by Rory Flynn
“They’re calling themselves the wanderers,” Watt says.
“That’s what I hear.”
“What’re we supposed to do, Eddy? There’s no protocol for this.”
“Don’t give in to small-town hysteria.”
“What?”
“Maybe these wanderers are good for this town, Watt. Ever think of that?”
“No. Why?”
“All those extra spaces—the basements and garages—that’s where the kids take drugs and get pregnant. The in-law apartments are where the husbands end up living after the wives kick them out.”
“Whoa, hadn’t thought of that.”
“Nothing good ever happens in a remodeled garage, trust me.”
“So you think we should just let all these strangers, these so-called wanderers, just move in?”
Harkness shrugs. “This town needs a little new blood.”
“If you were still here you wouldn’t be saying that, Eddy. You’d be trying to get rid of all these people. And trying to figure out where they’re coming from.”
“Did that already,” Harkness says.
“Mind sharing?”
“Sure. Remember that place we went to on Crescent Street last week?”
“Guy’s name was Jacobs or something? Looked like he still collects statehood quarters? Smells like Snuggle?”
“That’s our guy,” Harkness says. “Let’s go talk to the brother and sister camping out in his garage.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.”
Watt and Harkness walk down the dark driveway to what Tom Jacobson called flex space—now home to Jennet and James Townsend. Peering through the window, they can see the transformation. There are a couple of Ikea beds, floor lamps, a reasonable-size flat-screen TV, and a retro teal couch. Watt raps on the door and Jennet comes to open it, followed by her brother. In the background, Tom Jacobson sits on the couch, watching the Sox.
“Evening,” Harkness says.
“Officers,” Jennet says. “Can we help you?”
“Just doing a quick well-being check,” Watt says. “Wanted to make sure everything is okay here in, you know, the space you commandeered.”
“That’s not what we’d call it,” Jennet says. “But we’re definitely okay.”
“Mr. Jacobson, you good with the whole thing?” Harkness asks the homeowner, his eyes glued on the playoff game. Late-season play hasn’t been kind to the Sox and the fans are hoping for a miracle, again.
Tom Jacobson nods. “Sure, not a problem.”
“That guy really likes baseball,” James says.
“He really likes your sister,” Harkness says.
“That’s not true!” Tom Jacobson shouts.
Jennet smiles. “Is that why you’re back here, Officer?” she says, turning coy. “To protect me from a middle-aged Sox fan?”
“They’re known to be dangerous,” Harkness says.
“That’s funny,” Jennet says, not laughing.
“I’m here to ask a simple question, Jennet. How many more people will be coming out to Nagog?”
She shrugs. “How would I know?”
“Because you organized the wanderer movement,” Harkness says. “And you’re leading more wanderers to Nagog.”
“That true?” Watt asks.
After a long pause, Jennet answers. “Yeah, it is. So what are you going to do? Kick us all out onto the streets?”
“No,” Harkness says. “You’ve got until town meeting, when the citizens of Nagog will probably do that for you. Until then, we just want to make sure that no one gets hurt. That holds true for the people who live here and the people who’re moving here.”
“Understood.”
“So where’s this all going, Jennet?” Even from preliminary research, Harkness knows that her long résumé is full of direct action and minor skirmishes—at anti-nuclear rallies in high school, Occupy Wall Street in college, the Ferguson protests after.
Jennet pauses, then relents. “There’ll be a couple of hundred more wanderers coming to town,” she says finally. “Maybe more.”
“That’s really what you’re calling them, wanderers?” Watt says.
She nods.
“Sounds German or something,” Watt says.
Harkness steps forward. “You’ll tell them all to be respectful, right?”
“Absolutely. We had a training weekend in New York. And there’s an online course.”
“A course in wandering?” Watt says.
Jennet nods.
“If there’s trouble, we’ll come back here and find something to bring you in for,” Harkness says.
She bristles. “Oh really?”
“Look, I grew up here, Jennet,” Harkness says. “Nagog’s got its problems. Like any other town. But people are generous. Don’t take advantage of them.”
