In the Midst of the Sea

by Sean McCarthy

  The boat moved closer. A Steamship Authority vessel. Forty-five minutes, and they would be back at Woods Hole. The mainland. Off the island. Off the sea. Calling Freddie. Away from Noepe. Forty-five minutes, she told herself, hurrying along—they just had to get there. In the summer months there would be a long line of cars on Ocean Avenue, along the boardwalk, and even bigger crowds of people, but now there was nobody. Nobody there. But then suddenly there was. A young couple strolling toward them. Arm in arm. The woman with a colorful hat and a parasol umbrella. A beautiful woman, with high cheekbones and red lips. And the man, slim, a long mustache. Light gray suit, and gray felt hat. He pulled out a pocket watch. Looked at the watch, and then at Diana.

  He smiled. “What was it Saint Augustine said? ‘What, then, is time? If no one asks me, I know what it is. If I wish to explain it to him, who asks, I do not know.’”

  “Please stay with us,” the woman said. “It would be so pretty to have you with us.”

  The horn blew loud on the steamship again, and Diana held Samantha’s hand tight, rushing forward. She wouldn’t let them divert her, stop her. Wouldn’t let them make her turn back. The couple turned to let her pass, eyes watching her curiously, but they faded before she reached them, and Diana picked Samantha up again, and once again began to run. They reached the Steamship Authority, and the birds cried out above them. Diana looked to her right, and the surf was crowded with bodies. All standing in shallow water, wading, all staring up at her. There were hundreds of them. The men dressed in striped one-piece swimming suits, and the women all in black, fully covered. Bathers. A schooner moved across the expanse behind them. There and then gone. They all were gone.

  Diana opened the glass door, and the warmth from inside flooded out upon the cold spring morning. Only one man was inside, perusing a paper inside the booth. Small glasses, and sparse white hair. Bright white fluorescent lights above him. Rates on the wall behind. Paper notices taped to the glass. He stared at her a moment, over his glasses.

  Diana looked at the clock on the wall. Six twelve a.m. The calendar in the booth. April 13th, 1995. 1995.

  “Two for Woods Hole,” Diana said.

  The man hesitated. Took a breath. Pushed a few buttons on the keyboard in front of him, ran his fingers across it. Then he leaned over into the microphone. “Round trip?” he said.

  Diana shook her head. “One way.”

  The man cleared his throat, sipped his coffee. Looked down at the ticket printing. “First boat of the day. Looks like the two of you should pretty much have it all to yourselves.”

  Diana looked out the window. The water now empty, as was the beach, and the boardwalk. No one. Just the breakers rising, white with sea foam, and the gulls, circling above. A white paper bag blowing down the beach. She pulled Sam closer, the little girl clinging to her hip.

  “Let’s hope so,” she whispered.

  Ford reached the bottom of the stairs, moving slowly, carefully. It was hard to move, anxiety stifling his thoughts, his limbs. He felt like he was balancing on a high wire. One small step. He took two more deep breaths. Just a cellar. Nothing more than a cellar. He heard water dripping in the well. And then he heard someone whisper from behind him. He froze. Silence. The dripping slower, louder. Was there someone behind him? How could there be anyone behind him? Diana had fled upstairs. Locked the door. There was no one behind him. He had to remind himself of that no one. He had to look. He couldn’t look. Couldn’t turn. Instead, he took another step forward. He needed something. Something heavy. He would break the whole door down. He didn’t care. Didn’t care anymore. Didn’t care.

  More whispering. He creates these problems all on his own.

  A hushing.

  Then another. Walks without the Lord. How in this day can he walk without the Lord?

  Ford felt his heart pound against the wall of his chest. Tricks. All just tricks. He shut his eyes a moment, too fearful to move any farther. Then the voice of his father.

  If the little fucker had stayed out of the bedroom, minded his own business, we wouldn’t have these problems.

  His father wasn’t here, he told himself. Couldn’t be here. Fat bastard was in a coma, or some shit like that. Ford had taken care of that. Seen to it. He had been a man, for once. And he could see him now, bleeding on the floor, eyes gone empty. There, then gone.

