood up next to Gibson and saw Shaw’s mega-yacht, Triumph, slowly heading up the coast. “Do you know him?”

  “Not personally,” said Gibson, “Big Baltimore businessman who grew up in Michigan. He summers here.”

  The yacht was sleek and beautiful as it cut the waves. A breeze kicked up and Brooke could smell Gibson’s mellow cologne.

  “I better head out,” he said, “hopefully see you later, and thanks for the beer.”

  ✽✽✽

  The woods parted and Nate’s bicycle fishtailed in the loose sand as he struggled to maintain control. He braked hard with both handles and took his feet off the pedals, spreading his legs. The bike reached the bottom of the hill and slowed as it went up a rise, eventually coming to a rest in front of a log cabin. The cabin had two peaks with a flat area of roof in between. A man sat in a rocker on the porch, but his features were hidden by the shade. The rocker creaked back and forth as Nate set his bike on the dirt and approached.

  “Mr. Hutch?” Nate asked.

  “Pretty sure,” Hutch replied in a coarse voice.

  “I’m Nate Martin—”

  “I know who you are. Let’s see the yellow boy,” Hutch interrupted.

  Nate climbed onto the porch—there were no steps—and pulled the coin out of his pocket. Hutch sat barefoot in a pair of trousers smeared with blood and tiny bits of what looked like fish guts. He had on no shirt, exposing a thin layer of chest hair on a stocky frame that was clearly being cooked darker by the sun each day. His hair and beard were shorter than Nate’s flattop and completely gray. Nate handed him the coin.