In the Midst of the Sea

by Sean McCarthy

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “What?”

  “Have you ever hit Cybil?”

  Norman grinned. “Are you kidding? She’d kill me.”

  They passed an old whaling church. Early mid-nineteenth century. Greek Revival. The enormous white pillars, and the clock tower high above. It was a beautiful church, solid and proud, and it was amazing to think it had stood here so long. Voices were coming from inside now, singing. And the sound of organ keeping time. The voices sounded to be soft at first, gradually growing louder. And then the voice of a man rising above them, a man shouting, and then again the singing. All seeming distant somehow, thin. It startled Diana for a moment as there were very few cars parked out on the street, none in front of the church. She stopped and looked at the doors, sealed tight. She could picture the captains, the crewmen, and their wives passing through them, way back when, and the minister offering comfort to the families in times of grief, disaster, or just voyages gone too long. Diana had read once that Herman Melville’s inspiration for Ahab was a sea captain from Martha’s Vineyard. Captain Pease. She wondered if it were true. The name was still everywhere on this island, even a street here named after him.

  “I wonder what’s going on in there,” she said to Norman.

  “In where?” Norman asked.

  “The church,” she said.

  Norman just shrugged. “I don’t think anything is. It looks closed.”

  “I know,” Diana said, “but with the singing, I mean.”

  “Singing?”

  She hesitated, looked at his eyes. Trying to determine if he was having her on. He wasn’t the type to do that much, but you never knew. He might have wanted to make a joke, spook her a little and lighten the mood.

  Diana swallowed her breath. “The singing. The singing from inside.”

  Norman shook his head. “I’m not hearing it. Maybe somebody has a CD playing somewhere. You must have dog hearing though because mine is pretty good. At least it used to be. I’m not getting any younger though.”

  Diana turned back to the church again, but the singing was growing quieter, more distant, and then from the corner of her eye she thought she saw a man walking around the side of the church. Tall with stooped shoulders, head down and dressed in black. But as soon as she looked he was gone. No one there. Just a few dried leaves being blown across the brick walkway, one clinging to the old lamppost. A lamppost they had once filled with whale oil.

  19

  August 15, 1871

  Hiram addressed the community from the pulpit today. Asking the Reverend Hightower if he could share a word at the end of the service. “The Spirit will speak when the heart is open, Reverend,” Hiram said to him, “and are we not all part of the service? All one body in the eyes of the Lord?”

  The reverend was hesitant. I could see it in his eyes, and his words in response came slowly, in a whisper meant only for Hiram, before he took a seat on the stage beside the pulpit. his arms folded, and his head bent forward, eyes shut and lips pursed, as if in engaged in heavy thought or prayer. Hiram used to address the congregation quite regularly, preaching the word, but now it has been some time, and today he wasted little time. He read from the Book of Genesis—“Then the Lord rained brimstone and fire on Sodom and Gomorrah, from the Lord out of the heavens. Turning the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah into ashes, condemned them to destruction, making them an example to those who afterward would live ungodly.”

  “How do we all find ourselves with the Lord this week?” Hiram asked.

  There were a few shouts, one or two hallelujahs, and a woman up front swooned a bit, and cried out for Jesus.

  “Yes,” Hiram repeated, “Hallelujah.” And then he shouted it. He shut the book. “Will we find ourselves in his paradise one day?” he asked. “Or will lose ourselves in Sodom? Gomorrah? Rained upon by brimstone and fire? Brimstone and fire,” he repeated. “Would the Lord do this again? Brimstone and fire? I tell you he will. And why?” he asked the crowd. “Why would he punish his minions in such severe, unforgiving measures? Well, why did he before? The answer is right there, in need of little to no interpretation. It is because the people of the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah had turned ungodly, and he wished, he needed, to make an example of these wretched souls, so that those who came after would fear to live so ungodly. So that other people, other cities, would not fall to the same temptations.

  “The same temptations that man falls for today!”

  Hiram held the book high in his right hand. “Some people forget,” he said, “and others … merely choose not to listen. They choose to scorn the Lord, to live as they please, and not as he pleases. And we, my friends, need to look no further than our own Wesleyan Grove.”

