In the Midst of the Sea
Page 28
“Listen,” she said, “you’re getting yourself all going. We should stop. If your friend is down there, you can’t just leave him down there.”
“I know.” Another kiss. “I was thinking maybe we don’t have to.”
Diana stopped. “What?”
“I was thinking maybe we could invite him up.”
She didn’t pull away. Didn’t look at him. She didn’t want to look at him. “Invite him up for what?”
“You know, to fool around a little.”
“You’re kidding me, right? You’re joking.”
“Come on,” he whispered, “kissing her neck again. She still hadn’t moved. “Just this one time. He’s a nice guy. I think it will be fun. He needs something. It’s been like forever for him. I think it’s been ten years or something like that. I feel wicked bad for him.”
She did draw back now, pulled her arms away from him, and looked him in the eye. “You’re not serious.”
“Just this once. If you don’t want to have sex with him, maybe you can just do fellatio on him.”
Diana nodded. “Fellatio?”
“Yeah.”
Diana’s thoughts had stopped racing, her mind blank, fury rising. “And what are you going to do?” She could tell by his eyes he was trying hard to focus. Blank eyes. Automatic pilot.
“I can just watch, I suppose,” he said. “I’d kind of like that. Or I can do you while you’re doing him, you know? Like all three of us—I can get you from behind. All the attention will be on you, two guys making love to you at once, worshipping you—I think it would be really cool.”
Diana nodded again. “Yeah, unbelievably cool. Who wouldn’t want that—with you and Al? You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”
“Come on, you’re my princess. One little favor. He’s waiting downstairs. I told him I’d come talk to you. He’s a nice guy—he didn’t want to impose—”
“Well, God forbid,” she said. “I wouldn’t want him to think he was imposing.”
“But I told him you probably wouldn’t mind. I said it wouldn’t be a big deal. I told him you’re great at it. He’s like been going crazy it’s been so long. He hasn’t had a girlfriend since he was like in his twenties.” Ford leaned forward again, but she moved out of reach. Stood up, stepped away from him. She needed to be away from him. Far.
“You’re crazy,” she said. “You are really crazy.”
He sighed. “You owe me.”
“What … the hell … do … I … owe … you … for? For cooking for you? Waiting on you? For kissing your ass just so you don’t blow a gasket and bust up the house every time you get pissy?”
“You owe me for when your brother was down,” he said. She could already hear his tone changing, the sugary sweetness draining. “I was really hospitable.”
She nodded. “So you think that means I should blow your friend? Nice, Ford, that’s real nice.”
“Well, there’s more to it than that Diana, and you know it. And you know what I’m talking about.”
“No, Ford. I don’t. If your friend needs a blow job that bad, then I suggest you go take care of it yourself. Show your humanitarian side, Ford. Go suck him off. What’s the big deal?”
“Don’t lie to me, Diana. I know.”
“Know what?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“No, I don’t, Ford. I have no idea. And I really don’t want to.”
He sneered. “Your little painter friend? Listen, I never ask anything from you—never—and I practically saved you from your family. Saved Samantha from your brother. Gave you guys this beautiful house, a nice place to live. I wouldn’t think this was such a big deal. You like sex. How do you know you wouldn’t like it with two guys at once? You should at least give it a try.” He raised his hands. “Then if you don’t like it, fine. Never again. I won’t even mention it.”
“You can keep your fucking house, Ford. I’m done.” She started toward her dresser, antennae up. Waiting, expecting, to feel him move. She’d have to be ready. Dodge him. Grab Samantha. Out the door. But first she needed clothes. Just something to change into. Couldn’t go running into the night, the cold, in her nightgown. She’d look like a lunatic. Maybe if she kept talking, quietly arguing, he wouldn’t act yet. Might think he still had a chance of convincing her. Then she could move quickly. But no, if he saw her getting her clothes, he would know she was going. She had to go.
“You’re being a bitch,” he said.
