She’s trying to distract herself from wanting to shake Isabel off and lean into her at the same time.
“Wanna hear a poem?” Lefty pronounces it po-em.
“Yeah Lefty, thanks,” Ruth says. “Poem for me and Isabel, please. I’ll pay you two Larks, how’s that?”
He takes in a big breath and then lets go. “I cut off my hand . . .”
“Not that one, Lefty. It’s a little early.”
“Oh.” Lefty looks confused. He’s not big on choosing his words before they come out. Even though somewhere in the back of his mind there, his brain is putting them into meter and rhyme and long complicated stories, as far as he’s concerned, reciting his poems is like sneezing. Unless you try really hard to stifle them, they just come out.
“Give us the one about the trip to Montauk,” Isabel says. “We love that one.”
Lefty brightens right up. He straightens himself a little and tucks in his chin like he’s thinking, then he lets go again.
Just when he gets to, “If it was long, it was bright, and that was the morning/the road was long, black nothing with a yellow scar,” Danny comes out of the deli and waves.
“Rain check, Lefty?” Ruth says. “We will definitely want the rest later. Take the cigarettes on spec.”
When they walk out onto the dock, Isabel points at the drainpipe in the wall behind them. “Look at that,” she says. “That’s one of the ways you get in.”
“Get in where?”
“To Underground Highbone, Ruth. Pay attention. You wait for low tide and walk up there.”
The bottom half of the drainpipe is underwater. All of it is full of blackness, like an open mouth, shouting under the edge of Main Street.
“My sister went under there,” Isabel says. “I was telling Charlie and Magda. For real, she went down with her friends and brought back this old, thick coffee mug from behind a bar. It’s in our kitchen cabinet. Underground Highbone really is there.”
“Okay, so?”
Ruth can feel the damp darkness under the road, the seaweed hanging from the walls and the rotting wood, waiting for half a century without light. Somewhere, stray notes from old music are hidden in corners and cracks down there. It’s the kind of thing she’d like to draw, but you can’t draw what happens in the dark.
“I’m just saying”—Isabel points at the drainpipe—“if one of us ever needs a place to hide out.”
“Hide out? No thanks, Isabel. Actually working really hard not to be invisible over here.”
Danny is talking to some guys outside the deli. Men who work on Saturday mornings are coming through the door with breakfasts wrapped up in foil, landscapers and fishermen and road workers. When Ruth looks over at Danny, he smiles and puts a thumb up at her, like they’re hokey best friends. Why can’t everyone just go away? Somewhere to hide? No. What she needs is the power to make everyone else disappear.
Lefty’s friend Robert has found a dead pigeon in the gutter with the cigarette butts. He throws it up and catches it, over and over again, staring at it with some kind of bored wonder. All the weekend yachters sit on their decks, drinking their coffee, not noticing. From where they’re standing, Robert and Lefty don’t exist.
“Let’s go, sunshines. Time’s a wastin’,” Danny says, handing her a box full of coffees and egg sandwiches in bags.
“Sunshines?”
Danny has a parking permit, and a license for one of the only sandy clam beds on the North Shore. He got those things when his father was through with them. It doesn’t even bother him, doing exactly what his father did. He likes it. He’s proud to be one of the only clam rakers on the North Shore. Down on Great South Bay, clammers are a dime a dozen, he says.
Doesn’t he feel suffocated? Pointless?
Lefty and Robert are looking down into the water, where the pigeon is now floating next to a Styrofoam cup. Danny gets protective and steps in front of Ruth and Isabel. Just to rile him up, Ruth ducks her head around his shoulder, waves, and shouts good-bye.
Danny says, “It’s no joke, flowergirl. Those are broken people.” Then he jumps onto the dock.
“Yep. Broken right open,” Isabel says. “It’s not completely a bad thing, Danny. Turns out when you break some people open, amazing poetry comes out.”
“Why didn’t you go to Vietnam?”
For a second Danny looks like Ruth slapped him, then he mellows out again. The guy is impossible to break through. He’s like liquid.
“I can’t really talk about it, Ruth. It wasn’t strictly legal.”
It’s warm on the boat and Isabel takes off her Navy sweater. Underneath, she’s wearing Ruth’s bikini and her jeans.
