In the Midst of the Sea

by Sean McCarthy

  “You’re acting like a child,” Diana said. “And you’re out of control.”

  She walked Norman and Cybil to the foyer, the door, apologizing all the way. Cybil pulled her into an embrace. She whispered in her ear, told her to not to stay there for the night, to come back with them to the bed-and-breakfast. Both herself and Samantha.

  Diana shook her head. “I can’t,” she whispered. “It will just make it worse. He’ll calm down. He always does. He’s just being obnoxious because he had too much to drink.”

  “I’m worried about you,” said Cybil.

  “He’ll be fine,” said Diana. “I’ll call you in the morning. I’m sorry this happened. I’m mortified.”

  “Don’t be mortified,” said Norman. “Just come with us. Just for the night.”

  Diana hugged them both again quick. “I’ll call you,” she said, and then she was shutting the door. Wanting it shut, needing it shut, before Ford got up again. She could hear their voices outside. There for the moment, then getting smaller and smaller as they made their way off the property. Diana passed the stairs again, but there was still no sign of Samantha.

  She was tempted just to head to the kitchen, or maybe just upstairs, but first she needed to make sure the girl hadn’t come back down. Diana went back to the dining room and Ford was still sitting at the head of the table, his face half-illuminated in the candlelight. He had a cigarette going, sitting on the edge of the table, the smoke curling up before him. She would confront him about this, she wasn’t going to let it go, but not now. Now wouldn’t be good. But she could feel everything building inside her, burning, making her want to scream, want to cry, tell him to leave. He didn’t look at her as she approached the table to begin to clear away the dishes. Stacking one plate upon the other. As few trips as possible would be best, she figured. With any luck he would go to his den, or better yet to the back porch with his Walkman, and listen to his music. He did that sometimes, maybe even knowing he had to defuse himself, she figured. But now he looked up at her.

  “Hey, Diana?” he said.

  Diana froze, the plates chest high. “What?”

  “Don’t ever do that again.”

  “Do what?”

  “Side with someone else over me.”

  “Go to hell, Ford,” she said, and as she did, he jumped, raised his hand and smacked her. Diana stumbled backward, the china still held tight, and her back to the mantle, and then he jumped closer. A closed fist. He caught her in the ribs. She winced with pain and doubled over, and then he got her in the face again, the cheek, his fist still closed, and this time she did drop the plates, sending them scattering. One skittering across the table, flipping up as it hit the gravy saucer, the others going over her shoulder, shattering on the floor. She flew backward, and he hit her one more time and she was on the floor, facedown. She could feel her face beginning to swell, the taste of iron on her lip. She shut her eyes tight. She could hear him breathing, the squeak of him snubbing out the cigarette, and then his footsteps going by her to the closet to get his coat, and then out the front door. Diana still didn’t move, afraid he would come right back in, but she opened her eyes and when she did she could see the doll—the doll Samantha had carried upstairs—sitting on the floor, propped in the doorway.

  14

  Diana waited until she was sure he was gone, and then she pushed herself up off the floor. Ran upstairs to check on Samantha. Asleep, curled up at the foot of her bed, still in her dress, her ribbons, holding one of her own dolls. A bald baby whose face she had scribbled with purple marker two years before. Baby Poussie. Diana could feel her cheek beginning to throb. She checked herself in the bathroom mirror—split lip, cheek swollen.

  She hurried downstairs and filled a Ziplock bag with some ice, wrapped it in a cloth napkin, and then she grabbed a change of clothes, her purse, a few toiletries and a few toys, coloring books and crayons, and then she grabbed the journal. She woke Sam and dressed her in her hat, and they ran out into the night.

  She wasn’t sure where Ford would have gone—maybe the bar down on Circuit Avenue where he sometimes hung out, or maybe just to buy a bottle and sit by the water, but she didn’t think he would be heading back in this direction. Not yet. And she knew she just had to get out. Check in somewhere for the night. She wasn’t even worried about herself, not anymore, but she was worried about Sam. Ford had never touched Sam, never hit her, but the possibility of it occurring was beginning to worry her more and more. His temper, rage, growing stronger as the days grew shorter, light dwindling. Working the night shift, he saw barely any daylight this time of year, and she wondered if that affected who he was, what he was becoming. Along with the alcohol. Depression turned outward, refined into fury. She hated him right now.