“And you’re unbelievable.”
“No,” he said, pointing at her. “You’re unbelievable. I’m the one trying to make this marriage work.”
She spun around. Ford was still on the bed. Looking faintly blue in the moonlight. “I can see that.” She flicked on the light switch. Everything instantly bright, hard, real. Ford blinked a couple times, eyes adjusting. “Asking me to suck off your friend,” she said. “You really go above and beyond.”
“This is about more than a blow job and you know it, Diana.”
“I do. Maybe you should become like a marriage counselor or something, Ford. Maybe you missed your calling.”
“You’re sucking off everyone else.” He was getting louder. “You don’t think I know?”
Diana stopped. He thought she was cheating, and if he thought that, there was no going back. Not tonight, probably not ever—she knew him too well. He wouldn’t let her live it down, wouldn’t let her forget it. And what had she done? Nothing. A cup of coffee, sitting for a painting, nothing. She gazed at the door, just beyond Ford, measured the distance. She needed to get out the door, get Samantha. Go. He wouldn’t hit her in front of his friend—at least she didn’t think so—it was important to Ford for his friends to think he was wonderful. Think he suffered. A cold, selfish wife. He was the victim. She opened her drawer, grabbed a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt.
“You’re drunk,” she said.
“Well, maybe I am. I don’t deny that. But I’m also forgiving. At least I can be. Come on,” he said, his voice softening. “Please.”
Everything flooded in upon her then. Everything from the past three years, since she first met him, and from before. High school, her dreams, her mother, and then her pregnancy. And then Ford. Leaping from the fire to the frying pan. People like him who waited in the woods, the lurch. Predators. Picking you up when you were down, comforting you, just so they could knock you down themselves. She thought of their first dates. His crying, then hers. Opening his door to let them move in; they needed to move in. And then, subtle, quiet insults, dishes thrown, shattering against the kitchen wall, and tantrums over things out of place. The back of his hand against her cheek or a fist in the ribs, falling back and knocking her head. And control. Control. It had always been about control. Slowly acquiring more and more, isolating her on an island, until she was what? What did he expect her to be?
What did he expect?
There was someone in the room with them then. She could feel it. Someone. And a voice. Soft and distant. “Run,” it said.
Ford must have heard it, too, for he startled a bit. Looked around quick. But then he composed himself, and patted the edge of the bed again. “You’re so beautiful that I just want to share you. Just this once. I promise. Things will be good.”
Good.
Diana took a deep breath, struggling not to cry. “You know something, Ford?”
“What?”
“You can go to hell.”
She grabbed her clothes and pocketbook, and she headed out the door. She heard him stand up from the bed.
“Diana,” he said. “Stop.”
“I’m done, Ford,” she said, “It’s over.” But she didn’t turn back. She went to Samantha’s room. The girl was already awake, sitting up in bed. Diana grabbed her coat and shoes, and swept her up in her arms. Ford was in the hallway now, the threshold to their bedroom.
“Diana,” he said; he was starting to get loud. “You leave again, you better not bother coming back.”
“You better not embarrass me like this,” he said, “not in front of my friend. We can drop it right now, everything. I’m willing to let it go. The whole thing.”
“Me, too, Ford,” she said. “The whole thing. That’s what you don’t get.” He bumped the two of them with his chest. Diana staggered backward a bit. She looked down to see Al, standing at the bottom of the stairs. Ford knew he was there, too. Diana ducked with Samantha, pushed by Ford, moving toward the stairs.
He tried to step in front of them again. “Don’t push me, Diana. I mean it. I’m not fucking around this time.”
“Neither am I, Ford,” she said, covering Sam’s head with her hand just in case he did strike out at her. But he didn’t. Not with Al watching. Instead he just glared, whispered the word stop under his breath, and then she pushed past him one last time. Ford stepped quickly, one last move, but then something happened. Something was there, something he couldn’t see and neither could she, blocking his way, and he couldn’t move any farther. Diana turned once to see the look of bewilderment—and something else, fear?—cross over his face, and then he took a step back, and Diana kept going.