While Danny checks over the boat, Lefty’s one-armed shadow falls over them. He’s lured by the idea of more cigarettes, whole and entire and out of a pack. Ruth lies down and closes her eyes while Isabel hands him three Larks and half her egg sandwich, telling him to have a beautiful summer day. Just sunshine and feet two inches off the ground, Isabel O’Sullivan. What happened to the shaking and the pleading? Isabel of last night and Isabel of this morning don’t add up. It’s spooky.
“Not until June twenty-first. Summer’s not till the twenty-first, Isabel.” Lefty’s proud of himself for pegging that one down. It’s weird how someone can be that smart and still get worked up over what day it is. What’s the difference between a schizophrenic and a mad professor?
Danny coils up his mooring rope and starts the engine. Ruth keeps her eyes closed until she feels the air around them open all the way up. The space next to her is full of Isabel. The heat of her makes Ruth feel hollow and a little sick. When she opens her eyes and sits up, they’re swinging around the head of the harbor. Lefty and the drainpipe have shrunk into the distance. The sun has burned through and scattered itself in little gold pieces across the surface of the Sound.
Once they’re in the cove Isabel asks if she can go in the water, and Danny nods, putting his rake together. Isabel puts out her cigarette in the can that’s nailed to the engine house and says, “Watch!” Then she lays her body on the side of the boat opposite Danny. The boat pitches when she rolls off into the water.
Ruth huffs. “You do realize any other guy would curse at her, don’t you? She nearly knocked you over. Only a man who refuses to throw his cigarette butts in the ocean would be that calm. It’s not right.”
“What’s to get worked up about?” Danny shrugs. “You’re only kids. And why would I throw my garbage on top of the clams?”
“Where do you think it goes when you throw it away, man? Some guys in Queens put it on a barge and dump it in here anyway.”
He just leans on a section of rake handle and smiles, like he’s about to tell her that everything is fine.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m serious. Now watch me. I’m far more considerate.” Ruth slips over the side, feet first.
There is that wall of shock you slam into every year, the first time you dive in the water. It feels like her heart will stop, and for a few seconds her lungs are frozen. The water is cold and green. She rolls over and waits for it to go calm. Once her heart slows down and the sea is still again, she can lie there without trying. The heavy water, full of salt, holds her up. If she doesn’t move at all, there will be nothing in her field of vision but sky. Blue above and the dark deep underneath her.
“Shit, it’s so cold I think I’m gonna freeze up and sink.” Isabel, stirring up the darkness again. She shouts over at Danny, “Didn’t there used to be oyster beds around here?”
“Still are. Why do you think they call that Oyster Bay over there?”
Isabel swims closer to listen, and Ruth tries to go back to the deep and the sky. But it’s no good.
“All right, smartass,” Isabel says. “I mean did they used to dig oysters in Highbone?”
“Not in Highbone, but they used to land them here to get cleaned and packed in the oyster houses. Put ’em on the train to the city every morning. My granddad was an oysterman. The oyster
houses were where the yacht club is, I think.”
“What happened to them?” Isabel treads water by the side of the boat.
“What happened to everything, flowergirl?” Danny lets the rake down the other side. “Shit changed. Beds got cleaned out and they closed ’em down. About as much chance of getting one of those permits now as winning the lottery.”
He goes back to being quiet then, dragging his rake and pulling it up, section by section. Ruth swims around the stern to watch him. What does her mother need him for? Sex? Can’t she get that in some way that’s less intrusive? Some way that doesn’t involve having a teenaged thirty-year-old taking up their couch, smoking joints and watching Laurel and Hardy all day?
Isabel appears from under the boat, three feet below the surface and painted in pebbly shadows. She breaks the surface next to Ruth and pushes her hair back.
“So, what would it take to satisfy you, exactly?” she says.
“I guess you’re talking about Danny. Since you obviously can read my mind ’cause you channel the evil dead or something.”
“Well, hmmm. You went all quiet for ages and started sending nasty glares in the direction of the boat. It doesn’t take a genius. My talents are wasted, figuring you out. Look, woman, my mother stashes big bags of M&M’s in the linen closet and hides for entire weekends behind the living room couch. My father pretends this is because she hasn’t drunk enough water. Are you under the impression your family is worse than anyone else’s? You do realize that half the time Magdalene is afraid to go home, and she spends the other half taking care of someone else’s baby?”
