Outside In

by Cooper, Doug

  I try to block out the image and remember him as he was: full of life, unconquerable. He doesn’t look peaceful at all.

  I follow the chief back to the cruiser. “What are those marks on him? Can they fix him up?”

  “It could be from scraping against the rocks or from fish feeding on him. The funeral parlor will restore him as best they can.”

  The chief drops me off at the red barn. I walk directly to the phone. Two rings. A male voice, but not Griffin, answers. It’s Cinch’s father. I don’t want to have this conversation, but what can I do? There’s no way out without lying directly, and he doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve any of this.

  I say, “Is Griffin there?”

  “No, he’s not. Is this Brad? Anything new?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m afraid there is. Apparently when Cinch dove in the water he hit his head and drowned. They found his body this morning. I just got back from the rescue station.”

  The line is silent.

  “Sir? Are you there?”

  “I—we’ll be over as soon as we can.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary. Chief O’Connor said they’ll send him to the mainland wherever you want.”

  “Brad, I need to see my son. I’d appreciate if you’d tell the chief to hold everything until we get there.”

  Three hours later I repeat the same procedure I hoped never to have to do again. It isn’t any easier looking under the blanket the second time.

  I need not chronicle the events of the next four days except for the basic facts for one simple reason: I don’t want anyone to have to live through the experience unless forced to do so. The visitation was Sunday and Monday, and the funeral was Tuesday. Every dark emotion—pain, anger, shock, guilt, and for me, even jealousy—collected and stuck to the walls and floors of the funeral home like thick sludge.

  Just as a wedding doesn’t prepare a person for the days after, neither does a funeral. Ceremonies are only the midpoint between when the waiting and anxiety stop and the rest of your life begins.

  Wednesday morning is the day after another event I won’t be able to escape. Every other day will merely be another “day after,” filled with the same deep-seated pain and guilt as the previous one. My decision not to fight for my job is now only another step that led to this outcome. I thought that coming here was both an end and a new beginning, but I found a way to keep spiraling down.

  When I first came to the island, I was leaving a life that collapsed around me. After the funeral I feel as if I am in a vacuum, one in which all the important things in my life are siphoned out.

  Griffin cleans out his room the same day he packs Cinch’s things. Each morning I open the doors to their rooms and hope to see them passed out, their heads hanging off the bed, snoring. And then each night I close the doors, hoping to shut out the nightmares that have filled the place in my heart each of them used to hold.

  Another weekend, another band, another mob of drunks. I float through the days, numb to my surroundings.

  On Sunday, Haley helps me clear tables on the porch. “You know we’re still going down to Key West right after the holiday to secure a place to live for the winter.” Her behavior follows the same pattern everyone else’s has lately. After a tragic event, no one speaks about it, but their tone of voice and actions draw attention to the experience like a buoy with a bell in turbulent water. She says, “White Spider night is Monday, then we plan to catch a flight out of Cleveland on Tuesday afternoon, stay with some friends in Miami that night, and drive to Key West Wednesday and stay until Sunday.”

  “What about missing the weekend here?”

  “It’ll be slow after Labor Day. We’ve already got the days off and the ticket is cheap, so think it over and let me know by Friday.”

  Think about it? Since returning from the funeral, getting out of here is all I’ve been thinking about. Lately I’m not sure if I’ll make it through most days, let alone the fall and winter. I say, “Count me in. I need a change.”

  Haley hugs me. “Going back there will be the best thing for all of us. It’s where we met, remember?”

  “How could I forget?” I say. “That’s the whole reason I’m here.”

  Tears swell in her eyes. She buries her face in my chest.

  I say, “I’m sorry—”

  “I know what you meant.” She kisses my cheek. “We all need a break from here.”

  We start clearing tables again. I redirect the conversation. “What’s White Spider night all about?”