Her green eyes stare, unblinking. “I won’t.”
“Stay in touch with Captain Watt,” Harkness says. “He’s a good man but he doesn’t like surprises, do you, Watt?”
“No, I really don’t.” Watt hands her his card.
“And if it’s about something in Boston, give me a call.” Harkness hands her his card and Watt shoots him a look.
They turn to leave.
“See you guys!” Tom calls out from the couch, James perched awkwardly next to him.
Jennet walks them down the driveway under the sharp gaze of Mrs. Jacobson, who’s sweeping leaves from the back deck in furious swipes. She doesn’t need binoculars to see what’s going on in her garage.
“Officer Harkness?” Jennet says.
Harkness turns and Watt keeps walking toward the patrol car.
“I just wanted to say thanks,” Jennet says. “A lot of cops wouldn’t have let us stay.”
“Don’t thank me. You’re not breaking any laws, yet,” Harkness says.
“You were a cop in the Lower South End, weren’t you?” she says.
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“I remember seeing you on the street,” she says. “I used to run the Community Store, the food pantry on Stanton Avenue.”
Harkness smiles, acts like this is news. “Oh really?” Harkness summons up an image of the store, the line in front. “Busy place.”
“Been back to the neighborhood lately?”
“Couple of weeks ago,” Harkness says.
“Terrible, isn’t it?”
“Still a big mess.”
“Someone’s got it in for the Lower South End,” Jennet says.
“Got slammed by the hurricane,” Harkness says. “Takes a long time to fix a neighborhood.”
“You can’t tell me you believe that.” Jennet tilts her head. “You know how it works. The city takes care of the rich and makes everyone else walk through the poor door.”
“I’d like to think it’s gotten better than that.”
“Well, it hasn’t. And if you think it has, then you’re just another stupid cop.” Jennet turns abruptly and stalks back to the garage.
Harkness stands in the driveway, stunned, then pulls open the squad-car door and gets in.
“What do you think, Eddy?” Watt says.
“I think you’re in for a lot of trouble.”
“Right back at you,” Watt says.
The E-Z Mart line is long but Harkness is thirsty and there’s no other place to buy beer in Nagog after nine. It’s Friday and there’s the usual assortment of old Nagogians standing in line to buy cheap plastic liters of vodka to get them through the weekend. Skateboard kids buy energy drinks. Burly guards getting off the midnight shift at the Concord prison order slices of grease-glazed microwave pizza.
A young bearded guy in a multicolored woven poncho stands at the front of the line. “So, yeah, five of the Easy Money tickets,” he says, leaning on the counter. “Ten of the ones with General Grant on ’em. And American Spirits. The yellow pack.” He takes out a roll of cash and pushes a stack of bills at the clerk.
A sharp, clear voice blares
from the back of the line. “With that kind of money, maybe you should consider paying rent,” the man says. “Instead of throwing it away on scratch tickets and smokes.”
Harkness turns. It’s Wade “WB” Buckholtz. He’s one of the civic leaders who always shows up in the Nagog Journal doing something helpful—cleaning up a park with the Rotary Club or leading the All Hallows Eve parade. Tonight he’s wearing faded Nantucket pants, a white T-shirt, a rumpled blue windbreaker, and a floppy white bucket hat—universal outfit of the Greatest Generation, New England division. At least the ones still kicking. WB’s flashing gray eyes stare at Poncho Guy as if trying to reduce him to ash, starting with his bobbing man-bun.
Poncho Guy says nothing, just waits patiently for his change.
“You know what they call scratch tickets, don’t you?” WB doesn’t wait for an answer. “A tax on people who don’t know how to do math.”
He gets small, forced laughs from some of the people standing in line.
“But you’re not stupid, are you, friend?” WB says. “You’re working the angles. That’s what it’s all about these days, right? Crowdsourcing, kickstarting, freeganing, bitcoining, and all that?”
People waiting in line go into subway mode, pretending like their ears don’t work. Harkness wonders what happened to WB to make him so twisted and bitter.