  “You need not try and convince me that not all the souls who perished in the fires of these two cities were guilty of the crimes—lust, fornication, adultery, murder, theft, and sodomy being just a few—but they all were guilty of one thing.” Hiram paused, and when he resumed his speech, he started to shout. “They all were guilty of turning their back on the Lord! They all were—at least, and I do say at least—guilty of turning the other way while their fellow man, their fellow citizens, engaged in debauchery! And I say to you, all of you here today, a sea of faces, a sea of eyes, floating before me, some bored, some enthralled, and some annoyed, that you, too—I, too—will be just as guilty as the non-sinning souls of Sodom and Gomorrah, if we continue to sit idly by while the Devil continues to build his playland by the sea! Sin City! It will be on all of us! And the Lord God will call us all to answer!”

  With this a few of the people stood—one being Dr. Mortimer from the town of Concord, along with his wife, and one being Mr. Wendell, who runs the livery over in Edgartown—and took their leave of the tabernacle, ignoring Hiram as he continued to shout. Even the family of Thomas Mayhew took leave, and with that, the others followed, the entire tent began to empty, out of the shade, and into the sun. The service for them was over.

  “And when he calls,” Hiram yelled, “his justice will be swift, and his justice will be without mercy! You can either take a stand as a soldier of the Lord, or you can frolic in this world and burn in the next! You can turn your back on me, but you cannot turn your back on the Lord! You cannot forsake Him! For it is He who speaks through me!”

  In the end, I was left in the audience with only two other souls—Mrs. Stephens and her nephew, but now the nephew lay flat on the ground, staring at the beams of the roof high above us.

  20

  Diana didn’t want to call Charlotte, but she had no other choice. She needed somewhere to go, at least for now, and as kind as Norman and Cybil’s offer was, she couldn’t intrude upon them indefinitely like that. It wouldn’t be fair, and there was still something about it that didn’t feel right. Cybil was her friend, but she was still Ford’s sister. And even in the worst of circumstances, that always meant something—blood was thicker than water, wasn’t it? And besides, if she did go with them, Ford would know right where to find her. He might figure she had gone back to her mother’s, too, but he wouldn’t go there looking for her. Wouldn’t dare. He would look for her at Cybil’s.

  For now they were spending another night at the bed-and-breakfast, and Samantha was downstairs by the fire with Norman and Cybil, playing a game. The Muppet Show board game. Norman had stopped in the toy store down on Circuit Avenue on the way home and bought it for her.

  Diana stared at the phone, trying to gather the courage to call. She had told herself she’d never go back. Promised. She didn’t want to risk having Samantha near her brother Stephen in the event that anything Ford had accused him of was even remotely close to true, but also she had too much pride. Going back meant defeat. Victory for her mother. “I knew you’d come around to my way of thinking”—she wouldn’t say it, but it would be there. Victory harbored in those otherwise empty eyes, and then again she would have Diana under her thumb. There was too much water under the bridge: The fighting about Ford, the
nightmare with Stephen. The lies, delusions. Rejection of her friends, boyfriends, her mouth washed out with soap when she was young—dirty words, filthy mouth—and face dunked, held, in the font full of holy water that her mother kept beneath the painting on the Blessed Mother in the parlor. The beating she had taken at four years old when she was showing her friend Emily the hole in her yellow bathing suit. “Show you my hole,” she had said. Her mother had heard, lost her mind. Filthy. She remembered not even knowing what she had done wrong. It was just a hole in her bathing suit. Then of course Billy, the end of her dream to go away to school. Her pregnancy.

  Her pregnancy. The memory of it all probably scorched more than any of the others. The family meeting, the following exile to her uncle’s house in Connecticut, Charlotte’s call to the college, St. Elizabeth’s, to tell them that Diana would not be attending, and her whole life taking a sudden detour. It had just been the beginning of a quick ride downhill. Things could never be right with her mother. She knew that.

  She stared at the phone again. Go back? How could she go back? Crawling. That’s what she was doing. Pathetic. It would kill her but she had to do something, she was stuck, had to think of Samantha. Couldn’t let the little girl grow up around that kind of violence if Ford kept it up. Or worse become a victim herself. Just a few weeks, she told herself, at tops a couple months. She could handle that, she told herself, would have to. What other choice did she have?

