Sandcastles

by Luanne Rice

  “Students?”

  “Who knows. Spiritually inclined, from the graffiti,” Tom said, gesturing.

  John read the message:

  I WAS SLEEPING, BUT MY HEART KEPT VIGIL.

  “Who wrote it?” John asked. When he glanced over, he saw Tom scrutinizing his face. “What, you think I did?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  “How? I flew home from Ireland during recreation period?”

  Tom shook his head. “It was written sometime within the last month. You’ve been out all that time. Besides, who else would have made such a meaningless poetic gesture?”

  The two men chuckled, their teasing intact after all this time. Tom always said he built walls and John built art, and only one of them was worth his pay.

  “I was in Canada, getting myself ready to come home. It would have been too intense to just fly straight from Dublin here—I told you that. I flew into Halifax and made my way south slowly. And you know it, because you shipped my camera up for me, and paid my way. I took my time getting down here, that’s all.”

  Tom narrowed his eyes, as if he could tell by John’s expression whether he was being truthful or not.

  “You don’t believe me?” John exhaled. “Listen, you want to know if a person’s lying, it’s just not that hard. In prison, Dermot McCann told me that people always look down, to the left, when they’re lying. With the population in Portlaoise, that was just about everyone all the time.”

  “Who’s Dermot McCann?”

  “He was an old guy in for forging documents for the IRA. He claimed he’d been set up by his son-in-law. But then, everyone claimed they were set up by someone.”

  “All except you.”

  “Shut up, okay?” John said, trying to stay even-tempered. Being in the enclosed space, the Blue Grotto, made John’s chest tighten. He felt the sweat pouring down between his aching shoulder blades.

  “Okay,” Tom said. “You’re out, what did or didn’t happen up there doesn’t really matter now, anyway. There were only three people on that ledge, and…”

  John felt the rage building in his skin. The statue of the Virgin Mary, surrounded by trinkets and handwritten prayers, gazed at him with outstretched arms. He stared at her without turning around.

  “This is where it happened, isn’t it?” he asked. “Where Bernie made her choice.”

  “Hey, knock it off,” Tom said. “That’s not fair.”

  “You have your hallowed ground,” John said. “And I have mine.”

  “Fine,” Tom said. “Truce, okay?”

  “Can we get out of here?” John said, feeling the walls close in on him. “I need some air.”

  When they walked outside, he leaned over, taking huge gulps of fresh air. The dampness and chill, the lack of light, the feeling in his chest had all reminded him of Portlaoise.

  “It was a violent place to live,” John said, after a minute. “I lived with those feelings for six years, and they’re still with me. That’s why I needed to take my time getting home. I’m trying to shake it. The way everyone dealt with everything was by attack.”

  “Did you want to attack me just now?”

  John shook his head, even though he wasn’t sure. It was the mention of three people on the ledge. “I haven’t talked about what happened in all the time since that day…”

  “No kidding. That’s why the judge gave you six years. You didn’t leave him any choice.”

  John stared out across the fields. It was so beautiful from here, the soft green landscape ending in blue sea and endless sky. He had dreamed about it so often in his cell. The smell of grapes filled the air. One October he and Honor had picked bunches of grapes. They’d lain on a blanket, and they’d made love, and afterward he’d fed her grapes, one by one.

  “Just tell me the judge had it right,” Tom said.

  “The judge had it right.”

  “Man, you’re looking down and to the left,” Tom said.

  “We going to rehash this all day and all night?” John asked.

  “Whatever you say, John,” Tom said, after a brief silence. “Let’s go to dinner.”

  “Should I change?” John asked.

  “No need,” Tom said. “Not for where we’re going.”

  John followed him to his truck, out behind the classroom buildings. He noticed how Tom threw a glance toward the offices, the administration wing, where Bernie held court. John shook his head and smiled, and Tom noticed.

  “Still carrying a torch,” John said. “For a nun.”

  “What do you know? You haven’t been around in…”

  “Six years. I know.”

  Tom gestured at a green pickup truck, and they climbed in.