“I’ve known her longer than you have, Isabel. I get it. Anyway, you love Henry as much as we do.”
“Yes, because even though he’s a pain in the ass and he’s taken up most of what was supposed to be my best friend’s childhood, he’s a sweet little guy. He sits on the steps with me and pretends we’re pigeons and he tells Lefty he likes his poems, because even though he’s only six he’s smart enough to tell that’s what Lefty wants to hear. Lotsa people suck, I grant you, but not everyone. Not Henry, and we’re his good angels. We’re gonna help him grow up to not suck. This is my point, woman. Danny is fucking your mom. Your mom wants to fuck Danny. But—and here’s the rub, girlie—he also wants to hang out with you guys. He wants to take us out on the boat and do some kind of pretend family thing with you and your friends. It’s lame, but what’s the big deal? There are worse things.”
“Look, whatever. Let’s not play my-mom-is-worse-than-your-mom games. We all have stuff to deal with, all right?”
“And I’m supposed to be the one who’s self-absorbed? Can we make a deal?” Isabel reaches under the water and grabs the string at the back of Ruth’s neck. “You be nice to Danny for two hours and I won’t show everyone on the water your tits.”
Ruth rolls over and slaps hard, but misses. “You won’t show everyone on the water my tits because you’re a village pussy and I’m from South Highbone. I’d kick your ass and you know it, Miss Head-in-the-Clouds-Everybody-Is-Wonderful-Really. Have you thought about how we’re gonna sell Matt’s weed?”
“What? No. I kind of got distracted.”
“Distracted? Who’s self-absorbed now? You ruined some guy’s life, Isabel. I think it should at least pay.”
“Are my lips blue? I’m freezing. It isn’t remotely summer yet, is it?”
Ruth turns away and swims towards the boat. No point trying to get Isabel O’Sullivan into a conversation about consequences.
They throw themselves down on the boards at the front of Danny’s boat, with their heads at the bow and their feet over either side. Ruth’s arms are full of goose bumps and the salt is drying into crusty shapes on her skin. Maybe she could sleep here.
“I ruined some guy’s life?” Isabel says. “I think you mean we.”
“So you were listening to me.”
“You’re the one who did the big turnaround, Ruth. You were the one with the big ‘take no prisoners’ speech.”
Ruth looks over at Danny in the stern. He’s sorting through a rake full of creatures from the seabed, tossing crabs back and passing his clams through a ring. He isn’t listening.
“Admit it,” Isabel says. “You got pissed off at Matt for some reason and suddenly thought it was a good idea.”
“Yeah, but it was your idea, Isabel. Everything that hurts is your idea.”
three
MAGDA WALKS TOWARDS the water with everything at her back. Her father, her brother, the carriage house full of Matt Kerwin’s weed, the inescapable riptide in her body that seems to be caused by Jeff Snyder. She turned her back on all of it this morning, got out of bed and walked away, but that doesn’t seem to help these days. She can still feel it all pressing on her, pushing her on towards the harbor.
“Magdalene!” Mrs. Hancock is waving at her from the door of Mariner’s Maps and Books.
No. Just no.
“Magdalene Warren! Come and say hello to me, young lady.”
Jesus, it’s Saturday morning. It’s not even nine o’clock; nothing’s open. Why does she have to deal with this? It’s too late to turn around, and there’s no side alley to duck into. You can’t turn your back on everything when you’re completely surrounded.
“Hi, Mrs. Hancock. Hi, Mr. Lipsky.”
“Hi, Magdalene,” Mr. Lipsky says. “Come on in.”
“Get the girl a coffee to warm her up, Sam.”
“It’s seventy degrees, Mrs. Hancock. I’m good, really.”
Old Mr. Lipsky, the dad, is leaning in the doorway at the back of the shop. He stands kind of crooked, like one leg is shorter than the other.
“Put the coffeepot on, Sam,” he says. “I’ll get cups.”
“No, really, Mr. Lipsky. It’s . . .” But he’s already shuffling back up the stairs.