  The room she was in had a window overlooking Ocean Park in the distance, lit from the lampposts. The room was pretty. Lace curtains, a queen-size bed, a mirrored armoire against the far wall—a scrolled top and clawed feet—and a pitcher and wash basin just outside the bathroom door. There were a few prints in the room, tasteful: one of the harbor at what was once known as Holmes Hole, now Vineyard Haven; one of old Edgartown, horses and buggies in the street, and a man carrying an armful of firewood up the hill to his home above the sea; and the third an old portrait of a handsome-looking man with a high collar and goatee. Black hair and dark eyes. Eyes that almost seemed to reflect the vastness of immortality, of God and the sea, staring back at Diana as she dialed the phone, piercing into her soul.

  She hoped her father would answer, hoped that she could talk to him first.

  He did not.

  Charlotte picked up.

  Diana’s tongue froze.

  “Hello,” Charlotte said. “Hello.” She was about to hang up, Diana could feel it, when she finally pushed out the word.

  “Ma,” she said.

  Her mother was silent for a moment. And then she sighed. “I had a feeling it was you.”

  “I just figured I’d call to wish you a happy Thanksgiving,” Diana said. The house was creaking in the wind and the cold, and Diana thought she heard footsteps on the stairs. Muffled. And distant voices below. Samantha squealing, happy.

  “Oh, thank you,” her mother said. “Was it yesterday or the day before? I’m already losing track. This age thing.”

  “It was yesterday,” Diana said. Cybil had poured her a glass of wine, and Diana had brought it upstairs and drank half of it before calling. Getting up the nerve. Now she swirled it about in her glass, the thin red film coating the sides.

  “That’s right, it was yesterday,” Charlotte said. “Everyone was here. It was wonderful. We had three turkeys. Twenty-five pounds each.”

  Diana sipped. “What did you do with seventy-five pounds of turkey?”

  “We ate it,” Charlotte said. “Every last bit of it. It was a feast. Stuffing. Twice-baked potatoes. Stuffed mushrooms. Shrimp cocktail. Sweet potatoes. Seven different kinds of pie. Fresh cranberries I picked myself on Wednesday.

  Diana tried to ignore the remark. “How’s Grandma doing?”

  Charlotte sighed. Heavy. Dramatic. “Not very well. I think this is going to be her last year. Probably her last Christmas. She just doesn’t look very good, and she’s really in a great deal of pain. She’s suffering terribly, but you know her, she’s like me, never complains. It takes a strong woman to deal with everything she has to, and still never forget to smile, to continually spread her love of God and love of her family day after day. Not asking for help nor sympathy. Nothing. Some people can deal with the obstacles life places before us, the challenges, and some people just … can’t.”

  “Well, I hope she’s okay,” Diana said again.

  “I’m just afraid she’s riddled with cancer. Head to toe. Her color is just gray, absolutely gray.” She sighed. “I wish we had someone medical in the family.”

  “Well, I’m a nurse.”

  Charlotte was silent.

  “How’s Dad doing?” Diana asked.

  “Oh, he’s fine. Been doing a lot of reading.”

  “How about everyone else?”

  “Well, Bibi just was voted class valedictorian,” Charlotte said. “It was very exciting. The principal himself called to tell me.”

  “But she’s only a freshman,” Diana said. “They don’t usually do that until senior year.”

  “Well, he said she’s doing so well, it was unanimous. And I think it is just for the freshman class.”

  “That’s weird. I never heard of them picking it in November before.”

  Charlotte paused. “Well, like I said, it was unanimous, and I guess her grades are so good that she’s out there all alone. Away from the pack. We’re so proud of her.”

  “Well, it’s good she’s not flunking anymore.” Diana wondered where it all came from. Wondered if Charlotte actually thought about this stuff, believed it, or if the lies just slipped right off the tip of her tongue. Bibi had been held back in first grade, and then was pushed from one grade to the next, year after year.

  “Oh, that was just in elementary school. And you know what the school psychologist told me?”

  “What?”