  The landscape was so familiar, yet so foreign. Years away made John raw to the changes—a tract of houses where the ghost woods used to be, all those trees he and Tom used to climb, saying they were haunted. And there, the little boatyard on the inlet—the narrow waterway had been dredged, turned from a creek to almost a river, the weathered wood docks now concrete, and big enough to accommodate huge powerboats.

  “Look at that,” John said. “Charlie’s boatyard—”

  “They call it a ‘yacht basin’ now,” Tom said.

  “I don’t see any rowboats,” John said.

  “Nope. Everyone wants bigger boats now. Kids don’t like to row around the marshes—they have Jet Skis. Their parents have big ugly stinkpots.”

  “Does Charlie still run the place?”

  Tom shook his head. “Some developer paid him enough to retire to Florida, and he’s in a condo down there, going crazy because he lost the only thing he ever cared about—boats, docks, the water. You can’t sell out and keep your heart intact. I hear he had a heart attack last spring.”

  “It’s not the same,” John said, looking at the boatyard, but meaning everything.

  “Some things are,” Tom said, getting it, getting him, shooting him a look. “Wait’ll you see where I’m taking you.”

  And he was right. A couple of miles later, he pulled into Paradise Ice Cream. It was still a little shack on the edge of the marsh, picnic tables overlooking the creek leading to the mouth of the Connecticut River, into Long Island Sound. John, Honor, and the kids had always come here for lobster rolls and fried scallops. They served the best ice cream around. People stood at the window, and John and Tom got in line.

  “Smells good,” John said.

  “I could have taken you somewhere fancy for your welcome-home dinner, but—”

  “You know me well,” John said. “There’s nowhere better than Paradise.”

  Tom smiled, as if he knew something John didn’t. John wanted to ask what the secret was, but he was too happy just standing there. People drove in and out, radios playing. A family walked past with their trays. Numbers were called over the loudspeaker. A young couple leaned against the big tree by the street, eating ice cream cones.

  “May I help you?” the young girl asked.

  “You sure can,” Tom said, grinning, and suddenly John looked up and realized the secret: it was his daughter.

  “Regis!” he said.

  “Hi, Dad,” she said, sounding equally happy and surprised. “Hi, Tom.”

  “You work here?” John asked. He saw her eyes shining, the same little girl he’d always known. She looked so excited, just the way she’d always looked when she wasn’t expecting to see him.

  “When I’m not working at the library,” she said. “Got to earn money for the wedding.”

  “The wedding, yes,” John said. “I want to hear all about it….”

  “You gonna order?” someone called from the back of the line. John turned to glare—saw a muscle-bound bleached-blond beach bum standing there, arm around his girlfriend, showing off his toughness.

  “I’m talking to my daughter,” John said.

  “John,” Tom warned.

  One punch and the guy’s teeth would be down his throat. Tom jabbed John, gave him a sharp look, brought him stra
ight back to the present, out of Portlaoise Prison and lessons learned there.

  “He’s just rude, Dad,” Regis said. “He comes here every day, and he’s always like that. Give me your order, and I’ll take my break—okay?”

  “Sure, we can do that,” Tom said, stepping in. “Two lobster rolls—we’re celebrating your father’s homecoming. Fries, coleslaw, the works. And how about two root beers?”

  “Except, make mine a scallop roll,” John said.

  “You’ve got it,” Regis said, faltering slightly. She took Tom’s money and made change, giving John a quick glance. “Number twenty-five. I’ll meet you back at the picnic tables.”

  “Easy, now,” Tom said as they walked past the beach guy. John wanted to tell him not to worry—the moment had passed. He barely even glanced at the jerk, staring at him as he walked by.

  “There she is,” John said, relieved, as they rounded the building and saw Regis heading for a picnic table.

  “Yep,” Tom said as they approached Regis.

  There were ten tables set in the yard behind Paradise, and John figured he’d sat at every single one with Honor and the kids. They’d all loved coming here—it was a summer tradition, repeated many times throughout July and August. Everyone had their favorites—Honor and Agnes would always order lobster rolls, John and Regis liked fried scallops. And for dessert, they’d always get their favorite ice cream cones….