  “Years ago, long before the Jet Express—when the only ferry was the Miller ferry—the boats stopped running and all the businesses closed after Labor Day. All the islanders would gather at the Lime Kiln dock and bid farewell to the last boat. Since the season was over and the bars would close for the winter, the establishment owners poured all the white liquors together to get rid of them, making a drink called a White Spider. Most of the island entertainers perform at the dock, and then everyone comes to the Round House.”

  “Sounds like a nice evening,” I say.

  “Not anymore. Now it’s just another excuse to party for tourists, so it takes something away from the ceremony. I used to know every single person in the bar at the end of the night. Last year I was a little salty and didn’t have that much fun because it was like any other night in the Round House. I’ve been here too many years to wrestle with tourists for space in this bar.”

  As with other holidays, people trickle in Wednesday evening for the Labor Day weekend ahead. By Thursday night the docks are full, and every room on the island is booked until Monday. I open the bar at eleven o’clock a.m. and close it at one in the morning. The fourteen-hour shifts are easy because I have nothing else to do. I go to bed right after work and am up for several hours before I have to leave in the morning. Remaining sober, getting to bed early, making it to work on time, and managing an unruly group all comprise a familiar life for me. It is the same one I wanted to escape. I am right back to where I started.

  For visitors, the weekend is probably no different than any other holiday. We clear people out after Mad Dog’s show and reopen an hour later to fill the house for Whiplash.

  Tourists still come to the Round House and ask for Cinch and Griffin or inquire about the party favors they have become accustomed to. I simply tell them everybody and everything is gone and don’t go into any other detail. People don’t really care anyway.

  On Monday I watch the clock like a third grader on the last day of school. Each Mad Dog joke and song puts me closer to being released from it all. There’s no chance he’ll play late today because he has to perform at the ferry dock for White Spider.

  The festivities begin at seven o’clock with each performer playing some of their island songs. At twenty minutes past, the vehicles and the people will board, and at seven thirty the ferry will depart. It takes away from the event to know that the boats actually stay in service until Halloween, but I still want to see the crowd and listen to the music.

  After my shift I catch a ride with Haley. Like most events on the island, things are running late. The PA isn’t working, and Birch’s soundman is arguing with one of the other performers about how to fix it. We exit the car. I motion toward the stage. “Behind schedule as usual.”

  She shakes her head. “They better figure it out in a hurry because whether they’re done or not, the boat leaves at seven thirty. It doesn’t wait for anybody or anything.”

  A loud popping noise sounds, followed by high-pitched screeching. Appearing triumphant, Birch’s soundman glares at the other performer who had doubted his prowess and adjusts the knobs on a small monitor.

  Three hundred people have gathered at the dock, most of them complete strangers to me. Haley and I join Astrid and some other island workers on a blanket in the grass. Astrid hands me a bottle of Pink Catawba. I sip and pass it back.

  Birch takes the stage and breaks into “Friends of the Bay.” The words rip through me. “Hello, Friends of th
e Bay. Thank you for coming today. Hello, water so blue. I’ll always remember you.”

  I am surrounded but feel alone. I lean toward Astrid. “I have to go. I can’t stay here.” I hesitate, remembering leaving her before and how that made her feel. “Do you want to come?”

  She takes my hand. Her eyes scan my face. She says, “No, unless you want me to. You seem like you need some time alone.”

  I kiss her good-bye and dart through the crowd, trying to outrun the sound of Birch’s voice. I clear the last group of people as he breaks into the chorus again.

  The tears I’ve been holding for weeks stream down my face. I turn right onto Langram, and with each step the words and music fade. I repeatedly wipe my face, hoping that if I clear away the tears, I’ll prevent future ones from flowing.

  The horn from the approaching ferry sounds. Soon the road will fill with the same people I’m trying to avoid. There’s not enough time to get downtown.

  A road ahead leads back to the water. I’ll just go down by the shore and wait for the traffic to clear.

  The lane dead-ends into a cul-de-sac with three houses, their fronts facing the water. A wooded lot on the right stretches to the lake. I cut through one of the yards and follow the tree line to the shore. The lot gives way to a small rocky beach that extends twenty-five feet before disappearing into the water.

