Firefly Beach

by Luanne Rice

  “I’m so thirsty,” Skye said, drinking a tall glass. She filled another, took the three aspirin, drank the water down.

  “What happened last night?” Augusta asked, shaken. “I thought you had decided to stop drinking for a while.”

  “I did. I stopped for a week. But it seems so pointless…” Skye tried to laugh.

  “Pointless, ah…my beautiful little existentialist. Shall we discuss Camus?” Simon asked, coolly lighting a cigarette.

  “Only if you make some martinis first,” Skye said. “Mom, you’re ready for one, right?”

  “Well, yes,” Augusta said cautiously. “But I’m not sure you should.”

  “Mom, do I really want to be one of those holier-than-thou abstainers? We hate them,” Skye said, shaking her head.

  “Personally, I think moderation is the best approach,” Augusta said. “But your sisters have a very definite opinion on this. They think you should stop entirely.”

  “They’re jealous,” Simon said, exhaling a long stream of smoke from between his thin lips. “Of Skye’s creativity.”

  Augusta’s skin crawled at his audacity, although she considered the possibility that he was right.

  “Will you quit talking about that and make the drinks instead?” Skye asked, a tremor in her voice. Alarmed, Augusta noticed that her lips were nearly white. Skye rarely snapped at Simon, just as Augusta had almost never spoken angrily to Hugh. Skye had to be under severe stress to talk to him that way, but already she was retreating.

  “I’m sorry, Simon,” she said, passing a hand across her face.

  Simon glared at her. He looked sullen and skinny, his dark eyes sunken like some dissipated raccoon’s. That he even considered himself in the same league as Hugh was pathetic, Augusta thought. She indulged him only because she understood Skye’s love for him. It couldn’t be explained, and it couldn’t be quenched.

  “I’ll make the drinks,” Simon said darkly.

  “Simon’s right,” Augusta said, squeezing Skye’s hand as a feeling of queasy panic rose in her chest. “You’ll feel so much better when you’re back in your studio.”

  “Oh, Mom,” Skye whispered.

  Nothing made Augusta feel so helpless as trying to get through to one of her girls and being unable to.

  “I don’t want to be an alcoholic,” Skye said, tears sliding down her face.

  “You’re not one,” Augusta said.

  “I hate the word.”

  “So do I.”

  “I want to drink less, I know I have to. I can do that, right?”

  “Of course, darling. I’ll help you. We’ll each have one, no more. Okay?”

  Skye nodded. But her tears continued to fall.

  Simon returned with a silver tray full of drink things. He had even remembered to bring a tiny dish of mixed nuts. The silver shaker, the vapors redolent of gin and vermouth, the three tiny olives. Skye’s eyes were dull as she watched him pour the martinis into chilled glasses. It occurred to Augusta, clear as crystal: Skye should not be drinking. At all.

  Augusta felt afraid. Filled with dread, she didn’t know how to stop what she had started. Caroline would be devastated when she found out.

  They raised their glasses, arms extended, to clink.

  “Here’s to Skye!” Augusta said. “Home again, where she belongs.”

  Caroline sat on her back porch alone. Wrapped in a shawl, she rocked gently in the glider, thinking of last night. She had walked along the riverbank with Joe and Sam while Skye got plastered in the bar. The men had told her: You can’t do anything. It’s up to Skye.

  A small oil lamp burned on the table beside her. The night was dark and heavy, and the artists were quiet. A dog barked in the distance; nightbirds cried across the marsh, and their sound filled Caroline with uneasy memories of long, long ago.

  She thought of Joe. Last night he had been here with her. Right here, by the river. He had held her hand. They hadn’t acknowledged it, hadn’t said anything. Sam didn’t seem to notice, and when they returned to the inn, Joe had dropped it and stepped away. But for their walk through the reeds, he had offered her comfort. And Caroline almost never took that from anyone.

  Amazing, she thought. She planted her feet firmly on the floor and pushed the glider back and forth, like a boat rocking on the waves. She was sitting there, on her own porch, not dashing out of town. Amazing. Totally unlike her. She opened the folder beside her. She took out Clarissa Randall’s diary.

