Somewhere Off the Coast of Maine

by Ann Hood

  Rebekah was wearing the same baggy plaid jumper that she wore the last time he saw her. She looked bored. And beautiful. He knew he couldn’t let her see him with Debbie. It could ruin any chance he had to win her affection.

  Henry laughed nervously, then whispered, “Hey. Maybe we’d see better if we sat over there.” He pointed to some vague distant area.

  “Move?” Debbie giggled. “Why?”

  “I think we’d see better.”

  “They’re fucking fireworks,” Pogo said. “They’re in the sky. We can’t miss them.”

  Debbie squeezed his arm. “Silly,” she whispered into his ear.

  Henry glanced nervously at the Morgans. He wished he could become invisible. What, he wondered, would Jay Gatsby do in this predicament? Before he had time to imagine, he was spotted by Rebekah’s brother.

  “Henry’s here! Look!” Jesse shouted. “Hi, Henry.”

  Howard and Elizabeth looked over. They waved and smiled politely. Are they thinking I’m a traitor for being here with someone other than Rebekah? he wondered. They must know I still love her. More.

  “Who’s your girlfriend?” Rebekah asked.

  Henry saw Elizabeth nudge her to stop. He smiled over at them blankly.

  “I’m Debbie DeSimone,” Debbie said possessively. “I know you from school.” She was holding Henry’s arm with both of her hands. “I graduated last year,” she added in a superior voice.

  Henry continued to smile at the Morgans.

  “What’s wrong, Henry?” Rebekah asked. “Can’t you talk?”

  “Happy Fourth of July,” he said, and the fireworks began.

  “THAT IS SOME GIRLFRIEND you’ve got there,” Rebekah said to Henry on the telephone.

  “She isn’t my girlfriend. I was with a group of people.”

  “Two couples is a group?”

  “I didn’t call to discuss this,” Henry said.

  “I’m very busy, Henry. I have a lot on my mind. If you want to borrow another book from my father, just come over and get it.”

  “I didn’t call for that.”

  “What is this, a game, Henry?”

  “No, no, not at all. I…I thought you might like to, to…do something. With me. I can get a car. A great car. A convertible. We could go to a concert or a play or—”

  “Henry, forget it. Take your girlfriend.”

  “She’s not—”

  “Good-bye, Henry.” She hung up.

  “I AM SO MISERABLE,” Henry moaned. He and Pogo were lying on the rocks at the quarry. The sun was so hot they had to keep jumping into the water to cool off. “I offered her a concert, a play—anything. And she turned me down. No excuse or anything.”

  “You think you’re miserable?” Pogo asked, staring up at the sky. “I feel like I’m in one of those rooms like Indiana Jones. You know, they keep getting smaller and smaller. The walls and the ceiling and stuff keep moving in.” He sat up and Henry noticed that Pogo’s body was not as firm as it had been just a few months earlier. His muscles were sagging, turning to flab. “When I’m with Carol, I can’t even breathe.”

  In the past month, the comfortable silence they had established began to disappear. In its place was the kind of talk new friends often have, an almost urgent attempt to learn everything about each other. Henry had told Pogo about his brother and the day he died. He had explained how his life had changed since then and what it had been like before. He had told him all about Rebekah.

  Pogo talked mostly about wrestling, how it felt to pin someone, to win, and—most of all—what it was like to be chosen for the All-State team. Pogo also spoke of Carol. “She’s the only girl I ever did with it,” he said. “Shit, man,” he had told Henry, “I’ve got to marry her.”

  Now Henry sat up and said, “Why don’t you go to Hawaii?”

  “Shit,” Pogo said.

  “I mean it.”

  Pogo shook his head. “I’ve lived here my whole life. That means something, you know. I’ve lived in this town my whole fucking life.”

  It was quiet for a moment, then Pogo said, “Man, you know that in Hawaii there are all kinds of jobs? Outdoor jobs year-round. No packing fucking teddy bears into boxes all day.” Henry nodded.

  “Hey, did you ever find out what kind of stuff Rebekah likes? You know, so I can get you one of those bears to give her.”

  “Pogo, she won’t even talk to me.”

  “Shit. And Carol won’t shut up.”

