In the Midst of the Sea

by Sean McCarthy

  10

  What happened in the cellar had probably been his own fault, Ford figured. But still, he didn’t want to go down there anymore. Not unless he absolutely had to. It wasn’t that he was scared, he didn’t scare easy, and he had never been one to believe in any paranormal bullshit—not usually—but still, the house seemed different, had always seemed different, and the whole thing just left him a little unsettled, his nerves jumping all around. He had been drinking for a few days before it happened back last September, so that might have caused it, he figured. Touch of the DTs. And besides, old houses made noises, they settled. Moved in the earth.

  Diana wasn’t home when it happened, and he had the day off, so he had figured he would go down there and work on his telescope stand. It was going to be a thing of beauty. Sometimes he brought the scope out to the backyard, and sometimes he used it on their balcony—but Diana complained when he did that in the winter, the cold air following him every time he came in and out of the bedroom. He had been working on the stand on and off for a couple months, and he had just started sanding the sides—held tight in the vise on the workbench. He had been drinking that day, too, but he was only on his seventh or eighth beer when he heard it.

  The whispering.

  He had thought he had heard it a few times since they moved in, heard something, but it was never this clear. At first it was just one voice, a woman’s, sounding as if it were calling from a long tunnel, distant and fading. He had spun around, but there was no one there. Other than the sound of water dripping in the well, the cellar was silent. But he knew he had heard something.

  Maybe Diana. Maybe upstairs. She had come home, he figured, and was up there talking to Sam, and her voice was just traveling through the floor. Distorting it a bit. Had to be. She could be pretty loud. Ford went to the bottom of the stairs and called up to her, but there was no answer. He called out once more, and looked up, and then the door creaked open. Fucking with him, he thought. She must have been fucking with him, thinking she was funny, but he called out her name a third time and still there was nothing.

  “You’re a regular laugh riot,” he had called up. Waited. Nothing. He went up the stairs, hesitated and listened. Nothing. A silence with a hum. And suddenly he knew he was wrong—the house was empty, he could feel it. He called up to the second floor, just in case, hoping for a second maybe he would hear Samantha giggle—a joke—he might be a little irritated, ha-ha very funny and all that, but at least it would explain it. But still no answer. He went to the cellar door, swung it back and forth a little—it moved easily enough, but he did need to oil it. That was the problem around here, he was expected to do everything.

  Ford grabbed two more beers from the refrigerator and headed back down the cellar. This time leaving the door wide open. The draft would come up, but that was okay—at least he would hear them when they came home, it wouldn’t take him by surprise. He didn’t need any more surprises; he was feeling jittery enough as it was.

  He went to the workbench and ran his hand across the surface of the stand. Blew away the dust. Perfectly smooth. Sometimes he thought he missed his calling, should have been a carpenter. Should have done something with his hands. Something skilled. He cracked a beer and took a long slip. Refreshing and cold.

  And then the door slammed shut above him.

  The sound echoed throughout the cellar, and then slowly faded. So there was a draft. He couldn’t feel it, but there had to be a draft. That was all. Better to leave the door shut now because if it happened again, it was just going to unnerve him all the more, and he didn’t need that. He had work to do, needed to get the project completed before the best skies arrived. Winter skies, thriving off the darkness that covered the earth for sixteen hours a day. And Jupiter would be visible after Halloween. You could see it nearly all night long in November. And the Orion constellation was beautiful that time of year, too. Ford sipped again—another beer or two would probably straighten it all out, settle his nerves. He picked up his sandpaper. And then he heard it again.

  The hairs stood up on the back of his neck, and he was suddenly afraid to turn. The voices came from behind him, distant again, sounding as if they had traveled through a tunnel. Two voices now, a man and a woman, arguing—asking each other who he was, what he wanted, growing louder and louder, and then progressively receding. At first just the two, and then several others, joining in, all talking at once. Chaos. Separate conversations but all focused on him. They were there. He had heard them. Now he had no doubt. And they spoke as if they were observing him, seeing him while remaining unseen, and believing they were hearing him without being heard. Until he turned. And then the voice of the woman.