  15

  Ford could feel his knuckles swelling. He hadn’t hit anyone in a while, not with a closed fist, and he had forgotten the damage it could do to your hand.

  Bitch.

  She had to push him, just had to do it.

  He cut down the dirt road through the trees heading toward the harbor. He should have grabbed a pint before leaving, and then he could just sit on the bench on the hill and look at the lights on the sea. Think. But he couldn’t even pick anything up now—liquor stores were closed because of the holiday. He shouted out, “Fuck!” and his voice echoed back to him, empty.

  Why had she gone and made him hit her? She just never knew when to keep her mouth shut. Making him look foolish, siding with Cybil. Norman. Pathetic little Norman. Maybe he shouldn’t have hit her, but you don’t do that—you don’t side with someone else against your husband, not in front of them. It was a matter of pride. Made you look disloyal. Sure, maybe if she wanted to talk about it later, in private, share her side. Sure. He would have listened. He was reasonable. But not in front of people. Not in front of Cybil. Not in front of the mirror.

  The mirror.

  What had been in the fucking mirror? He kept catching it from the corner of his eye. There, then gone, and then he’d look back and it would be there again. The same face. Older. Not his. Or not really. It was distorted. Dark, empty eyes. There for a second, then gone. Only if he stared directly into the mirror, kept staring, did it keep it gone. His mind playing tricks on him. Had to be. Booze. And anxiety just being around Cybil. All the memories.

  He hated Cybil, hated his whole family. As soon as he heard she was coming, he knew there would be trouble. Always was. Couldn’t mind her own fucking business. They had a nice, quiet, happy little life here, and then there was Cybil. “Let’s invite them for Thanksgiving,” Diana had said. And Ford had felt like clapping his hands together. Why yes! Let’s! Let’s just invite my whole fucked up family into our lives so they can fuck up ours, too! Didn’t she see that there was a reason he had left them? All of them? Was she that fucking stupid? That was Diana’s problem—she was stupid. Maybe book smart, a little, but when it came to life, she was just fucking stupid. Dumb as a bucket full of rocks. She didn’t understand people. Not a slither of insight. She didn’t see the … big … picture. I adopt her kid, save her from her fucked-up family, move her to an upscale island, set her up in a beautiful home, with a house that would probably go for, what? Four hundred, maybe even as much as five on the market, and she has to turn around and embarrass me in front of my fucking sister? Really, Diana? Then she turns me into the bad guy, provoking me to the point where I lose control—just for a second—and hit her. Never would have happened if she hadn’t provoked me.

  I am not my father.

  Never will be.

  The harbor was empty, and the crests of the waves white in the moonlight. The sky so bright above. He loved the winter skies, better down here with so many fewer lights on the ground, the open sea all around. That’s what he could have done—just brought out his telescope, taken a few deep breaths, relaxed. Smoked a cigarette, and had a few more drinks until he got tired enough to sleep, put it all behind him.

  Or he could kill himself.

 
The thought, the voice, entered his head and hung there for a second, thin like a whisper.

  Kill himself. Quick, painless. A hose in the exhaust, the driveway in the dark. And make them see. Pay. They’ll be sorry, someone said, a distant voice—not quite a man’s and not quite a woman’s, just very old, timeless—that felt like a nibble at the inside of ear. A painful small biting.

  Sorry, it said, they will be sorry.

  Make them sorry.

  Ford shut his eyes, took a breath. No. That wasn’t him. He wasn’t sure where that was coming from, but that wasn’t him. He didn’t think that way. Thinking that way meant defeat. Not him. He would decide how things would end. His terms. No retreat. No, he just needed a few more drinks. Forget about them. Cybil. Diana. Samantha. That was what started it all. Samantha. The little shit. How many times had he told her not to touch the dolls? For chrissakes. He wasn’t an asshole—he would buy her a fucking doll, get her one for Christmas. An expensive one. He had just asked her not to touch the china dolls. Who knew how much money they were worth? And she wouldn’t have done it except she knew she could get away with it because Diana would let her. That was the story. Always the same story.