  The two lay back down. After a time Pogo said, “Fucking Hawaii.”

  IT WAS THE FIRST week in August, the air was hot and thick in the way it got around that time of year. Henry was reading in the barn when Johnathan came in, bare-chested and barefoot.

  “There’s someone here to see you.”

  Henry looked up from the book. “Pogo?”

  “Not unless he’s grown breasts. Huge breasts.”

  “Debbie.” The name was barely out of his mouth when she appeared at the door. Just two nights earlier they had double-dated again and this time, at the old football field, she had offered very little resistance. “We can’t go all the way,” she had whispered. But now, seeing her in the barn, Henry wondered if going almost all the way was against the law. He looked behind her for an angry policemen or a father with a shotgun.

  “Do you know where Pogo is?” she demanded.

  This was about Pogo, Henry thought with relief. He shrugged.

  “Hawaii!” she shouted. “He left Carol and went to Hawaii!”

  Henry jumped up. “What?” He felt elated, ecstatic. “He went to Hawaii?”

  “Everything’s off,” Debbie said. “The wedding and everything. All their plans are off. Kaput. Can you believe it?”

  “He really did it,” Henry said, almost to himself. Then, louder, “He really did it.”

  “You knew he was going? What kind of person are you? Did you know he was going to Hawaii? You knew and you never said a word to anyone? Did you know it the other night? Huh?”

  Henry wanted to shout with joy. Pogo was gone, free.

  “You are a low and sleazy person, Henry,” Debbie shouted. “You are slime. My best friend Carol is at home crying her heart out. That’s something for you to live with, you asshole.”

  She turned to leave but stopped at the door. “He left something for you. A box. A huge box. To think I lugged it over here for you.” Then she screamed, “You’re not even upset!”

  After she was gone, Johnathan and Henry ran outside and opened the box.

  “It’s full of bears!” Johnathan said with a mixture of awe and puzzlement.

  They pulled the well-dressed teddy bears out one at a time, studying each one. There was one in gray flannel called Bearman of the Board, a Civil War Belle called Scarlette O’Beara, and William Shakesbear and Lionel Bearrymore. Henry scooped up an armful.

  “Let’s go,” he said to Johnathan.

  “Where?”

  “Bring the bears!” Henry shouted as he began to run off.

  “Where?”

  “To Rebekah’s!”

  Sparrow, 1985•

  “MAYBE I’LL GO TO COLLEGE in Maine,” Sparrow said.

  She stood with her back to her mother, looking out the window. The air-conditioner sent cold air up at her, blowing her hair in her face.

  Suzanne had brought home paperwork, a client’s investment portfolio to look over. She had papers spread all over the dining room table.

  “This man’s money is in all the wrong places,” she said.

  “I mean, once you and Ron are married, you won’t want me around anymore.”

  “That kind of talk is ridiculous. Foolish.”

  “It won’t matter where I go to school. I could go to Alaska.”

  “I doubt there’s a school you’d be interested in in Alaska.”

  “So I might as well go where I have family.”

  Suzanne sighed.

  Sparrow watched the sailboats on the bay. Her mother was with Ron all the time. Almost every
weekend they went to look for a summer house to buy. Martha’s Vineyard. Marblehead. Newport. Her mother was more tanned than Sparrow had ever seen her. There were freckles across the bridge of her nose. The sun had bleached her hair a whitish-blond.

  “We’re going to Watch Hill this weekend,” Suzanne said.

  Sparrow heard papers shuffle behind her.

  “Why don’t you come with us, just this once?” her mother asked.

  Sparrow shook her head.

  “You’re not even trying,” Suzanne said.

  “It would be,” Sparrow said, “incredibly boring.”

  “We’re staying at a big old hotel that sits way up high and overlooks the ocean. Ron said that it’s really quite lovely.”

  “I’m sure it is.” Sparrow turned from the window. “Since when are you such a beach bum?” she asked. “In my entire life I think we spent one weekend on Cape Cod with some client of yours. And once we had dinner at The Barnacle in Marblehead. That’s it. And then that one time I was little and we—”

  “We want to buy a summer house,” her mother said quickly, looking down at the papers before her.

