In the Midst of the Sea

by Sean McCarthy

  Something had happened to him down there—he had seen or heard something—but he refused to talk about it. “Rats,” he said when Diana pushed him. “I don’t like rats.” But that was all. Up until that point he had been going down there quite a bit. He had been building a workbench, and a telescope stand, and now the bench still sat against the stones of the far wall, as did the stand, half-finished, tools left out atop of it. That had been a couple months back. Diana herself had never seen anything down there—certainly not rats—but at times she could feel something. Another presence, a quiet one, unobtrusive but alert, watching, and Diana was never sure if it was a legitimate feeling or just her imagination.

  The cellar was dark, dirt floor and wooden beams and two yellow light bulbs dangling from the ceiling, and Diana, too, for a time, had refused to go down there by herself, always keeping Samantha close behind her. But now she didn’t mind as much. Most everything down here had come before they did, left behind from Ford’s ancient aunt, and some of the things—the books, some furniture, the kerosene lamp on the shelf above the workbench, covered in cobwebs—maybe from even before. There was a rocking chair, the blue paint peeling, that had a strange design up near the headrest—a multicolored bird, looking something like a rooster, in the middle of a circle of flowers—and Diana thought she had seen the design before. Pennsylvania Dutch. It looked something like the hex signs you sometimes saw on the outside of old barns, used to ward off evil spirits. And there were also numerous old fishing rods, boxes of old books. Magazines. She had opened one box and found and issue of TIME from 1967. December 15th. Then farther below, one from 1942, still saddle stapled but the cover coming loose. She imagined that if she kept digging through the boxes, the issues would keep going back even further. There was a pair of antique ice skates, the leather cracked and blades rusty, and on the far wall, above the workbench, hung a picture.

  The picture was black-and-white, sepia tinged, and set in an ornate gilded frame. A wedding photo. At least she assumed it was a wedding photo, but the woman was wearing a dark-colored dress, held flowers in her hands, and had her lips slightly parted as if she were startled. Or possibly even frightened. She was a beautiful woman with wide eyes and her hair pulled back tight, and the man beside her looked to be considerably older. Muttonchops and his hair slicked over the pate of his head. Tight suit and bow tie. And his eyes … Dark and severe, and empty. As if still watching, or seeing something beyond; the eyes in the picture seemed to follow you as you moved about the room, and Diana wondered if it was something about the picture that had unnerved Ford.

  If Ford was sleeping the morning after a shift, and Samantha was as at school, Diana, not wanting to make noise upstairs, would sometimes spend time down there doing the laundry and reading while she waited, sometimes reading romance mysteries and other times reviewing her nursing texts to keep her mind fresh for if and when she went back to work. When, she kept telling herself, when. She would quiz herself the way her friend, Ford’s sister, Cybil, used to quiz her while she was studying for her nursing boards, and she would listen to the quiet hum of the machines, once in a while taking a toke or two from the occasional joint she kept hidden behind the empty mason jars lined on the horizontal studs at the bottom of the stairs. Her cousin Freddie sometimes brought her a little bit of pot when he visited from the mainland—Freddie worked for Pepsi Cola and made regular deliveries to the A&P over in Edgartown—and Diana would sometimes make him something to eat if Ford wasn’t home.

  Freddie was small and happy with a bald head and a goatee, and he kept her attuned of the family gossip. He was always involved with any functions going on with the family, but always, somehow, managed to stay on the fringes whenever the dysfunction began to arise. He had been adopted, so Diana sometimes humored herself, telling herself that was probably the reason why he wasn’t crazy. He had never been married but he had a couple children, and he worked two jobs to keep up with the child support. He was a few years younger, but had grown up less than a mile away, and Diana remembered threatening—and if came to it, beating the hell out of—any of the older kids who gave him a hard time.

  “Your mother is getting into it with my mother again,” he had told her last time he had visited. Sitting on the washing machine, dressed in blue-and-white-striped Pepsi shirt, and a knit blue hat on his head. They had just smoked half a joint, Samantha at school.