  Spoiling the kid rotten, letting her get away with everything. She would be a good kid—he loved her—if there was someone to say no to her once in a while, set some limits, have some rules. The way it was now, you said no to her once, and she got that look on her face, starting to shake and then starting to cry, her nose, her whole face, blowing up like a balloon. You would think you just beat the hell out of her the way she responded, and all for what? For saying no? Because she couldn’t hear it. The kid had no idea how good she had it either. Didn’t know what it was like to grow up with a son of a bitch for an old man, the things he did. She thought hearing the word no was bad? How about being four years old and hearing a three-hundred-pound fat fucker’s fist come cracking into the side of your head? Didn’t know what that was like, did she?

  She was lucky to have him. Both of them were. They just didn’t see it.

  They don’t see it.

  Show them.

  No, he thought. Drunken thoughts. Stupid. How many times did he think/plan something stupid while drunk, and then wake up just to realize how stupid and foolish it was? Happy he didn’t do it. How many times had he thanked God he didn’t follow through with something stupid while drunk, wasting his pride? Calling Tara. Calling Big Daddy.

  Putting a gun to your head.

  He tripped on the hill. Coming down hard on the frozen earth, skinning his palm as he reached out to break his fall. He cursed once, and then found his feet. Cuts always hurt more in the cold. He made a fist, attempting to squeeze out the pain, and then warmed his palm against his jeans. Maybe it would be better to turn and go home, he thought. Maybe he was drunker than he realized. He’d fall again, hit his head, and then that would be it—he’d freeze to death out here. And then she’d be sorry.

  Sorry.

  16

  The wind came in raw and cold off the water as Diana and Sam hurried down the hill above Sunset Pond. Most of the harbor was empty, the water a black mass in the dark—the boats stored for the winter, and just a few still in their slips, rocking gently in the wind—but she could see the lights of the ferry moving in the distance.

  She wasn’t looking to catch the ferry—not just yet. She couldn’t leave the island without at least a few more of their things, but she couldn’t stay in the house and wait until he got home either. She wasn’t sure if he had taken the whole weekend off. He didn’t like to tell her when he did, but the big rush was coming—Christmas—and she knew the PO discouraged the employees from taking time off this time of year. And if he were working, maybe they could go back then and get a few more things and go for good. Maybe. Right now they just needed to get away, even if just for a few days, think things through before making any sort of life-altering move. Stay somewhere downtown while she made a decision. She took Samantha’s hand as they started down the worn path that cut across the brown grass of the hill.

  She could hear a buoy clang in the distance, the whitecaps riding in from the sea. The little girl had her scarf up over her face, but she was awake now and talking. Always talking. And Diana nodded, quick yes’s and no’s. Samantha carried her doll—Louie, raggedy dreadlocks and bald in some spots, one lazy eye—by the foot, its head bouncing off the ground as they went.

  They cut up the street toward the Wesley Hotel, across from the wharf, the rose and hydrangea bushes that ran the length of the front porch promenade so colorful in the summer, now all wilted, dead. Brittle and hollow. But it was Thanksgiving weekend, and she was hoping that maybe the hotel opened up at least partially—there had to be guests on the island for the holiday, and the rates would be much cheaper than in season—and maybe they could get a room. A big place was better—the employees less concerned, more apt to let you be. It might not be like that at a bed-and-breakfast, she figured.

  The Wesley was the last of the grand hotels from the nineteenth century. At one point there had been several—the Highland House, the Pawnee House, the Sea View—but the others had all burned at one point or another. Even the Wesley had been set afire by its founder, Augustus C. Wesley, for insurance reasons, but he had been caught. Tried, convicted, tainted. The hotel was repaired, and climbed back up out of the earth to overlook the sea. Augustus, she had heard, was actually a French Canadian cook with the last name of Goupee but he changed his name to Wesley for subliminal reasons to attract the business of the Methodists; the founder of Methodism was named John Wesley.

  They walked along the promenade, the floorboards of the porch creaking beneath them. You could taste the salt in the air, and the wind blew their hair across their faces. There was a light on outside the front door, and a bell clanged somewhere up ahead. The Wesley climbed five stories, four fronted with porches, and stairs climbing between, the top of the building surmounted by an enclosed Victorian turret. Shingled. In the summer, at any time, morning or night, you could come by and see guests of all walks of life—young couples, old, tourists in T-shirts and shorts, and bikers with big bellies and leather, children—rocking in the chairs, lining the porches, but now there was no one. Diana stepped to the front door, Samantha close to her side, and cupped her eyes to peer through the window, hoping to see someone, anyone. A dim light was on, and she could see the sitting area by the front desk. The round stone fireplace against the far wall, and all the furniture. The chairs all wingbacked and framed in wood, and the small round tables with curved, ornamental legs. Lifted from the late nineteenth century and set down here in 1994. Everything dark. Diana rang the bell.