  “What’s next? Are you going to get a Mustang convertible and cruise Revere Beach?”

  “I would think you’d be excited.”

  “I am,” Sparrow said dryly. “Thrilled.”

  “You haven’t even given Ron a chance. It took me a long time to meet someone like him, you know. It took a long time for me to get here.”

  Sparrow looked at her mother.

  “I don’t even know my real father,” she said. “You want me to pretend Ron is my father.”

  “That just isn’t true, Susan. But I am marrying Ron and we will all be living here together. It would be a lot easier if you would accept that and forget about the past.”

  “How can I forget what I don’t even know?”

  Her mother sighed and looked down. She picked up a paper from the table.

  “This man,” she said, spreading her hands out over the papers, “has one hundred thousand dollars in a regular checking account.” She laughed. “Not even a NOW account.”

  “Ron is not my father,” Sparrow said.

  She turned and looked out the window again. She had a fantasy of her and her mother, giggling and smoking cigarettes, maybe even dancing the twist. There was a man in the background, watching them and smiling. He had dark blond hair and a droopy moustache. He was her father.

  THE NIGHT BEFORE THEY went to Watch Hill, Sparrow had dinner with her mother and Ron at a Mexican restaurant called GuadalaHarry’s. Ron let Sparrow choose the restaurant. They sat amid the phony Mexican tiles and loud barroom laughter. Her mother allowed Sparrow to order a frozen strawberry margarita. It came in a huge glass rimmed with sugar. Sparrow’s mother ordered an extra dry Beefeater martini with a twist, but Ron laughingly ordered a margarita. “On the rocks,” he said as he eyed the oversize frozen drinks around him. “Extra salt.”

  Suzanne looked at Sparrow and smiled secretively. “See?” she mouthed over the salt shaker.

  “Isn’t this place something?” he asked after their drinks arrived. “And the menu! This menu is really something.” Ron pointed to the food descriptions, sagas of how Harry got the recipes, as he spoke.

  “Have you been here before?” Suzanne asked Sparrow.

  “I’m sure she has,” Ron said. “Haven’t you?”

  Sparrow looked at the menu.

  “I mean, it’s such a fun place for a teenager,” Ron continued. “Not that it isn’t fun for old folks like us too,” he added, squeezing Suzanne’s shoulder.

  Suzanne picked up a tortilla chip and sniffed it, then broke it in two, and frowned.

  “Stale,” she said. She took a small bite, then put it down.

  “We’ll get a fresh batch,” Ron said.

  “No,” Suzanne said, “that’s not necessary. Really.”

  Ron picked up the basket of chips and waved it at a waiter.

  “Ron,” Sparrow said, “put that down. You’re embarrassing me.”

  “You know,” Suzanne said, “Ron always makes a point of getting the proper treatment in restaurants. And I think he’s right. People can really be so lax if you let them be. Like the wine. Remember that, Ron?”

  “Absolutely,” he said, still waving the basket. “We had a waiter—where was that, Suzanne? Up in Ipswich? We sent back a bottle of wine that tasted acidic and this waiter said the wine was fine, that it was our palate that was tainted from the garlic in our appetizer. Can you imagine?”

  “Mushrooms stuffed with snails,” Suzanne said.

  “We sent for the manager and of course he was quite apologetic and replaced the bottle with a good one.” Ron leaned toward Sparrow. “It’s never too early to learn these things,” he said.

  Suzanne smiled at him.

  “I think it’s obnoxious,” Sparrow said.

  “Obnoxious to expect good service and fine food?” her mother said.

  Ron stood up and snapped his fingers. “Excuse me,” he said.

  Sparrow held the large menu open in front of her face. “I can’t believe this,” she said.

  The waiter stood behind Sparrow. She could smell the garlic and onions on him.

  “These chips,” Ron said, “are cold and stale.”

  The waiter didn’t answer.

  “I really don’t believe this,” Sparrow said.

  “We’d like some fresh ones,” Ron said. “And I think—correct me if I’m wrong—that they should be served warm.”

  “This isn’t Maison Robert, for God’s sake,” Sparrow said.

  “Good man,” Ron said.

  Sparrow wasn’t sure, but she thought he slapped the waiter on the back.