Poncho Guy also seems afflicted by sudden deafness. He rakes his change toward him, stuffs it in his pocket, and heads through the E-Z Mart door. Just under six feet tall, Harkness notes, according to the perp yardstick on the door frame.
Harkness pays for a Nagog Journal and a quart bottle of Jack D’Or saison beer—the last remnant of his once-ambitious drinking. His father showed him where the road of excess might take a man and it definitely wasn’t the palace of wisdom. Now Harkness and Candace like to split a quart of good beer on Friday night and watch the light fade over the harbor. It’s enough.
Outside, the night smells cool and crisp, and vivid stars wheel in the cobalt sky as Poncho Guy tries to unlock his bike, a girl’s model with a snap-on wicker basket.
“So you have enough money for gambling and cigarettes but not to pay your rent—is that it?” WB hovers over him like a relentless heckler at a comedy club.
Poncho Guy shakes his head. “Man, you have no idea what’s going on.”
“Not true, friend. Led the innovation group at DefensaTronics for more than thirty years. Put satellites in deep space. Drones in Syria. Just try me. I’ve got plenty of ideas about what’s going on.”
Silence from Poncho Guy, struggling with his expensive lock, the kind no blowtorch can saw through—and no bike owner can remove, apparently. Harkness wanders a few yards away from the store and pretends to check his phone.
“Say, here’s an idea,” WB says. “Why don’t you turn that key clockwise and give the U-shaped piece a tug.”
Poncho Guy pauses, then does as he’s told. The lock opens. He puts it in the basket with his E-Z Mart bag.
“One last question for you, little wanderer,” WB says, his voice imbued with equal measures of Vermont marble and Massachusetts coastal salt. “When did young men like you become such weak, ignorant bastards?”
As Poncho Guy stands and gets ready to straddle his girly bike, he gives WB a playground shove that sends the old man reeling backward into a parking meter, number 356—prone to getting quarters stuck in its craw, Harkness remembers from meter duty. WB slides down its metal post until the baggy ass of his faded red pants smacks the sidewalk.
Harkness steps forward to grab Poncho Guy by the front of his wovenware. One lift and he’s up in the air, then down on the sidewalk, face-up, Harkness’s hands gripping his shoulders.
“You do not do that,” Harkness says. “Not to an old man. Not to anyone in Nagog. You’re a guest here, understand?”
Poncho Guy shakes his head quickly. But not quite fast enough. Plus, there’s a dismissive eye-roll that rubs Harkness the wrong way.
Harkness moves one thumb to press the hollow above Poncho Guy’s sternum, the secret enclave where all the nerves gather. Poncho Guy starts to whip back and forth on the sidewalk like a crazed inflatable cell phone in front of a wireless store on opening day.
Harkness lets him flail for a few seconds, releases him.
Poncho Guy makes a noise that Joan, one of the Harkness family cats, used to make when an impressive fur ball was en route.
“Who the fuck’re you?” he says finally.
Harkness flashes his badge.
“Cops don’t do shit like that.”
“Well, I do,” Harkness says.
“Edward?” WB rises from the sidewalk but he’s tottering a little. “Edward Harkness?”
“Yes, sir,” Harkness says.
Poncho Guy takes advantage of the distraction to jump on his bike and flee. His rainbow-colored drug rug flaps as he pedals furiously toward Main Street.
“Your father would be proud of you,” WB says.
“Doubtful,” Harkness says. “But thanks.”
WB reaches down to grab his white hat from the sidewalk and beat it against his thigh. “These people coming to our town and taking advantage of our hospitality. It’s like the Mexican border around here lately.”
Harkness doesn’t take the time to point out the dozens of differences. From what he saw, WB was the instigator, pushing a clueless wanderer a little too far. Besides, Candace just texted, wondering where Harkness is.
He’s in his inescapable, irascible hometown. Again.
WB smiles and gives Harkness a cautious pat on the upper arm, which passes for unfettered emotion in Nagog.
