Bluewater Blues

by G. B. Gordon

  “No.” It’s telling me to strangle you.

  “Well it should.” Jack starts pacing again, then stops in front of me, forcing me to look up. “I’m not who you think I am.” He says it as if that should clinch things for me, or shock me or something. And maybe it should have, but he forgets that I’m familiar with his personal brand of drama. I’m not impressed. I am slowly getting pissed, though.

  “Next you’ll be telling me that Jack Daley is not your real name.”

  This time the laugh is nothing but a huff of air, but it lowers the temperature in the room to shivering point. Jack must have noticed, because he says, “Ah, I think your gut has caught up.”

  Then, when I stand, he very deliberately grabs my shoulders, knowing full well how that makes me feel. “Can you just go, Mark? Find some guy who doesn’t need to keep any secrets from you, apart from Christmas presents.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. Yeah, right, just find some guy. I’m not listening to this. I shrug Jack’s hands off. “For the last time: tell me, for fuck’s sake.”

  “I can’t. I wish I could but I can’t. It’s not mine to tell.”

  The way he says that pushes one or two puzzle pieces into their places. “Margaret’s, then?”

  Jack flinches. “Promise me something. Stop exchanging messages with her.”

  “Shouldn’t that be her decision?”

  “She can’t make that decision. I don’t think . . .” Jack waved toward the door that led upstairs.

  I know what he means, but that doesn’t mean I have to agree. “Don’t underestimate her, Jack.”

  Jack makes a noise deep in his throat that’s way too close to a snarl. Then he says, quietly and enunciating every word, “Don’t underestimate what I will do to protect her.” He’s taken a step closer, pushing into my personal space. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t kid myself any longer. Can’t ignore anymore that pushing is what this is all about. All those misgivings I had were dead on. All those excuses I made for him were wrong. He’s pushing me away. I knew it would hurt. I didn’t know I’d be seething with anger. “You fucking asshole. You’ve changed your mind. And now you’re too fucking scared to tell me to my face.”

  Jack’s eyes open wide, and his brow furrows. Why? But before I can think again, he nods. “Yeah. That’s it. You’re right.”

  I’m cold, which is weird, because I don’t feel heat or cold. “You know, you could have saved yourself a lot of trouble by telling me not to come back that first time.”

  He stares at me, then abruptly turns his back. “Now’s your chance to get out.”

  I do need to get out, before things escalate more than they already have. Everything’s turned upside down in a matter of minutes, and I need time to get a handle on this fury that’s tearing me apart, time to think and regroup.

  So for the second time in a fortnight I’m back in the street, alone, in front of Jack’s house without any clear idea of what just happened.

  I’m quite glad for this high-octane job that doesn’t leave me time to brood. And for the next few days I take every excuse to work overtime.

  I tell Jason I’ll drive myself to work, but Jason only grunts and says he’s been wanting to pick up another four-hour shift in the evenings, anyway. I don’t question my good luck. I’m surrounded by workaholics; this is nothing new or strange.

  I know myself well enough to realize I’ll have to, and want to, puzzle through the Jack thing at some point. There’s too much there that doesn’t add up. But for now the numbing low-level stress of work is exactly what I need.

  Until fate decides to rev it up.

  I’m in the middle of an online brainstorming session with Armin, one of the draftsmen, about an alternate transition from mask to costume, because the original design isn’t quite working like we need it to. A neck prickle and a shadow tell me I’m not alone anymore. When I check, Natalya’s standing on the other side of the cutting table, talking at me full tilt. I raise my hand in a give-me-a-minute gesture, and tell Armin, Keep throwing stuff at me; I have to disappear for sec. BBL. Then I set myself to away and turn to face Natalya, who’s paid about as much attention to my gesture as a tsunami would have, and pull my earbuds out.