  “I believe this is Tex-Mex,” Sparrow’s mother said. “Yes. Tex-Mex. Not authentic.” Then she added quickly, “Which is a nice change.” The waiter put down a new basket of chips.

  “Where was it,” Ron said, “that we had that wonderful chicken mole, Suzanne?”

  “I can’t recall. Somewhere in Cambridge?”

  Ron and her mother had their heads bent together as if that would increase their brain power.

  “Susan,” Ron said, “mole is an authentic Mexican sauce which, oddly enough, has chocolate as its base. It’s quite delicious.”

  “Sol Aztec!” her mother announced triumphantly.

  “Disgusting,” Sparrow said as she dipped a corn chip into the overly sweet sauce. “It sounds disgusting.”

  “I CAN’T WAIT FOR you to see it,” her mother said. “Eleven fireplaces! A sweeping view. A panoramic view actually. And Susan, what a lovely view it is.”

  Sparrow looked out the window of Ron’s BMW. The three of them—Sparrow, Suzanne, and Ron—were driving south on 95. Her mother and Ron had bought the house in Watch Hill. What a way to end the summer, her mother said when they started out today. Beside Sparrow, on the floor in the backseat was a cooler full of six-ounce bottles of Perrier. They were flavored—orange, lime, lemon.

  “Rhode Island,” Sparrow said.

  “Home of Brown University,” Ron said.

  “An excellent school,” her mother added.

  “Do they have a good English department, Mom? Because I’m going to be a writer. A poet.”

  “A poet does not make money,” her mother said sharply. “It’s not a career.”

  “I think what your mother means,” Ron said, “is that writing poems is more of a hobby. Something to do in your spare time.”

  “Really, Ron?” Sparrow said, her eyes locking with his in the rearview mirror. “I thought I’d write poems for a living and play with investing in my spare time. You know, for fun.”

  “I see,” Ron laughed stiffly. “The joke’s on me.”

  “There’s this little place,” Suzanne said, “where they make their own ice cream.”

  “Your mother had a triple scoop. What flavor was that, Suzanne? The one you liked so well?”

  “Blueberry. Wait until you taste th
is ice cream.”

  Sparrow leaned back in the seat and sipped some orange Perrier.

  “Be careful back there,” Ron said. “Don’t spill anything on the upholstery.”

  “I love when people get new cars,” Sparrow muttered. “They get so paranoid.”

  Suzanne and Ron glanced at each other.

  “I know,” her mother said. “He won’t let me smoke in here. He says that ruins the upholstery.”

  But Sparrow saw that she smiled at Ron when she said it.

  THE HOUSE WAS OVERSIZED, covered in weathered shingles and full of glass, so that the ocean could be seen from every room.

  “We still need a lot of furniture,” Suzanne said, gazing out toward the water. “That will be our winter project. In fact, you can pick out the room you want to be yours and fix it up any way you’d like. You can choose the colors, the furniture, everything. How does that sound?”

  Sparrow stood beside her mother in the living room. The large glass doors were open and the air was thick with salt. Below them, waves crashed against the rocks. Ron had gone to the supermarket. We need provisions, he said when he left. We’re really roughing it out here. With him gone, Sparrow felt more relaxed. She couldn’t imagine really living with him. Maybe her mother would change her mind.

  Suzanne sighed. “The ocean has always had a way of relaxing me. All those years of working so hard. There were times when I wished you and I could run away and camp out on a beach somewhere. Look for seagulls and driftwood. But, see, now, it was all worth it. All the planning and working and look what we’ve got.” She opened her arms as if to embrace the ocean.

  Sparrow looked at her mother. Her eyes looked as blue as the water she stretched her arms out to.

  “I’ve got a great idea,” Sparrow said. “Drop Ron and you and I will move here alone. Or maybe with someone different.” She thought of the picture of her father.

  Her mother ignored her. “It brings out the best in me,” she said. “I just remembered something,” she laughed. “Let me see if I can get it right. It’s been a long time. ‘The fish is—’ no, ‘The fish when she’s exposed to air. Displays no trace of savoir-faire. But near the sea regains her balance. And exploits all her womanly talents.’ Something like that.”