“Diana!” he yelled, and then when she didn’t answer, he started to scream, his voice rising behind them, calling her a bitch and shouting, “Run to your little boyfriend, you no good fucking cunt!” Diana picked up her pace, and nearly ran over Al as she reached the bottom. He looked both drunk and confused. Face flushed, he smiled a little, uncomfortable. He looked up the stairs.
“He okay?” he asked Diana as she reached the landing.
“No,” she said. “He’s not. I think he’s waiting for you.” Diana ran through the kitchen, grabbing her coat, and out the back door. Ford had grown louder, his language more obscene. Diana could picture him. Red in the face, shaking, sweating.
They crossed the dirt road, and started across the cemetery and when she turned back, she could see the yellow square of light in their bedroom. A shadow inside, a shadow that must have been Ford, standing at the window and watching them take flight.
43
Sunset pond glistened in the moonlight below them. Diana carried Samantha halfway down the hill, encouraged her to walk, and then carried her again. Samantha clung to her tight. Diana was afraid to turn around. If she turned around and saw him, she would freeze up, knowing that was it—she could never outrun him carrying the little girl. Samantha buried her head into Diana’s shoulder.
“I saw him again,” Sam whispered.
“Saw who, honey?” Diana asked.
“The man with the bushy face.”
“Sam, honey, there is no man with a bushy face.”
“Yes there is.” Sam started to cry.
Diana wondered what they were doing to her. She knew how powerful stress could be, could make you hear things, see things—she had learned that during her psych rotation. It could have an impact on everything. That was what PTSD was all about, stress of the past controlling the mind, controlling everything. And maybe that’s what it was doing, to both of them. Or maybe it was in fact just what Michael had talked to her about. Imprints. Maybe they were just seeing imprints.
Nothing ever really dies, nothing ever really goes away.
“Sam? How many times have you seen him? The man with the bushy face?”
“Maybe seven.”
Diana nodded. “Seven.”
“Yeah, once in your room when you were getting dressed, standing in your underwear. And once when you were in the kitchen having a cup of tea, he was in the dining room, sitting in the almost dark.” Diana felt the hairs on her body again standing on end, everything on alert, senses heightened. Smells, sounds—noises, faint and distant, upstairs—and something else. Something she couldn’t put her finger on. An awareness. Eyes watching. They weren’t alone. She was sure of it.
“And a couple few days ago, I saw him in the room at the back of the house,” Sam continued, “staring out the window. And a wicked long time ago, he was in the graveyard. Remember you were chasing me?”
Diana remembered. Chasing her. November. She thought she had lost her. And then the man in the distance, watching them. Solid and real, and then suddenly gone.
“You’ve seen him a lot, then, huh?” Diana asked.
Samantha nodded.
“And I bet he seems really real, to you, doesn’t he?”
“He is real,” Samantha said, “because if he wasn’t he would be like a dream.”
“Well in a way,” she said, “he is kind of like a dream, I think. You can see him, but he can’t see you because he’s not really there. Not anymore.”
“But I saw him there.”
“I know you did, sweetie. I believe you. But what you’re seeing is like a picture, or a movie. When you watch a movie, you can see the people in it, but they can’t see you back, because it’s just a recording. A recording of pictures. That’s all the man is. I think he’s just a recording of someone who lived here once a long time ago, but doesn’t live here anymore. He’s been gone a long time, and he’s not really there. It’s just like a movie. So even though you can see him, he can’t see you, and he can’t ever hurt you.”
“I know,” Sam said. She wiped at her eye. “Cassie said she’s not going to let him. And she’s not going to let Daddy.”