  I’m immediately flooded by the usual cacophony of sewing machines, people trying to talk over them, hammering, and the intermittent whine and beep of the electric carts they use everywhere. One of the voices is surely Natalya’s, but it’s useless to try to focus on one in here.

  I get up and squeeze out of my fortress between the cutting table and the back wall. “Let me buy you a coffee,” I say, before making my way to the door. I’m sure she’ll be close on my heels.

  I’m right. Once outside, I catch that she’s talking about hoods. I try to recall what the stunt crew is filming at the moment. Street fight? A jump out of a window into an alley. The guy is wearing a hoodie and a leather jacket.

  The cafeteria noises and smells derail my thoughts completely. I beeline it to the coffee station and start a coffee for her and a tea for me. How am I going to tell her what I need her to hear? Hell, I don’t even know how to get a word in edgewise. But when I hand her the coffee there are about five seconds of stunned silence, then, “What the fuck is wrong with you? I just told you I don’t drink that crap. Do you have a hearing problem?”

  “Something like that.” I swap the cups and point at the door. “Let’s go sit outside.”

  I aim for my usual spot by the picnic table and sit down, pondering the opening she’s given me. I’m taking it. No use launching into long explanations of what diagnosis is considered valid and relevant these days. I can just tell her about the part that concerns her and our interaction with each other and be done with it. Makuakāne rule number six: Don’t overexplain. Most people are not that interested in the details.

  Natalya sits down across from me, watching me through narrow eyes. “You’re not wearing hearing aids. Are you?”

  “No. That wouldn’t help.”

  “Then what—”

  “You know when you’re in a room full of people who are all talking, and their collective voices make this hum? It’s loud enough, but doesn’t allow you to distinguish any individual words.”

  She nodded. “So?”

  “But then, when you focus on a particular person and look at them, your brain filters out the general noise and amplifies the one you’re concentrating on, so you can hear them reasonably well?”

  “Yes.” It’s curt. “I fail to see—”

  “Well, my brain doesn’t do filters. It’s called sensory processing disorder. When you’re talking to me in the hangar, your voice is nothing but part of the noise. I have about as much chance of understanding you as a snowball in hell has of not melting.”

  She chews on that for a minute. “Have you heard anything I’ve said today?”

  “Something about hoods. Is it about the window jump?”

  She’s immediately business again. “Just before that, where he glances back into the room, then turns to the window to jump. He needs a clear line of sight, and the hood doesn’t follow the quick head movement unless we tie it around his neck.” She makes a face. “Which, I’m told, fucks with the look.”

  “Baseball cap.”

  “Huh?”

  “Under the hoodie. The visor should keep the hood under control.”

  She briefly closes her eyes for a duh moment, then sips her tea. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “About the SPD?” I shrug. “I don’t like pity parties. Call it pride.”

  She huffs. “Fuuuck.” I expect her to scoff, but she just gazes into the distance, then nods slowly. “I never got all the intricacies of English spelling. It’s fucked up. Makes people think I’m stupid. I don’t like writing much.” It’s as much explanation as it is apology, conceding a vulnerability she didn’t have to admit.

  We stare at each other over the dissipating echoes of our confessions. My eyebrow goes up. I can’t help myself. “I won’t judg
e.”

  This time her huff is half a surprised laugh. “Ouch. I guess I deserved that.”

  “’S’okay.”

  She partly rises and air-stabs her index finger at me. “If you ever point out a typo in one of my emails, I’m gonna have to kill you.”

  With an exaggerated sigh I stand as well and hold out my hand. “The stunt coordinators I have to put up with.”

  That makes her laugh outright. She shakes my hand and holds it for a moment. “We good?”

  “We’re good.”

  She walks away, and I pour my coffee into the grass. Nothing will ever grow there again.

  As I crumple the paper cup, I’m conscious of a weight having lifted from my shoulders. If I can deal with Natalya, maybe I can deal with Jack.