  While Joe was miles at sea, excavating the ship that held Elisabeth Randall’s bones, Caroline was safe at home, reading the writings of her daughter. It made Caroline feel strangely protective of the little girl, a keeper of painful memories. Little girls needed looking after; Caroline had realized that always.

  Clarissa had such small handwriting. It traced across the page, delicate as spiderwebs. She had used a quill pen. Caroline recognized this, occasionally still using one herself. As a girl, she had found a seagull feather, used her father’s X-acto knife to slice a sharp point, and dipped it in India ink to write in her journal.

  August 15, 1769

  A very bad storm today. The biggest waves I have seen since last winter, and a wind to shake the tower and make me feared it would blow the light out. Pa told us a ship ran aground on Wickland Shoals with no loss of life and all hands lucky to be alive. It makes me glad we live here to light the lamp.

  August 17

  Mama gone almost all day. I wanted to find her, so I looked all over. Imagined her blown into the sea by the gale, so I was very afraid. Pa told us about pirates working the coast, bad men who take what isn’t theirs and sometimes hurt others in their selfishness. Mama has such beautiful things, I thought, what if pirates took her? She wears Grandmother’s cameo at her throat always. And she has the pearl and garnet pendant Pa gave her for their wedding. Pirates would surely find such treasures irresistible. I thought what if they hurt Mama taking her things! Or what if they steal her away to sail on their ship with them and cook their meals and be a wife to their captain.

  But I was wrong. Mama came home. When I asked her where she had been, she gave me a funny look. She told me women have secrets just like girls, and sometimes she needs to be alone with her secrets for a while. Her secrets keep her well, she said. What a funny thing to say! But she does seem happy. So should I be.

  August 18

  Again, Mama disappeared! Now it seems exciting, a game. She has a secret place! Where could it be? Wouldn’t it be perfect if it was one of mine? Let’s see: I have Lightning Rock, the tallest granite boulder on the north end. Also the tidal pools on the south shore, where we found the finback whale at summer’s start. I have the pine barrens, the green bowl, the beacon room atop the light. Should I let Mama keep her secret, or should I find her out?

  August 20

  Captain Thorn of the Cambria paid a visit. He brought whale oil and lavender. Don’t like him.

  August 22

  Windy. Went to the boathouse to play, and saw Mama talking to Captain Thorn. Don’t like him. He is from England, and he talks that way that makes Pa laugh. Mama bade me not tell Pa of their meeting. Walking home, we found a lobster shedding its shell in the rockweed. Mama cooked it for Pa, and he let me eat the little claws. Still haven’t found Mama’s secret place.

  Reading the pages, Caroline found herself breathing hard. Clarissa had found her mother’s secret place, and she didn’t even know it. Captain Thorn was her mother’s secret, but Clarissa’s mind was too innocent to realize. Like all those times Hugh had been away from home with Joe’s mother or some other woman, and Caroline had thought he was somewhere painting.

  August 24

  Today porpoises swam by the beach, just ahead of a whale. I wanted to swim with them, but Mama said no. She sat so quiet on the sand, sad like I haven’t seen her for weeks. The tern babies begging their mamas for fish made her cry, and I said what’s wrong, Mama? Usually the baby birds make us laugh. But she said to be a good girl, to take care of myself
no matter what happens. That when mamas aren’t there to take care of their babies, they have to know the babies will survive.

  August 29

  I can scarcely believe. Mama is gone! Captain Thorn took her aboard the Cambria, and she drowned on Moonstone Reef! Dear God, give me back Mama!

  Caroline read the horrible words, biting her lip. The poor little girl. Abandoned by her own mother, and for what? So the woman could die with her lover at sea in a storm? Clarissa had been left to deal with everything by herself, with no help from the people who were supposed to protect her. Even worse, she had lost a parent she loved.

  Across the marsh, the whippoorwill called. Seagulls cried, and other shorebirds, but the whippoorwill’s song was unmistakable. It rang through the night, making Caroline think of Redhawk. That mountain trail, covered with yellow leaves, where she had begun to lose her father.