Diana passed the Wesley Hotel, the lights all still down, not yet open for the season, but she didn’t want to look up at it. Was afraid to see shadows on the porch, movement in the windows. Afraid to see anything she didn’t want to see. There was only a slight breeze, but she could hear a buoy clanking somewhere on the water. She took a left at the Island Theatre, and started up Circuit Avenue.
She thought about heading back to the bed-and-breakfast, but then decided against it. Michael wouldn’t be there—she was fairly certain he was still up in Boston—but the owner would, and how would she look at Diana now? Having gone back after what had happened before, and now fleeing in the middle of the night? A weak woman, a dependent woman. Stupid to have ever gotten involved with Ford to begin with, and stupider still for going back to him. The woman might not say anything, but Diana knew what she would be thinking. You’ll go back again. Your type always does.
No, it would be better to stay somewhere else. Stay for the night and develop a plan. Then leave the island completely. Tomorrow at the latest. And go where? Maybe to stay with Phillip? Frankie? Or if worse came to worst, back to her mother’s. Somewhere on the mainland, leaving the island behind. She started to cry. Fuck him, she thought. Fuck his house, and fuck this island.
Other than the streetlights, everything was dark, everything closed, but there was a light still on outside the pink inn at the top of the street. Diana tried the door, but it was locked, of course. She rang the buzzer, waited a moment, and then rang it again. Sam was back asleep now, her head on Diana’s shoulder. After a moment, Diana saw a shadow behind the desk, and then a man followed. Squinting at her, in his pajamas—striped pajamas circa 1955, she thought—but he looked real. Had to be real. Please be real, she thought. He opened the door, and looked her once over. Looked at Sam, sleeping in her arms.
“We’re not used to people checking in this time of night, especially this time of year,” he said, sounding somewhat suspicious.
“We weren’t planning on staying,” Diana said. “But we missed our ferry.”
The man blinked his eyes, adjusting to the light. Diana had seen him about the island. He was fairly young, maybe early thirties, and during the summer you would see him riding about on a skateboard, maneuvering in and out of the crowds, denim shorts and a Red Sox baseball cap. His hair was cropped short, a part on the side, and his right eye was lazy to the left. And he was real.
He stepped aside to let them in, and ran her credit card.
Ford would be able to trace the card, find out they had been here, but not until they had already come and gone.
“The place is pretty much empty,” the man said, looking up smiling. “So you can have your pick.”
Diana took a room on the top floor. Sloped ceilings, and a balcony that overlooked the street. Blue walls, and a four-poster bed. Antiques of blue-and-white china. She put Samantha on the bed and under the covers, took a seat herself, and slipped off her shoes. Her heart was still beating rapidly. She put her head in her hand. Feeling hopeless. Panic crawling over her skin. He wouldn’t find her here—probably wouldn’t bother to look yet—not tonight, but still she doubted she would sleep. It all seemed a blur now. Surreal. And what had Samantha said? Cassie won’t let him. Cassie. Elizabeth? Something had been there, she was sure of it. Something preventing him from going after them. The woman she had seen, thought she had seen, kneeling in the backyard, planting the tree? It wasn’t possible, but nothing else made sense anymore. She knew what she was seeing, as did Sam. Even if things had been good with Ford, she doubted she could go back to that house now. Whether it was Elizabeth or not, she couldn’t be sure, but she did know one thing—there was something, someone there.
Diana put on her coat, and went out to the balcony, pulling the door quietly shut behind her. The night air was cold, but it felt good, and she could see up and down Circuit Avenue, and beyond. Down to the docks, the bay—what had once been Lake Anthony. Everything seemed so still, props, and to a certain extent that’s all they were this time of year. Most of this street, most of this island. Empty homes, empty streets, empty restaurants, empty stores, and empty hotels. Everything waiting to be inhabited, waiting for life. It was no wonder the spirits lingered. They could take the island back for themselves—at least for seven to eight months a year—moving about unencumbered, unmolested, and few people would bother them. A separate community, she thought—just as Oak Bluffs, Cottage City had originally been meant to be—displaced from another time.