  He knows, she said.

  And another. The little girl. He heard it from the girl.

  Ford crumpled the sandpaper in his hand, and hurried for the stairs.

  Look at him, watch him.

  Does he hear us?

  Of course he hears us.

  Should never have been here.

  A long time ago.

  But you’ll never understand that. It wasn’t, it just simply wasn’t.

  Not his.

  He’s just like him.

  No.

  Yes.

  He’ll do it. He’ll do it again.

  And then someone screamed.

  Ford turned and hurried up the stairs, dropping the sandpaper behind him. His hands were shaking. Heart racing. He took the key from his pocket. A skeleton key, as old as the house. He dropped it once—it felt electric in his hand—and picked it quickly back up. He needed to get the door locked. Locked. Just for now. Give him a little time to think about this. He couldn’t hear them now. That was good. They were down there. Not in his head. That was good. But they had to be in his head, made no sense otherwise. Had to be in his head. Just all the booze—the house?—playing with his nerves? Had to be. That was it. It. He put the key in the lock, turned it, pushed the dead bolt for extra security, and took a step back. Staring at the door. Waited. Almost expected for someone to come knocking. But there was nothing. Just the silence. And then a car passed by on the gravel road out front. Moving slowly, but there. Solid. Reality. Ford clenched his fingers tight. He had left his beer down there. He needed a beer.

  11

  Freddie stopped by on the Thursday before Thanksgiving while Ford was still sleeping. Diana looked out the back window and saw the Pepsi truck pulling up across the street, and then she dressed Samantha in a hat, scarf, and gloves, and they ran over to meet him. Samantha loved riding in the truck, being up so high in a vehicle with the Pepsi logos on the doors of the cab, and it was always a big thrill for her when he took them for a drive about the island; and every now and then, especially in the winter, Freddie had some time to kill in between ferries.

  “Prince Charming still asleep?” he asked as Diana opened the door and boosted Samantha inside.

  Samantha crawled forward, wrapping her arms about his neck and kissing his cheek. “Who’s Prince Charming?” she asked.

  “Oh,” said Freddie, catching himself. “Prince Charming? You know who that is. That’s my dad. That’s your mummy’s and my code name for my dad.”

  “But he’s bald,” said Samantha.

  “That’s right,” said Freddie. “But so am I. And you think I’m charming, right?” He checked his mirrors, and put the truck into gear as Diana buckled Sam in, and then herself. Freddie reached over and handed Sam a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup.

  “Maybe,” Sam said. “Maybe if you wear a hat. Or maybe a wig. A black wig that goes straight across the front.”

  Freddie rubbed her head. “Ohhh … I know who you mean. That’s not Prince Charming. That’s Prince Valiant.”

  And Sam, chocolate already all over her face and hands, turned and looked up at him. “Yup. That’s you.”

  They drove over through Vineyard Haven, across the drawbridge spanning the channel between the lagoon and Vineyard Haven Harbor, onto State Road and then on up into Menemsha,
winding hills and valleys moving through long patches of woods and fields of tall grass with horses, llamas, and sheep, and then panoramic views of water all around. Ponds and marshes, small sheltered bays with boats moored for the winter, and then the open sea. And then on into Aquinnah. Gay Head.

  Freddie pulled the truck over at the top of the hill just below the lighthouse, a field of cut grass sloping down beneath. Peeling white benches. Freddie pulled on a knit cap with the New England Patriots logo on it.

  “It says thirty-minute parking, but they won’t really ticket me, will they?” Freddie asked.

  Diana shook her head. “Not this time of year. I haven’t been out this way since summer. Ford used to come out here sometimes to fish at dusk.”

  “He ever catch anything?” Freddie asked.

  Samantha climbed out of the cab, Diana waiting on the pavement to help her down.