  Down the shoreline, the last car drives onto the ferry. From here it looks like any other ferry trip and reminds me again of the awe I felt watching the ferry for the first time. I thought it was coming to rescue me from my pain. It only delivered me to more.

  I retrace my steps to Langram and embark on the two-mile walk to town in darkness and more important, in solitude.

  Headlights from an approaching truck brighten the road around me. I wait for it to pass, but instead, slowly, the throttle decreases.

  Caldwell’s voice flows from the cab of the stopped pickup. “Why you walking?”

  I peer into the dark cab. “Didn’t feel like being around people.”

  “I’ll let you go then.”

  “No, I’m glad it’s you. What are you up to?”

  He flips on the interior light. “I was cleaning up the mess down at the dock. Fucking people—just leave shit everywhere, expect somebody else to clean up after them.” He shakes his head. “Where you headed?”

  “Nowhere, anywhere. I mean, I don’t care. Wherever you’re going is fine.”

  “I got a six-pack in the back. I’m going to Crown Hill Cemetery to drink a few if you want to join me.”

  “As long as it’s not the Round House,” I say.

  The headlights of the old truck fan across the entire road. I sink into the seat, listening to the rise and fall of the RPMs as Caldwell shifts. He says, “It’s got to be tough being here after everything that’s happened.”

  “The hardest part is that I didn’t just lose one friend because of the accident; I lost them all. How do you stand it? People are always leaving.”

  “Remember, the boat goes both ways,” he says. “People are always coming, too.”

  I say, “Coming to get fucked up.”

  He angles the truck off the road and through the entrance to Crown Hill Cemetery. The headlights illuminate the rows of tombstones and memorials. Mayflies swarm from the disturbance. He pulls over and kills the engine. The night swallows the sound. We hesitate, adjusting to the quiet. The buzzing of cicadas fills the air.

  We exit the truck. Caldwell gets a small cooler from the back and we meet in front. He hands me a beer. “I come here every year after the last ferry leaves. All alone but completely surrounded.”

  “Best company on the island,” I say.

  Caldwell removes two more beers and puts them in the side pockets of his baggy work pants. We walk down a row of graves. Most are overgrown and decaying. The smell of a skunk drifts through the air. Fallen mayflies crunch under our feet.

  “I know it’s difficult burying one of your friends. You never expect it’s going to be you in that situation.” He lights a cigarette. “Little over thirty years ago I was playing in a band with my best friend. We lived gig to gig, trying to see who could get the most pussy. Thought we had the world by the balls.”

  “Sounds like a blast.” Just like my first few weeks here.

  “One night in Gulf Shores we were tripping on acid and drinking tequila with two girls at their campsite. My friend wanted to leave to get a few hours of driving under our belts before the next gig in Florida.”

  Caldwell’s voice is deliberate. His eyes remain fixed straight ahead. He pauses only to raise a beer with his right hand or a cigarette with his left. I don’t think he’s told this story many times.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “Don’t know. I passed out shortly after we left. When I woke up, I was in a hospital and my friend was dead.”

  We pass by a Romanesque mausoleum surrounded by a grove of trees. There’s a rustling in the weeds. A rabbit darts from the darkness. My eyes follow the black form skipping across the graves.

  “Even today I don’t know why I wasn’t killed along with him. It’s not like I’ve done any great deeds in my life or made a difference.”

  I say, “You seem at peace now.”

  “Took me a lot of years. Now I just accept that we’re born each day and we die each night. In between we live our lives. People come and people leave, and in between we live our lives. Everything has a beginning and everything has an end, and in between we live our lives. I just try to follow through to the end and close the loop. Leaving might have been the best thing for others after what happened, but you have to figure out what’s best for you.”

  “Nothing’s exactly turning out like I thought it would.”