  “He said that that was just because she was bored. All those subjects just didn’t interest her because she was too smart. Been there, done that. It couldn’t hold her interest.” Charlotte took a breath. “So now they have her taking advanced college courses. She’s studying at the level of a junior in college. Advanced placement. They say at this rate she’ll be able to get her bachelor’s and PhD, or doctorate if she chooses, within two years after high school. And then, who knows? The sky is the limit.”

  The conversation was quickly getting off-track, but it was better to just play along, you had to play along, and Diana figured if she were going to ask, she needed to ask quickly. Swallow her pride, get it over with. Tell Charlotte it would just be temporary. She would find a job, immediately. Pay for her their own food. Temporary.

  “Well, that’s fantastic,” Diana said. “Tell her I said congratulations.”

  “I will.” Charlotte took a deep breath. “And you’ll have to congratulate your brother, too.”

  “Which one?” Diana asked.

  “Stephen.” Charlotte paused, waited, but Diana didn’t respond. “He’s back in college. He’s going to Boston College.”

  “BC?” Diana said. Through the window she could see the lampposts of Ocean Park. The only lights out there in the night. She put her head in her hand. Why did it have to be like this? Crazy. Crazy before, crazier now. Charlotte’s delusional world building and building, a bubble expanding that was bound to explode. And what then? What would happen when it exploded?

  “Yes, Boston College,” Charlotte said. “He has a 4.0, and he’s doing so well that the dean has asked him to be a guest lecturer. It’s quite an honor. I guess they only ask one student from each class, and this year it was Stephen. He’s ecstatic. I can just picture him, walking building to building, in a tweed coat and smoking a pipe.”

  “Maybe,” Diana said, “but it wouldn’t be filled with tobacco.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Charlotte said.

  “Oh, come on, Ma,” Diana said. She couldn’t hold back anymore. It was too much. “The kid’s not a college lecturer, he’s an addict.”

  “An addict?”

>   “A drug addict, Ma. You know this. Crack, heroin, you name it.”

  “Stephen has been drug-free for almost a year.”

  “Oh, please, Ma, he has no interest in getting clean.”

  “Diana, you haven’t even seen him in how long now? Two years? I’m not going to talk to you if you’re going to speak to me this way.”

  “Of course not, because you can’t face the truth.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I know you won’t.”

  “The problem with you, Diana, is you think you know everything. Always have. That and you’re selfish. And ever since you met … you met … that asshole, it’s just been worse. You know if you could just think of someone else for once, for once in your life, I think I would drop to my knees right out in the street and start saying the rosary. Is this why you called me? To insult me? The truth. Why don’t you tell me about the truth, Diana?”

  Diana heard the phone click, but it was some time before she took it away from her ear. She didn’t want to move, didn’t think she could, and she wondered if she had ever before felt so alone, helpless. She wondered where you went when even your own mother turned her back on you. The one person in the world who was supposed to always look out for you, protect you. Gone. The wind was louder outside, rattling the panes of the glass on the windows. The sea looking to come closer, to be let in. On an island like this, it was always looking to be let in. The sea owned the island, and the people who inhabited it, and there was always a need to remind them of that. If she wanted it, them, they were hers. Diana looked back at the portrait of the man on the wall. Eyes so dark and empty, and somehow still watching.

  21

  In the morning with Samantha still sleeping, Diana snuck downstairs to get a cup of tea. She had fallen asleep in her clothes the night before, and now in her stocking feet, she passed Cybil and Norman’s room. The door was shut, the only noise, Norman’s muffled snores. It was just before seven, and the entire house was quiet. Diana peeked outside. It looked as if it would be a nice weather day, the dark blue of the night sky beginning to lighten, and the rising sun springing forth from the sea. She turned into the parlor, heading toward the dining room to look for some tea—she had seen the breakfast serving dishes set up in there the night before—and then stopped, glancing back toward the stairs, thinking she heard something. Samantha? But, no, the house was quiet again. Nothing. She started forward and as she did she jumped. There was a man sitting in the parlor with his feet up, reading, a mug of coffee in hand. She hadn’t seen him at first—would have sworn there was no one there—but now he, too, jumped, spilling a bit of coffee over the arm of the chair.