“Glad you’re back, Eddy,” he says. “We need honest, brave young men like you to protect the peace.” He leans closer. “When town meeting comes, we’ll throw the bastards out, won’t we?”
16
THEY PERCH ON plastic wicker furniture bought on sale at Pier One. May’s asleep, so Harkness and Candace can give their limited sins free rein without fear. Out on their narrow cement balcony, they drink the quart of Jack D’Or and share a Marlboro Light. Little vices keep the big ones at bay, they tell themselves.
Seen from nineteen floors above the seaport, the city stretches out in a glimmering grid lit by constellations of streetlights, except one patch of darkness—the Lower South End. “You’ll like this,” Harkness says. “A bunch of people are leaving the Lower South End and invading Nagog.”
“Why?”
“There’s an old law still on the books that lets them move in.” Harkness sums up the ancient billeting regulation, triggering laughter from Candace.
“The people are calling themselves wanderers. Or the wanderer movement. They’re taking over all the remodeled garages and studios in town.”
“Sounds like Airbnb, but without asking or paying,” Candace says. “All those pissed-off, not-in-my-backyard people must be freaking big-time.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Maybe they need a little excitement.” As a lifelong member of Nagog’s nonconformist minority, Candace takes a certain satisfaction in watching her hometown tweek.
“We should check on your dad’s house.” Candace’s father died last year after a drug-fueled car wreck, leaving her a drafty McMansion and an underwater mortgage.
Candace shrugs. “They can have that place. No one’s looked at it in months. I should just put a Welcome, Wanderers! sign out front.”
“Don’t bother. They seem pretty good at finding places to stay.”
“Well, this one comes with a ghost or two.” Candace stares out at the harbor.
“What doesn’t?” Harkness reaches over to pull her toward him. They kiss long and slow.
“It’s so weird, Eddy,” she says. “How we ended up here, and together. How anyone ends up together.”
Harkness nods. It’s definitely weird.
“I remember seeing your dad working in his office when I came over to your place in high school to . . . listen to music.”
“That’s
what I told you we were going to do, was it?”
Candace smiles. “You had this headphone splitter thing so we could hang around your room listening to the same old Gun Club song and nodding at each other.”
“I don’t remember much else happening.”
“That’s because nothing did,” she says. “You were a senior and I was a freshman. Wouldn’t have been appropriate. Plus, you were shy.”
“Hardly,” he says. “Just in awe of your beauty.”
“And . . .”
“Still am,” Harkness says.
“So let’s do something about that.” Candace stands and pulls off her gray hoodie and drawstring pants. She steps out of her black thong, kicks it toward Harkness, and jumps up to sit on the cement balcony wall facing him.
“Isn’t that cold? And dangerous?”
“It’ll warm up.” Candace balances herself with her good hand. “And you’ll catch me.”
Harkness stands and unbuckles his belt, dropping his clothes on the cement floor of the darkened balcony. He reaches out to cup Candace’s pale breasts, to trace her inverted nipples gently with his fingertips until they emerge into the night air. Wrapping his arms around Candace, he’s inside her in seconds.
“Beautiful night.” She breathes faster.
“Getting even better.”
They move together, Candace rocking on the edge of the balcony, nineteen floors above the street. Even during this delicate act of stealth sex, they’re both listening for sounds of May waking up, rolling out of bed, and wandering through the living room.
But they’re alone on the balcony, far from the crowds returning to the reopened whiskey bar, farther from the gleaming towers of the financial district.
Facing the city, Harkness can’t take his eyes off the dark building perched on pilings in the harbor, even as Candace picks up the rhythm and presses herself urgently against him. Why are a dozen black limos waiting on the Northern Avenue Bridge next to the old harbormaster’s shack? The inexplicable building beams out a silent semaphore, joined by Candace’s amatory cry, echoing into the night.
Harkness is almost out of the bedroom when Candace stirs. “Eddy? What’re you doing?”
“Checking something out.” He’s putting on a pair of rumpled cargo pants, a faded black T-shirt, and a creased leather jacket.