  We stop in front of a tombstone. The name reads John Brown Jr.; Caldwell pours beer on the grave. “It may not be the life you imagined, but it’s your life. You came here for a reason. Is it time for you to go and begin again?”

  I understand his question, but as usual I know he doesn’t expect an answer. I can give one because I’m leaving tomorrow for the trip to Key West. But is that the right answer for me? Maybe I’ve run enough.

  Caldwell drains his beer and squeezes the empty can. “Sorry about dumping that on you. Watching you go through all this has brought back memories.”

  “That’s okay. Did you know I’m leaving tomorrow to go to Key West to find a place for the winter?”

  “No shit?” he says, laughing. “Don’t worry, though. You’ll do the right thing.”

  “A lot of people would take that bet.” I slug the rest of my beer.

  He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. You just have to learn how to recognize your truth—the answer that’s right for you.”

  I say, “Pretty selfish approach, isn’t it?”

  Caldwell pokes his finger in my chest. “Quit trying to save the world and just save yourself.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A FAINT TAPPING FROM CINCH’S ROOM WAKES ME. Although gentle, the consistent rapping prevents me from sleeping. I get up to investigate.

  In the vacant room, a white ceiling tile lies on the floor. The other tiles will fall soon as well—rattling, waiting for a burst of wind to send them tumbling.

  I reposition the tiles, securing them with duct tape, just as I did the ones in my room when I first arrived. The wind shakes the entire building with each gust.

  A loud crash sounds from outside. Kegs slide across the cement, banging into one another at random intervals. First a blast of wind, then the sound of metal rolling on concrete: Thung!

  Outside, although the sky is clear, the air is damp. Usually at this time the silence is consuming, but tonight the sounds call out. The clasp on the flagpole in the park strikes repeatedly against the aluminum pole. The back screen door of the Round House slams with each gust. The wind rushes through the trees, mixing with the leaves, as if trying to quiet everything: Shhhhhhh.

  To silence the kegs
I stand them in the grass. Unsure whether I’ll be able to sleep anyway, I check out the other noises in the park. I go to the flagpole and place my hand on the line, pressing the clasp against the pole, quieting the din. Other sounds caused by the swirling gale ring out. The chain swings on the playground collide with one another as they dance wildly. The water from the fountain strays from its natural course, splattering on the concrete. And still, even more convincingly than before, the leaves call for silence: Shhhhhhh.

  I release the flagpole line, allowing it to mix with the dissonance again. I become more and more aware of the noises, eager to choose a sound and trace it to its source. I go from place to place, staying only long enough to satisfy my curiosity. Why haven’t I noticed these sounds before? Why did I only notice the silence in between, whereas tonight I hear the noise?

  I approach the monument from the front, watching the light on the top turn on and off as I climb each step. Even the strongest wind can’t sway my stone companion. I place both hands on the granite. “What should I do?” Sitting down with my back against the column, I ask again. “What the fuck should I do?”

  Only the wind rushing through the trees responds, now shaking the branches as well as the leaves, sending a chill through me. I fold my arms across my chest, rubbing each arm with the opposite hand.

  I get up and walk to the plaza wall. A smack sounds on the water, but I’m still unable to see through the black curtain in front of me.

  I climb over the plaza wall and descend the hill to the cement seawall. The moonlight blankets the rolling water. I sit down on the barrier and allow my feet to hover above the water, occasionally extending my legs to avoid an incoming wave.

  Water covers the wall and soaks through my shorts. Thoughts of former students, Caldwell, Astrid, Haley, and Cinch simmer. A few I’ll never see again. Others I’m not so sure, which frightens me even more. Has all of this been for nothing?

  I walk down the seawall and onto Langram, retracing a familiar path. Where have I gone wrong? Each of my decisions now appears to have been a subtle nudge, small enough that I didn’t notice where I was heading but significant enough to culminate in the lie that I’ve been living. I have made so many changes, but is anything really different? I am still on the outside looking in. Still wanting what I can’t have, regretting what I didn’t do.