  “About what now?” Diana had asked.

  “She said she needs money to bury Grandma,” Freddie said. “Money for the tomb.”

  “Grandma is sitting on about fifty thousand dollars,” Diana had said. “Grandpa left it to her.”

  “I know.”

  “And she is probably going to live another twenty-five years.”

  “I know.”

  “My mother is crazy.”

  And Freddie had nodded, smiling. “I know.”

  There was a well in the cellar, made of stone. If you had a flashlight, you could see the black water some twenty feet below, and if you dropped a coin, made a wish, and listened carefully, you could always hear the quiet splash, little more than a ping. And echoing up like a watery voice. Diana and Samantha liked to make wishes.

  Samantha had just turned five. Wide brown eyes and sandy brown hair, streaked with blonde in the summer. She couldn’t see over the edge of the well unless Diana hoisted her, but she liked to look down before dropping the coin. Samantha didn’t like to keep her wishes private and she was always wishing for something different. Tickets to Disney on Ice, Malibu Barbie, a trip to Disney World, the inflatable killer whale they had seen in the toy store down on Circuit Avenue. It changed every week, but Diana’s was always the same. She would win the lottery, enough for Ford to retire and then he could dedicate all his time to astronomy, travel about the country if he wanted to, and then he would be happy. And if he was happy, they would all be happy. Even if it meant they were living apart. She was sure of that.

  Now when Ford went to sleep after his shift, it was always Diana’s favorite time of the day. In the good weather, she and Samantha could play about the yard when the little girl got home from school—sometimes hide-and-seek in the big graveyard—or take a walk into town to get an ice cream. They always needed to be quiet, but it was the only time of day when they really had the house to themselves. They could make cookies or try on new nail polish, or sometimes they could just lie on the couch and watch TV. Repeats of Matlock and Murder, She Wrote. Jeopardy. Diana would carry Samantha to bed, and sometimes, depending on Ford’s mood, she would feign sleep on the couch, her eyes shut tight, waiting for him to leave for work.

  Tonight hadn’t been bad after the talk of the dolls though. The Pisces constellation was scheduled to be more visible in the sky the next few nights, and he was excited. In a good mood while drinking during dinner, looking at his charts. And then he had been out on the balcony with his scope for a few hours before coming in to take a nap before his shift, sleep off the booze, so Diana had figured it was safe to come up to bed.

  Now with his back to her, he coughed twice, cleared his throat. The lights were out, but the moon shone through the bedroom window, bathing everything silver and blue. Ford stood and turned on the light. Diana shut her eyes as he did. It didn’t matter if he turned the lights on while she was sleeping, he had told her, because she didn’t work, and didn’t have to get up, and could always go right back to sleep. She did have to get up—always to vacate the room once he got home in the morning, and to get Samantha ready for preschool—but she didn’t argue this point with him. Pick your battles wisely. How many times had she heard that? From friends, her cousin, and a therapist she had seen a little while back in the aftermath of yet another falling-out with her mother. She did want to work though, wanted her own money. She had worked at the South Shore Hospital in Weymouth for over a year before they were married, and she was a good nurse, a handpicked personal scrub for the best surgeon in the OR, but now, despite her RN and the fact that there was a hospital on the i
sland, Ford didn’t want her to work. There was too much to do with the house, he said, and besides, with Samantha still in half days, they would need babysitting in the afternoon. It was true they would need babysitting—but only if she worked the night shift, too—but she secretly believed that Ford was afraid that she would make as much, if not more, money than he did. Again. But next year, she had been telling herself, next year, Samantha in kindergarten, then she could do it.