  “Hi!” Regis said.

  “Hi, beautiful,” Tom said. “So, how about this, Regis? Having your dad back home?”

  “It’s incredible,” Regis said, her eyes sparkling, staring at John.

  “I second that,” John said.

  “I’d almost given up believing it would ever happen.”

  “Did you really?” John asked, her words piercing him.

  “It’s just been so horribly long,” Regis said. “We’ve missed you so much.”

  “You have no idea how much I missed you….”

  “Cece was so little when you left,” Regis said.

  “I know,” John said. “Agnes, too. All three of you, really.”

  “Did you see Sisela?” Regis asked.

  “I just did, today,” John said. He looked down, rocked by a wave of emotion.

  “She loves you, Dad. We all do.”

  John looked out across the marsh, to the lighthouse at Saybrook Point. It was twilight, and its beam flashed in the rose-colored sky. He had done some of his favorite work around lighthouses—driftwood piled up on their beaches, assembled on the sand, photographed and mounted. Wreckage and lifesaving.

  “Tell your father about your job,” Tom said, jumping in.

  John gave him a quick, grateful glance, then smiled at Regis. She looked so pretty, ridiculously young, in her blue uniform.

  “Well, it’s hard work. Really busy, and sometimes there are idiots, like that guy in line. But mostly it’s fun. Families and their kids are always so nice, and my friends stop by to torture me.”

  “Your aunt worked here for a summer,” John said. “We did the same to her.”

  “Aunt Bernie! No way! Before she became a nun…”

  “Yes, before that dark day,” Tom said, and John raised his eyebrow and threw him a look.

  “She never told me,” Regis laughed. “I’ll have to tease her.”

  “She’ll love that,” Tom said wryly. “Sister Bernadette Ignatius, flipping burgers…”

  “Remember coming here when we were little?” Regis asked, eyes glued on John.

  “I was just thinking that,” John said. “You and I always got scallops.”

  Regis’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t get them anymore,” she said.

  “Why?” he asked. “You don’t like them?”

  “They reminded me too much of you. I couldn’t eat them while you were gone.”

  John nodded. He knew exactly what she meant. Every night for six years, locked up, he would have to stay busy just past the dinner hour. Funny, it wasn’t eating dinner that got to him—it was the time just afterward, when he would be helping his daughters with homework, or telling them stories, or going outside to look at the stars with them and their mother. He reached over to take Regis’s hand.

  “I’m home now,” he said.

  She shook her head, and he saw tears freely running down her cheeks. “You’re not, though,” she said. “You’re not in the house.”

  “Regis…it’ll take some time,” he said.

  “She won’t let you in, will she?”

  “It’s not your mother’s fault.”

  “Why won’t she forgive you? It’s not as if you meant to hurt anyone….”

  John felt Tom’s eyes on him, and he didn’t dare look over. His stomach tightened, and he felt sweat running between his shoulder blades. “I shouldn’t have gone out…I should have known you’d follow me….” he said carefully. “I think that’s what bothers her most.”

  “But you couldn’t have stopped me if you tried,” Regis said.

  John almost smiled. She was right about that. From the time she was a little girl, Regis had been his shadow. He had taught her to rock climb—cautiously at first, but amazed when she’d scramble faster than him to the top. He had always loved the adventure in life, and Regis had embraced it right along with him.

  “We could talk about this all day long,” John said. “It won’t change what happened, sweetheart.”

  “I know,” she said, and he chilled hearing the desolation in her voice.

  “Number twenty-five!” the voice crackled from the speaker.

  “That’s us,” Tom said.

  “Let me,” John said, jumping up. This was his job—as dad, he always went to pick up the food. Sometimes Regis would scamper alongside him, wanting to help, offering to get the napkins and plastic forks. But today she stayed where she was, sitting with Tom. The fact gave John a tiny pang of grief—another way the world had changed while he was gone.