  No he wasn’t there. Had never been there. Not here. It was all in his head—the house? He was just under too much stress, too much anxiety, the fucking little bitch was going to give him a nervous breakdown. Or worse, a stroke. Probably what she wanted. What she was hoping. He would count to three, take another deep breath, and open his eyes.

  A rat squealed in the corner.

  Never any good, a man’s voice whispered. Blasphemy. Perversions.

  Then his mother’s voice, crying. Pleading for his father to stop. Ford could see her lying on the floor in their kitchen, half-in her nightgown, half-out, one loose breast sagging on the floor, and his father above, foot poised to kick her again. His mother had her arms up shielding her head. And a young Ford standing in the doorway.

  It will go forever, said another, this one a woman. Forever.

  We all are forever.

  Ford swallowed his breath. Why did Diana do this to him? She was doing this to him. She locked him down here. She knew he hated it down here. The little bitch. He just needed to get upstairs. A quick drink to calm his nerves. That was all he needed. All. He would leave for a few days, get his wits about himself.

  The man fancies himself a wit, a man’s voice whispered.

  His thoughts. Inside his head. How the fuck were they getting inside his head? Twisting his thoughts.

  No good, said someone, never any good. Self-pitying, pathetic. Never the proper upbringing. Never on … the straight and narrow.

  If we leave him alone, one said, how long can he last if we leave him alone?

  Well, obviously, said another, forever.

  Someone laughed.

  The patter of rat feet.

  And then the sound of a blow, fist, bone, connecting with flesh, bone.

  His mother crying.

  His father shouting.

  You little cocksucker.

  Can’t … mind … your … own … fucking … business.

  And then the voices were coming from everywhere. All talking at once. Feeling as if they would never stop. Going on forever. Talking so much that none were making sense. A cacophony of sounds, rising and smothering. Echoes. Racing toward him, and then swiftly past. Men, women, and children. Some he knew—siblings, teachers, neighbors, co-workers, Diana?—and some he did not. Let him do it, one said.

  Well he has to do it, said another.

  No choice.

  He can’t get out.

  Will never get out.

  The woman is gone.

  And so is the girl …

  “Stop it,” Ford said.

  But we’re not going anywhere.

  “Stop.”

  Not now.

  “Please.”

  Ever.

  Ford felt a rush of adrenaline shoot to his head. “Stop it!!”

  Ford opened his eyes. The room was silent again. No rats. No voices. Just the sound of the water in the well. The dull yellow light in the center of the room, everything else hidden in the shadows. Everything. No windows. No air. Everyone gone. The town practically empty. No way for anyone outside to possibly hear him. No one had ever been able to hear him. That was the problem. No one ever listened. If people had just fucking listened. His hands were shaking. None of it was real. He had to tell himself that. None of it. He had to just get upstairs, and they would leave him alone. Out of this house.

  Out.

  He stared at the photo on the wall across the room. The old wedding photo. Barely visible now in the shadows. The dust.

  He felt the hairs tingle on the back of his neck then. A shuffle on the floor. Too loud to be one of the rats. Footsteps. Slow, but moving closer. There was s
omeone behind him. He could feel it. Beyond a doubt. Not his imagination, not the house. Someone. He didn’t want to turn. If he turned he would see them, and that would make it real. If he saw them, it would all be real. His heart felt as if it had stopped, seized, his body, frozen in time. He didn’t want it to be real. If it wasn’t real, he could just leave the house, get on with his life. If he didn’t turn … But he had to turn. If he was going to get back upstairs, he had to turn. Footsteps again. Dragging a little, moving slowly across the floor. Closer. Ford swallowed his breath.

  When he turned his head she was standing less than three feet behind him. Young and beautiful and blue, her hair neatly pinned atop of her head and dripping wet from the well. A black dress and high collar. The faintest trace of a smile coursing her lips. In her hands she held a rope. And she was holding it out for Ford.