  Ford left the light on, and went into the bathroom. His cigarette still smoldered in the ashtray. Diana listened to the sounds inside, him urinating, the toilet flushing, him brushing his teeth, gargling, the shower running. All on schedule, and then in a few minutes he would be gone, and it would be quiet again. He opened the door, and the steam sent a rush of warmth into the room. Diana lay on her side, watching him carefully through eyes she hoped appeared shut. He was still naked, and he had half an erection. He went to the mirror and rubbed some gel into his hair, then brushed it back. She shut her eyes tight again, listening to him putter about, and then a moment later she felt his weight on the bed, his knees sinking in, and then he was peeling back the blankets. Diana wore a T-shirt and panties, and the T-shirt had rode up over her hips. Ford began to run a finger along the small of her back, and then with the other hand, he cupped her ass. Held his hand there a moment.

  “Can you get up for a minute?” he said at last.

  Diana still didn’t move, hoping he’d go—she was tired—but then he spanked her lightly. “Come on,” he said, “let me do you doggy style. It will only take two minutes, I promise. I’m horny as hell.”

  Diana groaned a little, feigning just coming out of sleep, and then she got up on her hands and knees. Better to do it quick, than to get into a fight before he left for work; all that would do is set the mood for when he got home.

  “Quick,” she said. “I was sound asleep.”

  “No, you weren’t,” he said. “And besides, you have all night to sleep. I have to work.”

  He ran his hand over her buttocks again. “I like these bikini panties.” He put his hand underneath the band, and snapped them back. “You don’t even have to take them off this way, I can just push them aside like this,” he said, and then he did, pushing his fingers inside her, just for a moment, and then pushing himself in, both hands on her hips. He swung her around, so her head was at the foot of the bed, and they were facing the mirror on the dresser. He started moving quicker. “Open your eyes,” he gasped.

  “What for?” she asked.

  “Because,” he said. “I like to see your facial expressions.”

  “But I’m not going to be making any.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because. I’m tired, Ford. And I’m not in the mood.”

  Ford was still moving. She watched him in the mirror. He still did a lot of pull-ups and push-ups, and his muscles were still well-defined. Chest and biceps. Jet-black hair combed back from his forehead and blue eyes with dilated pupils, bottomless pits. He must have been excited. He pulled out for a second, spanked her a little, and then pushed back in. Diana winced, and he giggled. “I knew I could get ya,” he said.

  “Tell me what you want me to do,” he said.

  “Ford, I’m tired,” she said.

  He spanked her again. “Tell me.”

  “I want you to fuck me,” she said quietly, laying the side of her face flat against the mattress. It was all routine, the same repertoire, whenever he wanted, needed, to be quick. Or sometimes when he was too drunk, and couldn’t get it up.

  His whole body was tense. He was on the verge, she could feel it. “How hard?” he gasped.

  She turned and looked at him, lips barely parted and eyes at half-mast, trying to look sexy, sleepy, and just wanting it to end. “As hard as you can,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “As hard as you can. I like, need, to be fucked hard.”

  He spanked her again. “What?!”

  “Please, please fuck me,” she said. “I just want you to fuck me. Fuck me as hard as you can. Please. Ram it inside me. Please. I’m a little slut. Oh, please.”

  Ford thrust once more, and then he pulled out, and then it was over.

  He got up from the bed and went to the bathroom again, urinated, and then came out and pulled on his briefs. Tighty-whities. And then his postal pants. He looked into the mirror again, and widened his eyes. Dropped in some Visine. And then he looked toward the chair by the window.

  “Where’s my shirt?” he asked.

  Diana was already back under the covers.

  “On the chair,” she said, her eyes once again shut. It was the same routine every night. She ironed his shirt—short-sleeved blue with the eagle emblem on the pocket—put it on the chair, his shoes beneath. Ford was a stickler about the shoes, making sure they were polished at least once a week. Diana would polish them, sometimes at the kitchen table, listening to quiet classical music on the radio, hoping for Bach, Bach was her favorite.

  “What chair?” he asked now.

  “The chair is where it always is, Ford,” she said, trying to close down his voice. “You know where I put it. It’s there every night.” She felt raw and sore between her legs. Her period was coming. Everything more sensitive.

  “It’s not there.”