“I haven’t seen you in ages,” Mrs. Hancock says. “You’re getting taller, Magda.”
“Yeah, that happens.”
Mrs. Hancock is impervious to sarcasm. That goes with being married to the guy who owns the yacht club. Believing you’re the biggest thing in a pathetic little town like Highbone requires a certain suspension of disbelief. Young Mr. Lipsky puts an espresso pot on the hot plate in the back and they all get uncomfortably quiet until Old Mr. Lipsky comes back with three cups. There is already one for Young Mr. Lipsky on the counter by the cash register.
“Now, wait just a minute. I want to get this straight.” Old Mr Lipsky points at Magda. “Your mother was little Irene Buonvicino?”
“Leave it, Pop,” Mr. Lipsky says. “The kid doesn’t want your reminiscences.” He moves a bunch of shipping receipts and a couple of paperbacks to make room on the counter to pour coffee.
“It’s okay, Mr. Lipsky. I don’t mind. Yeah, my mom’s name was Irene Buonvicino before she got married. She left town, though.”
“You’ll have to call us by our first names, Magdalene,” Young Mr. Lipsky says, pouring out coffee. “We’re both Mr. Lipsky. I’m Sam, this is Emmanuel.”
“Like Emmanuel the savior?”
“Just Manny is fine.” He leans towards Magda, taking her in. “I knew your mother when she was a little girl, playing in the back of Villa Buonvicino. Her mother and father were customers of mine. And friends. Good people.”
Magda looks away at the shelves, then down at her Chuck Taylors. Manny has one of those nice, shaky old voices. He knew her mother when she was a baby. He was young then, maybe with a snuffbox and an argyle vest. Dapper, Magda thinks. Bet he was dapper.
“Where have you been hiding, anyway, Magdalene?” Mrs. Hancock has a voice like breaking glass. “I’ve been worried about you.”
“Uh, I’m not the one hiding, Mrs. Hancock. Not the one who disappeared.”
“Oh, Magdalene. I just want you to know you can talk to me. I’ve been around. I can listen, maybe even give you advice.”
It’s really hard not to laugh at that. Yeah, Mrs. Hancock was her mother’s friend, but Magda can’
t think of anyone possessed of a smaller store of wisdom. Near as she can figure out, Allison Hancock’s entire goal in life was to claw her way to the top of Highbone’s little tiny snob heap. More like a social step stool than a social ladder. Magda’s mom said Mrs. Hancock grew up in South Highbone. Marrying Harold Hancock is her big accomplishment, then she has to bump into his love child all over town. Now that is depressing.
The coffee is boiling hot but Magda drinks it as fast as she can. It’s like a hostage situation in here. A gang of grown-ups has abducted her and won’t let her go.
“I know your friend Ruth,” Manny says. “Looks like a movie star, but smart, too.”
“Yep, that’s Ruth.”
“She told me she’s going to be an artist, but she said she was keeping it secret.” Ruth picked the wrong confidant, obviously. “What are you going to be, little Buonvicino?”
“It’s Warren, actually. My last name’s Warren. But you can call me Buonvicino. It’s kind of nice.”
Maybe she could change her name officially. That would be cool. Her dad would flip out.
Finally, Magda makes it to the front door of Mariner’s Maps and Books and opens it. They’re all still talking at her, but she just keeps her eyes down and waves. The bell jangles, and the sun is so bright it makes her stumble down the step. She leans against the wall of the deli to let her eyes adjust. At the bottom of Main Street, Jeff Snyder comes into focus, standing with a bunch of guys around a Mustang.
It’s like someone ripped the blanket off the top of the world today. She’s naked, with nowhere to hide.
Jeff isn’t looking her way, so she crosses the street and ducks down the path into the park. Lefty is lying on the bench by the bandstand, but he isn’t sleeping. He’s staring up at the leaves on the trees and mumbling to himself.
“Magdalene,” he says. “It means harlot, you know.”
“Thanks, Lefty.”
“Holy harlot, though,” Lefty says.
“Redeemed, my mom said. Mrs. Farrow at school said it’s priestess, really.”
“Wholly redeemed.” Lefty makes prayer hands on his chest, pretending to be the tomb of a saint.
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