  Staring at the tabletop, I remove a splinter with my thumbnail, replaying our last conversation in my mind. The more I think about it, the more it strikes me how desperate Jack’s aggression sounded. How cornered.

  “I wish I could.” Maybe not a cry for help, exactly, but certainly a plea for understanding. That he doesn’t have a choice? That if he had, he’d want me to stay, not leave?

  He was definitely surprised when I accused him of having changed his mind. Did he agree only to end the argument? Could I have handled the whole thing differently? You screwed up, asshole. You always do.

  Fuck the acid voice. Short of third-degreeing the truth out of Jack, I don’t see what else I could have done. I have to remember that whatever Jack is dealing with is about Margaret, not about me. I’m collateral damage. Take that, guilt brain. Take that, pride. Jack’s decision was not against me, it was for Margaret.

  And Margaret did try to tell me something. So maybe I should talk to her. Of course, Jack has asked me not to, but I’m not sure I agree with his assessment that Margaret doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into. What if she already decided to tell me, and I just didn’t get it?

  Then again, what do I know about Margaret, or the situation she is or was in? One that apparently required a name change, no less. Fuuuck.

  I better go back to work, because if I stay here, I’ll argue myself to death. Truth is, I have no idea what I can do about the whole mess. I know one thing, though: this isn’t over, I won’t let it be.

  Margaret wasn’t talking to him, and not in the way she normally didn’t talk to him. This was a deeply resentful not-talking that made him itchy and hollow inside. He needed her. Now more than ever. Why was she that ticked off at him? He hadn’t even tried to talk to her about the messages she’d sent to Mark. All he’d done was ask her not to send any further ones, which had been answered with silence. Not even a No. No reaction beyond a slight tapping of her leg that said she’d heard him.

  Lonely and morose, he went through the motions. A few customers had asked him if he was coming down with the flu, and he’d shrugged and said, “Summer cold.” He’d dug for a smile, but there was nothing left at the bottom of that particular well. It was bone-dry.

  He couldn’t think about Mark. He’d thrown away something rare and precious and didn’t deserve the comfort of a single nostalgic memory. He’d do it again, of course. There was no question of that. He didn’t know what else he could have done. He’d already told Mark so much more than he’d meant to. So much more than he should have, than was safe. He could only hope that Mark wouldn’t start digging. Google was a dangerous thing; you put together the right three or four search terms and Bingo! If the whole thing had so much as been a five-liner in the local papers, there was a chance it was searchable online. Just because Jack had never found anything didn’t mean it wasn’t there. And then what would Mark do with that knowledge?

  He locked the door and turned the sign to Sorry, we’re closed. The clouds above the rooftops wore a stunning orange lining. A couple fewer houses and he would have been able to see the ocean. Behind him he heard Margaret open the register to start her daily tally.

  He turned to watch her take her seat in the office; the crown of her dark head was bent way too low over her papers. Those narrow shoulders . . . She was such a tiny thing. In his mind’s eye he saw her again like he’d seen her through the study window on the first floor of the house they grew up in: standing by the pool, picking magnolia blossoms into confetti . . .

  He saw Beaufort Deaver step out onto the pool deck for a smoke. Charles might think Deaver would help him to a political career, but Jack wasn’t convinced the councilman would ever help anyone but himself. Sleazy bastard that one.

  Jack had just sat back down at his desk to finish his music notations, when he heard her scream.

  He yelled out the window at Deaver, who was trying to hold her struggling, kicking body against his, raced down the big stairs, heart beating in his throat, and shot out the patio door in time to see Deaver lose his footing at the edge of the pool. He tumbled backward, his head struck the tiled edge, and a plume of red billowed out in the water around the floating body.

  Jack heard steps behind him and didn’t stay to check on the man. His allegiance was and always had been to the tiny one with the big eyes. He took off after Margaret who was tearing down the path toward the river ahead of him. She was fast. When he caught up with her, she was sitting on a fallen log right by the water, arms around her knees, rocking hard and wailing softly to herself.