  She had never stayed at the hotel, but she had stopped inside once with Sam during the good weather. Got a Coke from the bar, and took a seat in the lobby on the claw-footed maroon sofa and pretended they were guests. Just for a few minutes, watching the real guests pass by on the promenade. They had just come from Illumination Night—the lighting of the Chinese lanterns throughout Trinity Park. Every porch on every gingerbread house was decked with the paper lanterns, and a band played inside the tabernacle, a chorus of singers; the music carried across the night. It was evening, but still very hot, and the lobby was cool but bustling with people, life. Guests, and maids, and bellboys. A family had come by, the parents not much older than Diana, with two children in tow. Everyone tan from the beach. The father carrying the smallest of the children, a boy sleeping with his head on his shoulder, while the mother whispered to the girl, smiling. And the sight of them had made Diana happy at the time. It was what the island was about. Should be. And the night had been wonderful, Samantha had her face painted by an artist outside the tabernacle, and now she was a Dalmatian, a long red tongue painted over her chin. She sipped her Coke, and babbled on about a turtle they had seen down by Sunset Pond. His name, she said, was Sweetie Pie.

  Now Diana rang the bell one more time. She was about to turn, to start back down the promenade when she saw movemen
t at the desk. First just a shadow. And then the muted image of a man as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, his hand reaching over the guest ledger with a pen, and scribbling something. A name or a date. The figure becoming clearer, but bent over the ledger as he was, she couldn’t see his face. Bald on top, with a thin peninsula of hair climbing out toward his forehead. Diana focused, her heart picking up, rang the bell again, and tapped upon the glass of the door. The man didn’t appear to have heard her, so she tapped one more time. And then he looked up. He wore a long walrus mustache, and bow tie and vest. He stared at Diana a moment, and then he put down the pen and came around the side of the desk, marching toward her, the door. His stride so pronounced, angry and quick, that she took a step back, bracing herself for the confrontation. But then as soon as he was there, he was suddenly gone. The door never opened. Diana looked inside one more time, but there was no one at the desk, no one in the lobby. It was completely silent, empty. It was impossible. The man had been there, she was sure of it. He had stared right at her.

  17

  July 7, 1871

  Hiram has taken to his bed. It has been four days now, the curtains drawn. He is not taking food. I would like to believe that he is in communion with the Lord, silently, at prayer, perhaps searching, perhaps repenting, but I do not know that to be the case. It has happened before, and when it does, I’m not sure there is anyone left inside of him to commune with anybody at all. Certainly not with me. Nor am I in any state to let him with the way things have gone.

  He took to his bed the day immediately after the incident on the wharf. His rage had gone on for hours, straight into the night, and he destroyed much of our china.

  And one of the dolls—its head broken on the hearth.

  Hiram used to bring me back a doll each time he went away, traveling to Boston, but it has been more than a year since he returned with one. Better days. During his rage he also destroyed a crystal vase my father had bought us for our wedding, and a picture I kept hanging on the wall in the back parlor. The picture was of a woman in the snow, walking across the Long Wharf in Boston. I had saved my money and bought the picture in a gallery near Boylston Street not long before I moved down to the island to be with Hiram. It reminded me of the city, reminded me of home, and I think deep down that is the reason he destroyed it. He has said, many times, it was improper—a woman walking about the city by herself, especially near the waterfront—suggestive of her intentions, and he repeated these words as he screamed. Intentions! These words and many more he should never repeat, and probably will not when the Devil leaves his soul. I pray he will not repeat them. Hiram has told me, in moments of clarity, that the Devil can do more damage, quickly and severely, to the soul of a good man than that of a common man when he gets him in his grip because there is that much more to ruin, that much more to compromise and pollute, and I fear he may be right. I have seen him angry often, but never as angry as this. It will be some days before I myself go out in public, before I can let the people of the campgrounds see me. There would be too many questions, too much concern, and people are already having difficulty understanding a man as complicated as Hiram.