  48

  Diana and Sam ran up the gangplank, Diana holding her hand. The little girl’s nose was running, and her cheeks were flushed, her eyes tired. She kept asking where they were going after Freddie’s, if they were going back to live with Grandma, but Diana couldn’t give her a straight answer—she wasn’t sure where they were going. She would call Freddie like she planned, have him pick her up, and then she could figure something out. Staying with Phillip too long might be too close to home and Cybil? Even closer. And if and when Ford came looking, wouldn’t that be the first place he checked after Freddie’s? Diana stifled the sobs in her throat, still trying not to cry. But right now, none of it mattered. She just had to get away from here. Off the island. Get her head right. Sane.

  She stopped and reached into the pocket of her coat, her fingers worrying a small piece of paper. The folded paper—the one Michael had given her. Call anytime, he said, and if you’re ever in the area … need a place to stay. His apartment was big, two bedrooms.

  They climbed the stairs to the upper deck. The horn sounded again, and not a soul in sight. She heard the voice of the captain crackle over the intercom, announcing the destination, and she could picture the crew below, pulling in the ropes as the ferry moved away from the dock. The island. Diana wasn’t used to taking the ferry in the winter—just the warm weather—and the wind was biting, but biting right now was good; it just reaffirmed for her that they were still alive. They walked back to the stern of the ship—she wanted to see the island dwindle behind them as they moved away, make sure it dwindled, closure, safety—and she nearly stopped short in her tracks. Rows of long empty benches. Orange life preservers hanging against the iron stairs that led to the bridge. The painted white iron rails. And a man peering over the stern. Dark hair. Long blue wool coat, a peacoat, and his hands behind his back. No gloves, but the wool was good. Wool meant it was cold. Meant it was still April. 1995. And they weren’t the only passengers aboard after all.

  He turned nearly immediately taking them in, and he smiled. A tall man with dark eyes, beautiful eyes, and dark hair. Michael.

  He laughed. “I was beginning to think I was the only one on board,” he said. Laughter, she thought, joking, real. She wasn’t hallucinating. He was real. Her muscles immediately relaxed, her heart.

  “Just about,” she said. She was still trying to catch her breath, her heart racing. “I haven’t seen anyone else. I can’t believe it’s you.”

  She stepped close, carrying Samantha, but then her heart jumped again. The surf, down near the dock, was still cluttered with people from another time. Water lapping against them. All completely still, watching, and shrinking quickly as the boat moved away. The gorgeous elaborate mansions circling Ocean Park, the lampposts and gardens, the gazebo in the middle—band music, she could hear distant band music—and the boardwalk. Away, she thought, thank God they were moving away. And Michael was with them. He followed her gaze, looking down upon the water.

  “It’s such a beautiful island, even in the winter. Isn’t it?”

  Diana laughed a little herself, nervous. She was losing her mind. That’s what this whole thing was about. She was losing her mind. Now she was convinced. The people were there, and he was seeing nothing. She was losing her mind.

  “It makes me never want to leave,” he said.

  Never. She looked at him again, her mouth dry. “Michael, what year is it?”

  He furrowed his brow. Looked puzzled. “What?”

  “The year?” she said.

  “Nineteen ninety-five.” He smiled again. “What year did you think it was?”

  “Nineteen ninety-five?”

  “Yes, of course, it is. Are you okay? You don’t look very good.”

  “You don’t see them, do you?” she said.

  He looked perplexed. “See who?”

  “The ghosts,” she said. “Cluttering the water, down there by the shore, by the dock.”

  Michael looked back, but his face betrayed no response. “Well, the sea is always awash with spirits, isn’t it? It’s kind of what we talked about before. Time. Then. Now,” he said. “I mean if anyplace were haunted, I would think it would be the sea.” He smiled.

  Diana took a deep breath and then took a seat on the bench. The island already so small. The ocean a rush of gray in their wake, loud, lapping, the hum of the engine of the ship. A buoy clanging somewhere. She felt like she was going to cry again, but she didn’t want to cry, not in front of Michael, not in front of Sam. Not again. It was bad enough she was talking like a madwoman. And she now knew for sure that’s what she was. Had become. Mad.

  She pulled Sam up on her lap, and Michael looked at her scrutinizing.