  The cordless telephone beside her rang.

  Caroline stared, thinking of Skye. She answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi. It’s Joe.”

  “Hi,” Caroline said. She shivered, although the night was hot. She held the phone with both hands and wondered what the sea looked like tonight.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “You were pretty upset last night.”

  “I’m fine,” Caroline said.

  “The thing is,” Joe said, “you’re probably not, but you can’t change what she does.”

  “That’s what you said. And Sam.”

  “He should know. He watched me drink for a long time.”

  “He’s a nice kid.”

  Joe made a sound halfway between a snort and a laugh. “He’s a character.”

  Caroline smiled. She had liked watching the brothers together, and she enjoyed hearing Joe soften every time Sam entered the picture. She heard Joe breathing against the receiver, and she closed her eyes. A warm breeze blew, lifting the hair on the back of her neck. All she had ever wanted was a friend, she thought. Why was that so hard?

  “I called because I thought of something that might help,” he said. “Maybe it won’t help Skye, but it might help you.”

  “What?” Caroline asked.

  “Just be honest,” he said. “As honest as you can, about everything.”

  “I am—” she said, feeling hurt.

  “I know. I believe you are. But…”

  Caroline was silent, listening to his breath. Something inside her was changing, a profound shifting of ground that had to do with her isolation, the past. She knew it had started when Joe came to town, and it had to do with Skye slowly killing herself. She had always taken care of the ones she loved, but right now she knew she needed some help of her own. She held the receiver tighter.

  “Sometimes you have to go deeper,” Joe said. “I can’t explain it, but it worked for me. Once I figured out what I was trying to hide from, I…was more ready to think of stopping.”

  “Stopping?”

  “Drinking. There’s a saying,” Joe said. “The truth will set you free.”

  Caroline nodded. She closed her eyes again, thinking of what he had said. Her mind filled with an image of Skye, ten years old, alone on the mountain. She lay in her tent. It was August, the night was cool. Beneath her sleeping bag, under the thin tent floor, writhed snakes. Outside, coyotes howled. Skye lay with her eyes wide open, clutching her knife.

  Andrew Lockwood would not cross their path for several years, but death was in the air. They were so young, and they were too alone. Caroline had learned never to complain.

  “The truth feels too hard,” she whispered.

  “No,” Joe said, realizing for the first time himself that the opposite is really true. “It might feel that way, but it’s not. It’s freedom.”

  Caroline listened to the phone echo. She heard static on the line, voices in the background. Jostling, as if Joe were fighting to hang on to the phone.

  “Hang on,” Joe said reluctantly. “Someone wants to speak with you.”

  “Caroline, hey!”

  “Hi, Sam,” she said, pulling herself together.

  “What’re you doing tomorrow afternoon?”

  She could hear Joe in the background. They scuffled over the phone. The headset clattered, shuffled along a desktop. She heard laughter, a muffled shout, Joe speaking in a stern and insistent tone. Sam regained control of the phone.

  “Well?” he asked, as if nothing had happened. “Are you busy?”

  “I have a bank board meeting in the morning,” she said. “But otherwise the day is clear.”

  “Joe’s lecturing at Yale. It’s open to the public.”

  “What time?” Caroline asked.

  “Three o’clock. At Crawford Hall.”

  “Does Yale offer a degree in treasure hunting?”

  Sam laughed. “No, but tomorrow the treasure hunter turns back into a scientist. If you come, you’ll get to hear him speaking on the joys of sediment. I’m going to teach there, you know.”

  “At Yale? Really?”

  “Well, they haven’t offered me the job, but they will once—” Again Sam chuckled, losing control of the phone. Caroline heard Joe telling him to shut up, but his tone was joking, and there was laughter in his voice.

  “I’ll try to be there.” Caroline waited for Joe to come back on the line, but Sam disconnected first. The line hummed.

  After lunch the next day, Caroline swung by Clea’s to pick her up. Together they headed west, down 95 toward New Haven. Clea didn’t seem to find it strange that they would be going to Yale University to hear Joe Connor lecture on sediment. She simply smiled, told Caroline she looked beautiful in her navy blue dress, pearl earrings, and bracelet.