  But he had something else on his mind. Hurrying over, he told the boy at the window his number. When he handed him the tray, John patted his money, to make sure he had enough.

  “That’s okay,” the boy said. “It’s already paid for.”

  “Actually,” John said, pushing money across the counter, “can you add on one more thing?”

  “Sure,” the kid said, taking the order.

  It seemed to take forever, even though John knew he had rushed it ahead of the others—maybe because John was waiting with his food, maybe because the boy knew he was with Regis. In either case, five minutes later, John was on his way back to the picnic tables with the tray.

  “Hey, you got me a root beer, too!” Regis said, seeing the three tall paper cups.

  “I did,” John said, handing one to her.

  “And what’s that?” she asked, staring down at the paper plate, at the crusty roll filled with golden-brown scallops, fries and coleslaw on the side.

  “It’s a scallop roll,” he said, sliding it off the tray, onto the table in front of her. It wasn’t much, but he had to give her something.

  She looked up at him, and he saw tears glittering there. He bent over to kiss her forehead, kiss the tears away.

  “I’m home now, Regis,” he said.

  Twelve

  Agnes knew there was something wrong with her, but she didn’t want to tell anyone. Visions were one thing, but this was too much, even for her. Ever since hitting her head, she’d been seeing white wings everywhere. At the kitchen window, when she was making herself toast; in the bathroom mirror, while she was washing her face; in the sky at night, reflecting moonlight.

  Agnes spent a lot of time looking at the image on her camera. What was it she had captured? Sometimes she’d stare at the small screen, expecting a saintly apparition to fly out. Her father knew everything there was to know about cameras and photography, and she knew she had to ask him.

  “Mom,” she said, walking into her mother’s studio. Her heart leapt, because her mother had her sleeves rolled u
p, painting with total abandon. The studio was a mess, and even though it was Agnes’s job to clean it, she didn’t care.

  “What is it, honey? Are you okay?” her mother asked, hardly able to look away from the canvas she was painting.

  “I’m fine,” Agnes said, hiding a smile.

  “Are you sure? How’s your headache?”

  “It’s okay.” Agnes made her way through the room. She had always loved it in here—the smell of paint, the clarity of light streaming through the north window, Sisela sleeping on the windowsill, and her mother’s happiness everywhere. Back when she was a little girl, she had somehow known that her mother found peace and contentment in her work as she did nowhere else. Maybe that’s why she had lobbied to make this her campus job. Grabbing the push broom, she began going over the floor.

  “Is Cece still in her room?” her mother asked. “I asked her if she wanted to go for an after-dinner walk on the beach with me, but she said no.”

  Why do you think she said no? Agnes wanted to ask. Cece was dying to see their father—and so was Agnes. But her mother was being so odd and secretive about him, being so vague about when they were all going to get together. Even going to the beach—instead of going to their usual spot, on the stretch near the wall where Agnes had wiped out, her mother had been steering them to the other end of the beach, the bight where the oysters grew.

  “Mom,” Agnes began, sweeping around her easel.

  “One second, honey. Let me finish this…”

  Her mother was squinting at the canvas, squeezing cadmium red onto her palette, using her palette knife to apply a dot of paint. Agnes pushed the broom closer to look. What she saw took her breath away.

  It was a painting of Agnes and her father. So clearly—his eyes and hands, her hair and the shape of her shoulders. It showed the night of Agnes’s fall, with a canopy of stars overhead and the waves leaving white ripples of lace behind, the sand wide and dark, and Agnes’s father holding her like a baby, carrying her up the beach. A ghostly white cat crouched on the mica-sparkled wall. The cadmium red was for Agnes’s blood, smeared on her father’s shirt.

  “Mom,” Agnes said again. But instead of waiting for her mother to be ready, she stuck the broom in a corner and walked out of the studio. Her heart was beating so hard, she felt it might break out of her chest. She walked down the hall, into their bedroom. Cece wasn’t there, so she put her camera on the shelf and went onto the porch, found her sister curled up on the glider.