  “Is she okay? She doesn’t look very good either.” He approached them, and got down on one knee. His pupils, dark pools. Windows. “Hello there, princess,” he said, running his fingers over her head. Lightly. “Are you feeling okay?” Sam didn’t answer. Just stared. “You don’t mind if I have a look at her, do you?” he said to Diana. “I’m a physician.”

  “What?” Diana asked.

  “A doctor. I may have forgot to mention that. Along with being a painter and a teacher, I’m also a, uh, physician. I’m actually quite a few things.” He smiled again. “I’m a lot older than I look.”

  Diana didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if she had the energy. She thought back on all their conversations. Searching. Hints or words. Sam had her head pressed against Diana’s shoulder, still staring at Michael. He reached out and touched her forehead with the back of his hand.

  “She’s warm,” he said. “I think she’s running a fever.” He asked her to open her mouth, and he peered inside. “Mouth looks okay, but you may want to call your doctor once we get to the shore. You can never be too careful. Especially these days.”

  “She might just be run-down. We’ve been through a lot these past few days. My husband is a lunatic,” Diana said, and as soon as she did she still couldn’t believe she had. A lunatic.

  Michael betrayed no response. He was still looking at Sam, not Diana. “Well, we don’t have to worry about him anymore, do we? You’ll be safe now.”

  Diana drew back a little, pulled Sam closer. “What?”

  A gull flew in from the gray of the sky. Landed on the deck behind Michael. The wind ruffling its feathers.

  “I mean it looks like you’re leaving the island,” he said, “so I’m guessing that means you’re leaving him, too. And from what you’ve told me, I can’t blame you. It’s for the best, Diana. Better for you. Better for her. Better for us.” He patted Sam’s head. “You’re such a pretty little angel. You look just like your mother. I bet you’ll be feeling better in no time. What’s your name?”

  “Samantha,” she said.

  “That’s right. Samantha. Your mother told me that. Well, Samantha is a beautiful name. I had a cousin named Samantha, but she’s not nearly as pretty as you.”

  Sam had her eyes locked tight upon him. “What’s your name?”

  “My name?” Michael smiled again. “My name is Dr. Randolph.”

  “Randolph?” Diana said. “No. Your name is Michael. Michael—”


  Diana could suddenly see the portrait in her room at the bed-and-breakfast. The hair, the eyes. The eyes. And she looked again at the man crouched before her. Behind him, she could already see the shore, Woods Hole, growing in the distance. Michael was still looking at her, but now he was silent. She felt a tightening in her chest. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the piece of folded paper he had slipped in there the last time they met. She opened it with one hand, and her heart began to stutter. A quick scribble. Dr. Pascal Beverley Randolph—325 Spring Street, Albany, New York. No phone number.

  She couldn’t look at him. She hugged Samantha closer and shut her eyes. “I think I’m going to lose my mind.”

  After a moment she felt his breath. And then he leaned over and kissed her forehead. “No,” he whispered, “I think you’re going to be … just fine.”

  Epilogue

  The realtor was waiting for them on the front porch. Smiling through a heavy black beard and mustache. His eyes were small and black tucked inside a thick bunch of weathered wrinkles. Red Sox cap, and trucker’s vest, a button-down polo beneath. Wrinkled khakis. He didn’t look much like a realtor.

  “Only on weekends,” he said to Brian, as he turned the key in the lock, giving the door a push with his shoulder. The door held. “My friend Carol owns the agency, and I just help her out. I work at the paper, the, uh, the Gazette, Monday through Friday. Carol used to work there with me before she went into real estate, so goes the connection. Though on this island, this time of year, most people are connected in one way or another, or at least know of each other. Relatively speaking, there are just too few of us. Makes it nice.” He gave the door another shove, and this time it gave, opening with a creak, and the chimes clamoring off the stained glass. Flat little angels with trumpets and bows and arrows.

  The man took a breath, and glanced up the stairs, almost as if he was listening. Lori was directly behind Brian, and the boys, eight and six, were already running about the late March lawn, patches of green, patches of brown, Max chasing Harry with a stick. Lori looked after them, a little hesitant.