  “Thank you,” Caroline said. She cast a quick look across the seat. “Am I too dressed up?”

  “You’re perfect.”

  “I’m not really sure why we’re going,” Caroline said. “Except Sam sounded so excited, and I don’t want to let him down. He’s a cute kid.”

  “That’s a good reason to drive all the way to New Haven in ninety-five-degree heat. To hear someone lecture about mud,” Clea said, smiling inscrutably.

  “If you didn’t want to go…” Caroline muttered.

  “I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Clea said.

  Route 95 was crowded. Traffic started building in Guilford, and by the time they reached the big bridge curving past the oil tanks at the head of New Haven harbor, they had just enough time to get there.

  “See that big stone tower, looks like a cathedral?” Clea said, pointing across New Haven’s concentrated skyline. “That’s Harkness. Right in the middle of Yale, two blocks from Crawford Hall.”

  “Remember coming to Yale right after Dad died?” she continued.

  “Yep. He had left that painting to the museum, and we all had to put on party dresses and drink tea with the trustees. Mom told the server to fill her teacup with sherry.”

  “And she was outrageous so they wouldn’t see how sad she was.”

  “How much she hated doing things without Dad.”

  “Let’s not talk about it,” Clea said, shuddering. “Let’s pull a Mom and put it right out of our heads.”

  Caroline turned off the expressway, took a right on York Street. She drove past the colleges of Yale, the granite buildings and big iron gates, and found a parking spot on the corner of Prospect and Grove. Without another word about the past, she and Clea walked up a tree-lined path to Crawford Hall.

  Granite steps led into an arched and vaulted stone entrance hall. Graduate students and members of the public milled about the cool space. Joe’s lecture was one in a popular series on maritime topics; it had been publicized in local papers and The New York Times. People were beginning to file into an auditorium.

  Sam waved them over. He was sitting in the second row and had saved a seat for Caroline.

  “This is my sister, Clea,” she said, and they shook hands. Sam got everyone else in the row to shift down one, and they took their seats, with Caroline b
etween Clea and Sam. Sam wore khaki pants, a denim shirt, and a tie. His hair was neatly combed, but it kept falling in his eyes anyway. He had a notebook open, as if he intended to take notes.

  Dr. Joseph Connor walked onto the stage, taking his spot at the lectern. He wore a brown tweed jacket, a white shirt, and a striped tie. His manner was comfortable, like a sexy young college professor. He cleared his throat, gripping the lectern with tanned hands. Looking into the audience, he was relaxed, as if he had stood before many students, delivered many lectures.

  He talked about roaming the seas in the R/V Meteor, diving on shipwrecks and exploring the ocean floor. He spoke of research as a by-product of his treasure hunts. He explained how climate and sea level responded to past changes, how sediments were packed in complicated patterns of layered wedges. Cylinders of gray mud were brought up and dated by the ship’s paleontologist through microfossils contained therein.

  “Drilling holes deep in the seabed to retrieve cores of mud and rock allows us to interpret the earth’s distant past, going back thirty-five million years,” he said. “Diving on a ship such as the Cambria is a way to interpret the last two hundred.”

  He spoke of how his work combined geology and archaeology, how he juxtaposed his interest in the sea bottom with curiosity about human behavior. At his signal, the lights were dimmed, and he began to project slides on a screen at the front of the auditorium.

  “Our current site,” he said, “is a perfect example. The Cambria was an English barquentine, her holds full of the king’s gold. She went down in a storm in 1769, and all hands were lost, including the captain and a woman who had fallen in love with him.” Joe paused, clearing his throat.

  The screen showed a three-masted ship. It was the drawing Caroline had seen hanging in the Meteor’s chart room. Joe clicked a button, and pictures of gold coins and barnacle-encrusted cannons appeared. Another click, and a page of Clarissa’s diary filled the screen.

  “The woman was a wife and mother, and she left behind a little girl,” Joe said. “The child kept a diary, and recently I came into possession of a copy.”