  She shrank away from him when he approached, terrified and clearly overwhelmed with demon battles. So he sat in the sand a few feet away, letting her know he was there when she needed him. Morning turned into afternoon turned into evening. He’d never seen her like this, never for so long.

  But then, it had only been a few weeks since Mawmaw had died in her bed, where Margaret had found her. By the time Jack had come home from an engagement, the doctor had left, the family had been busy with funeral arrangements, and Margaret had been holed up in her blanket fort in the attic, rocking, bloody scratches running down her arms where she’d dug her nails in. But she’d let him inside then, let him sit next to her. Let him tell her of his plans, to take the money Mawmaw had given them, and take her away. He hadn’t told her why, but maybe she’d known? There’d been talk about locking her up since she’d been sent home from elementary school. Only the fact that Mawmaw had been holding the purse strings to what was left of the family fortune had kept Charles in check. As far as he was concerned his wife had been best off behind closed doors, and the same was true for his daughter.

  Sitting there that night by the river, Jack wasn’t surprised that no one had come searching for them. Neither of them would be missed.

  When she shivered, he held out his jacket for her, ready to give her space, but she let him drape the jacket over her shoulders.

  At some point she simply got up and walked back toward the house.

  He’d half expected flashing lights and police everywhere, but they must have already left, because the house had been quiet as a tomb.

  The blare of a car horn outside the store brought him back to the present.

  Margaret was tapping the end of the pen against the desk in a rapid tattoo. The tension between them hung like a physical barrier in the doorframe to the office. Lord, he hated this. She was so much a part of him that being out of sync with her felt like being sick.

  Well, best give her some privacy and unload those two pallets in the back.

  Toward the weekend, Margaret became more and more restless, and on Saturday, she peeked into the store every time the bell announced a customer.

  After he’d locked up at noon, she fidgeted her way through counting the cash drawer, before they sat across from each other over another uneasy lunch.

  When the doorbell rang, Margaret jumped up so hard that her chair fell over backward. “Mark?”

  Jack shook his head, the words getting stuck in his throat. It would be a customer picking up their order. He went to deal with it.

  He came back to find Margaret still standing in the exact same position he’d left her in, both hands on the table, slightly bent fo
rward in anticipation, with the chair on the ground behind her. “Mark?” she said again, every mention of the name tightening the band around his chest another notch.

  He walked around the table and picked up her chair. “No, love, it w—”

  “Margaret.”

  He bit his lip. “Margaret. It was Holly, who works at the flower place across the road. Remember Holly? You liked her.”

  “No.”

  Jack didn’t take that as a vote against Holly. It was a vote against him, against him not having brought Mark back with him. He didn’t know what else to tell her, though.

  “Mark,” she repeated once more, and this time it wasn’t a question. It was a demand.

  Jack swallowed hard. Now what?

  “Mark won’t be coming by anymore.” Saying it like that put a lump the size of Mount Olympus in his throat.

  “No.”

  “It’s too dangerous, Mar—”

  “No, no.”

  “We were too close. You can’t be that close with someone without some questions coming up. It’s normal, I guess, wanting to know, wanting to tell. But we can’t afford—”

  “No, no, no—”

  “I don’t want to believe he was asking you questions over my head,” he said louder than he wanted to. He’d never before raised his voice with her, but how else was he to make himself heard over her continuous stream of nos?

  Her voice rose as his did, her head shaking from side to side with each no.

  “Well, frankly, the things you were telling him didn’t help,” Jack yelled.

  At that she put her hands up to her ears, took a deep breath, and screamed at the top of her lungs.

  Jack stood stunned. He’d only heard her scream like that once. Under attack. He wasn’t attacking her. He wasn’t!

  “Please, Margaret.” But it came out as a whisper that stood no chance against her screaming. When she ran out of breath, she spun and stormed from the room, her steps thundering up the stairs.