North Haven

by Sarah Moriarty

  “We’re going to be forty soon,” said Gwen. “Funny, huh? That’s how old she was when she had Danny.”

  “You’ve got four more years, Pipsqueak. But, I’ll keep it warm for you.” He squeezed her hand.

  She saw him then, her big brother, curled beside her in her little bed in the nursery; saw him pulling her sister limp out of the sea; saw him flip a small switch on a machine in a hospital room. And she thought, This is what he has always done, and I didn’t see it. He’s always gone first, scouted ahead, cleared a path for the rest of us. All the errant branches whipped into his face first as he broke through them, keeping the rest of us safe, leading forth, and leaving clues for the journey home. Just like now. She was on the path to forty, and Tom would lead the way.

  Gwen had always imagined that next decade as a heavy arched door with scrolled wrought-iron hinges that sat at the top of circuitous staircase. A dark mystery, that had to be answered, opened, revealed. The baby would not put it off, nor did she want it to. When she passed through that door she didn’t want to leave anything on the other side. Not brothers, not babies. There would be an exhaustive inventory, and each thing folded and wrapped in tissue and stacked in a steamer trunk for the journey, jars of shells, a velvet box holding a sand dollar, a black stone polished by the sea wrapped in silk. All vessels would be filled. She would start now with this baby, a perfect pebble turning softly in her belly.

  Gwen and Tom both turned toward the meadow as they heard the pop and crunch of a car coming down the road. A shining, wide, black car not at all appropriate for their gullied dirt road pulled up beside the jeep. All the windows up, air-conditioning on, thought Gwen, must be lost. Tom stood up. A balding man stepped out of the car and gave them a wave. He headed across the meadow toward them.

  “Tom?” he called.

  Tom met him with an outstretched hand.

  “Rafe Phillips. Is now a good time?”

  Tom looked back at Gwen. She nodded.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  OCTOBER

  The four of them stand in the cockpit of the Misdemeanor as they motor from one town to another. They pass their house, which is not theirs any longer. Libby cuts the throttle, and they stall there in front of their sprawling memory.

  The four of them have come up for the closing; since all of them are owners, they all must be present to sign away this place. They have given most of the land to the Maine Preservation Society, and the house, they have sold to a family who promises not to tear the whole thing down, though they know that is a lie.

  The oak is yellow and peeks from behind the house. The glossy white windows of the great room look down upon them. It is cold and they all wear their foul-weather gear, bright-yellow slickers, except Gwen, in a red poncho to accommodate the swell of her belly.

  Libby keeps one hand on the tiller and the other she slips into Tom’s hand. He gives it a squeeze and then puts his arm around her. Danny moves from the stern to stand between Tom and Gwen. They all stand on the starboard side looking at the house. Libby and Tom, then Danny, his hand resting on his brother’s shoulder, and Gwen next to him, her arms crossed over her protruding belly, her hair long and dark hanging down her back. She is no longer a beacon, but a buoy in her poncho, red right returning.

  The sky is gray and low and promises a choppy ferry ride to the mainland, but there in the safe haven of the harbor it is calm and windless, and the house isn’t empty, but expectant. The flat water, dark green now, lies empty, the float pulled out the month before. Going from town dock to town dock, there is no need for a tender. There is no way for them to come ashore, even if they wanted to.

  A house like this is not supposed to exist now. It comes from another era. It is a ghost, like the schooners that sail through the thoroughfare every summer. It is an aberration, a figment. It is their great shingled memory.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I owe an immeasurable debt to Rob McQuilken for being my ideal reader, my staunchest advocate, and my infinitely patient agent. Thank you to the publishing gods for Carmen Johnson; your devotion to old-school editing, and your creative support, encouragement, and collaboration have allowed me to untangle this stringy, knotted story. To the thoughtful and committed team at Little A, who shepherded the book through the maze of production. To the Vermont Studio Center for granting me the time and space to leap off the cliff of novel writing.

  Thank you to all my readers: Wylie O’Sullivan, without you I would not have finished this book, or found Rob, or generally gotten where I needed to go. To Mike Sacks and Kate Papacosma for help and advice. To David Fogg for decades of friendship and inspiration. To the Papercuts: Erik Rhey, Mac Barrett, Jenny Barton, Joe Irvin. To Nora O’Connor and Emily Taylor, your support kept me coming back to this process even after months of ignoring, denying, and avoiding it. To Cecily Parks, my favorite poet, my trusted reader, my friend. To Lissa Fox, whose opinion I trust most in the world. To Shana Gozansky, my child’s godmother (and probably my soul’s as well), the perpetual velvet to my unwieldy hammer.

  To the many ladies in my life who have forged a path as working artists (and artists who have other projects like jobs and children), I am so proud to be part of your clan. To All Body—the Smiths, Scaife-Smiths, Reeder-Smiths, Ames-Nelsons—my Fourth of July family, who taught me how to truly vacation. To my father, Marshall, for your belief in me, for your generosity, and for your love. To Cally and Brad, you are my siblings, but when we were kids you were also parents. Now, you are my best friends.

  To Peter Twickler, because of you I get to be me. You are my ocean. To Ellery Twickler, you and this book began at the same time, but you are funnier, smarter, and far more magical than anything I could ever write. To E. B. Moore, my mom, my greatest fan, my solace, my hero. I only hope I can be a fraction of the woman, mother, and writer that you are. And finally, to Noni and my generous, welcoming relatives who own this house. The beauty in this book belongs to you. Thank you for sharing this perfect and wondrous place with me. I hope I did it justice.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Sarah Moriarty received her MFA from The New School and has worked as a writer and editor for A Child Grows in Brooklyn, What to Expect, and LOST Magazine, among other digital publications. She taught writing and literature at the College of Staten Island and Saint Ann’s School, where she strived to prove to her students, and herself, that writing is worth the work. Sarah lives with her husband, daughter, and assorted fauna in Brooklyn, New York. North Haven is her first novel.