  “We caught some crabs once,” Sam said, “but they kept trying to pinch us so we let them go. Then it was dark, and we couldn’t see anything anyway, except for the lighthouse, and so then we went home. Daddy says he caught a striped fish once, though, but it was as big as me so he threw it back in the ocean because he was afraid it might eat me.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing he’s looking out for you, then,” Freddie said.

  The sea was loud in the distance. Diana could hear the waves crashing and retreating, and hear the cries of the gulls circling above the beach. They started up the worn path to the lighthouse, the earth hard and dusty beneath, the brush and shrubbery to either side brown and dead, awaiting spring in the moisture coming in off the sea, and Samantha ran up ahead.

  Freddie stuffed his hands in his pockets, and tucked his chin to his chest against the wind. “Isn’t this where the nude beach is at?”

  “Not this time of year,” Diana said, “unless maybe you’re a wacko.” She looked out over the water. “It’s all the same beach. You just have to walk for a while before you get to the nude section.”

  She and Ford had gone out there once. His idea. Early last summer, shortly after the solstice. It was still a lot less crowded than it would be once July hit, and he talked her into it. It was very warm, and they had found a babysitter through postings at the library across the street, and drove out here later in the afternoon. You had to park at the top of the hill, and then make your way down the path that wound through the beach grass and brush, and there were people on the beach, but the numbers dwindled as they moved along, walking at the edge of the surf, and soon enough it almost seemed deserted. Almost. Just a few couples, a few solo old men—standing proud with their hands on their hips as they gazed out upon the sea—and small groups of tanners, sitting about with coolers and blanket, wearing sunglasses and beach hats and little, if anything more.

  “It’s always the old people who want to be naked the most,” she remembered Ford said. “It’s kind of funny.” And he was right. Nearly everyone they passed was sixty or above. Ford was being nice though, had been nice nearly all day, and he held her hand as they walked along the surf. Diana couldn’t remember the last time he had held her hand.

  They walked nearly as far as they could. The red clay cliffs towering high behind them, shifting, and crumbling, eroding. The beach was small, lapped with the tide, and spotted with enormous boulders jutting up from out of the sand and smaller, smooth rocks all about, almost giving the cove they chose the look of ruins, the remnants of a temple uncovered from the earth. One of the boulders was tall and narrow, the top resembling a head. A profile. Chin, nose, and brow.

  “Lot’s wife,” Diana said, pointing. She lay her towel flat on the sand, and then took Ford’s from him to do the same.

  Ford looked at her quizzically.

  “You know? Sodom and Gomorrah? God turned her into a pillar of salt because she wasn’t supposed to look back.”

  “Look back at what?”

  “The destruction of the city.”

  “Oh.” Ford looked away. “I knew that. I just forgot. I just don’t see it though. In the rock I mean.” He was quiet for a minute, and Diana felt immediately bad for embarrassing him. He was very proud. And he hated to be called out. On anything.

  “The only reason I knew it is because I went to Catholic school,” Diana said, taking a seat.

  Ford smiled. “They bible you up, all good and clean?”

  Diana pulled her T-shirt over her head, shimmied out of her shorts. A white-and-green-striped string bikini beneath. “Good maybe. Maybe not always so clean. Maybe a little bit dirty. Maybe.”

  “The old God, the angry God, probably wouldn’t like that too much, would he?” Ford said.

  Diana cocked her head. “Probably not.”

  “Probably turn you into a pillar of salt or some shit like that.”

  “Probably.”

  “Well, maybe we should test him and see.” He sat down beside her. Reached over and began to play with the band on her bikini bottoms.

  Diana looked down at his fingers. “I don’t want to be stuck down here on earth forever.”

  “Forever probably isn’t so bad,” Ford said. “Beats the alternative.”

  “What’s the alternative?” Diana asked.

  “Nothing,” he said. “We just stumble right on into nothing.”

  Diana looked around. The only people in sight were farther down the beach. Small in the distance, except for a woman on a large rock some fifty feet out in the surf. Facing the ocean. She reclined back, supporting herself with her hands. Long blonde hair and a sheer white dress.