  Diana sat up in bed, the sheet falling down about her waist, and pointed. “Yes. It. Is,” she said, but even before the word had cleared her lips, she realized she was wrong. She swung her feet around and put them on the floor, looked at the chair, and quickly scanned the room. The shirt wasn’t there. But it had been there. She was sure of it—she had ironed it and folded it and put it there, right before climbing into bed. Not an hour before.

  “I know it was there,” she said, “I just put it there.”

  “Maybe you forgot,” he said, stepping over and picking up his shoes. He didn’t look angry yet, just a little irritated, and that much was good.

  “I didn’t forget,” she said. “I just did it.” She got up out of the bed, scanned the room again. The room was small and spare—Ford didn’t like much clutter. All the clothes put away, the closet doors shut. Just his cologne, deodorant, and hairbrush on his dresser—she had to keep all her toiletries, jewelry, and beauty products in her top bureau drawer—his guitar in the corner, and a biography of James Taylor beside it. Ford couldn’t play the guitar, not much anyway, and he had yet to read the biography of Taylor; he had bought it last winter when they moved to the island, saying he could relate to him—his sadistic father and chaotic upbringing—and he felt as if they were soul mates.

  She had almost laughed when he said that—envisioning Ford driving about the island, searching for James Taylor, or better yet, the two of them running toward each other in an open field, arms spread wide, but she didn’t say that to him. There were many things she would never say to him. Couldn’t, not even in jest. Now the bookmark was still lodged at the very beginning of the book. He hadn’t made it out of the prologue. Diana began to move about the room quickly. It was better to move quickly, and she took things in quicker than he did. If it were here, she would see it. And she didn’t. But it had to be here. She was sure of it.

  She opened the closet door, second-guessing herself for show but knowing it wouldn’t be in there. Not unless he had got up and hung it up himself. But Ford wouldn’t do that.

  It wasn’t in the closet. Diana dropped to the floor and checked under the bed. A long, shallow Tupperware full of summer clothes, pieces to an old telescope, and Ford’s box of old porn. Movies and magazines.

  “Diana, what the fuck?” he said now. “I have to be at work. I thought you said you ironed it?”

  Diana didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to meet with his eyes. “I did. I ironed it, and folded it. I’m sure of it. Let me check downstairs.”

  She ran down the stairs, glancing into Samantha’s room as she passed. She was still asleep. That was good. She wanted to keep her asleep, and if that were to happen, she h
ad to keep Ford from screaming. She moved through the kitchen, the breakfast area, and into the dining room—she had set the ironing board up in the dining room, but now it was put away, the iron, too. Both in the closet. But the shirt wasn’t in the dining room, nor was it in the closet. Ford was downstairs now, too. She could hear him in the kitchen, slamming the refrigerator door, cursing. Diana checked the back parlor at the rear of the house, the room with the alcove and window that looked out over the backyard, the graveyard, and then she checked the den. Nowhere. She hesitated for a second, and then moved toward the cellar. More laundry in the cellar. He had more than one shirt. Another one must be clean. She could iron it quick—Ford was a stickler about his shirts being ironed. Always pressed, always neat.

  Diana flicked on the light and hurried down the stairs, the quiet almost feeling to carry a hum. Dusty and old, and … watching? Why did it always feel as if someone was watching? Eyes behind her, and eyes in the shadows. It was almost enough to make her retreat, but she couldn’t retreat now, that would just make it worse. She was almost to the dryer when she glanced over at the workbench, half in the shadows, half in dim light. And the postal shirt laid out on top. Ironed and folded. Diana stopped in her tracks. She hadn’t been down here tonight. Hadn’t been down here since the morning. And she never went near the workbench; she didn’t have any reason to.

  But the shirt was there.

  Diana could hear him stomping around upstairs, his footsteps getting louder, and then she could hear something else. A dripping noise, coming from the well. And that just then made her hair stand on end, too; unless they were dropping coins, the well was always silent..

  Ford met her at the top of the stairs. Locked with her eyes and yanked away the shirt. “I thought you said you put it on the chair.”