  “When did she get there?” Diana asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ford said. “I was just thinking the same thing. Maybe we missed her in the glare of the sun. Or she could have been swimming.”

  “Could have been.”

  Ford smiled again. “She looks kind of hot. Maybe we should ask her to join us.”

  Diana tossed some sand at him, and then he tackled her on the towel and began to kiss her. “You ready to take your clothes off?” he said, pulling back and looking down into her eyes.

  She reared up and kissed him. “Maybe.”

  “You want me to do it, or you want to do it?”

  “Well, if you do it, someone might call the cops. I think they look the other way if you’re naked, but probably not if you look like you’re about to have sex.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Well, I’ll count to three and then we’ll both do it.”

  Diana nodded. “And if you tell anybody, I’ll kill you.”

  Climbing to his feet, Ford shook his bathing trunks free from his leg, and then Diana unsnapped her top, looped her thumbs of the hip strings of her bikini and pulled it right down. Ford had made a dash for the water first, and Diana quickly followed.

  The sea was cold, but the water was beautiful, and once their bodies adjusted, they stayed in for a half hour or more. Ford had pulled her close and kissed her at one point, pushing her hair back from her forehead.

  “You’re beautiful, you know?” he said. “Did I ever tell you that?”

  Diana shook her head. “Nope.”

  “Well,” he said. “I’m telling you now.”

  They had brought sandwiches and a bottle of chilled white wine, and after warming in the sun returned to the water. And the rest of the day had been beautiful. Maybe, she thought, thinking back now, the most perfect day they had had together since they moved to the island. The seals had come close to the shore. Small heads bobbing up and down throughout the breakers. There for a moment, then gone. Snouts and whiskers. At least four or five of them—it was amazing how many had come back to the area—and Ford had waded out and snapped a few pictures.

  They had stayed until close to sunset, and the girl on the rock didn’t move except to occasionally glance their way and smile. And then, as they were gathering their things together to go, Diana looked up, and the rock was empty, and the woman was gone. The rising sea breaking over the top, and leaving a spray in its wake.

  “Well, I’ll have to
come back out in the summer and check it out,” Freddie said now, in reference to the beach. Samantha opened the weatherworn gate, and then scrambled up the path toward the lighthouse.

  “Everything is better in the summer,” Diana said.

  “That’s true,” Freddie said. “I like to snowboard a few times a year though. You should come up for the weekend sometime this winter with Samantha. We can go to Attitash or maybe even Wachusett Mountain or something more local. I bet she would pick skiing right up. It’s amazing how quickly kids that age pick things up.”

  “I’m sure she’d love it,” Diana said.

  “You still have your skis?” Freddie asked.

  Diana nodded. “At my mother’s.”

  “Uh-oh,” Freddie said, laughing a little. “Well, maybe I can pick them up for you.”

  “If Stephen hasn’t sold them for drug money.”

  Freddie nodded. “That’s highly possible. If he did, I can smack him for ya. But in all honesty, you should come up.”

  “Just a matter of getting there.”

  Freddie laughed a little. “Just take the car and leave a note.”

  “Yeah, that would go over big. Once I start working again, the first thing I’m going to do is buy my own car.”

  “How is everything else going? He’s not acting like an asswipe again, is he?”

  “He’s okay, I guess. All things considered. He tries, I think. Been better, been worse.”

  “Well, I only say it because I can, Cousin, but when it comes to you, it should just be better.”

  Diana put her arm around him then, pulled him close and kissed his head.

  At the top of the hill Samantha stood outside the door to the lighthouse. The conical-shaped tower was made of red brick and rose some fifty feet above the lawn. Two steel platforms, one surrounding the rotating beacon and one just below. Alternate flashes of red and white. Since the day it was built in 1856, they had to keep moving the tower back every few decades, the clay cliffs it surmounted constantly eroding and dropping 130 feet to the ocean below. Diana wondered if there would ever come a day when the campaigns to move the tower would fall short, and if it would tumble, lost to the sea like so many wrecks.