by Doug Burgess
Billy tails them right to their car, a black Wrangler double-parked on America’s Cup Boulevard with a Trump/Pence sticker on the bumper. Finally, one bullet-head turns. There is a moment of genuine surprise, quickly followed by a reassuring appraisal. Billy is about five-eight and slight. And there are two of them. “You want something, asshole?”
“Yeah, your taillight is out.”
“Huh?”
Billy approaches the Jeep and considers it for a moment. His right foot shoots out and kicks in the light. It shatters into a dozen shards of red plastic. “That’s a fifty-dollar fine.”
“What the fuck, man?”
Now they’re advancing on him, murderous. “You’re gonna get it this time, pussy boy. You fucked with the wrong guys.”
Billy smiles, takes a step back. “Did I? You sure about that?” He digs into his pocket and flashes his badge. “Tiverton police. How’s your day so far?”
They stop, stare at him, at each other.
“Your car has Georgia plates. Y’all from Georgia? Welcome to Newport.” He kicks in the other light. The two men jump a little but seemed rooted in the ground. “You know,” Billy goes on conversationally, “you really need to do some research on a place before you visit. Oh, and you’re double-parked in a loading zone. That’s another eighty dollars.”
“You can’t do that!”
“Sure I can. I can do this too.” From his back pocket, he pulls out a taser wand. Both men know what it is. Now they are barely breathing. Billy taps it gently against his palm. “I can shove this thing up your ass and light you up like a Christmas tree. You want to call me a faggot again?”
“N…no.”
“Are you sure? How ’bout my boyfriend here?” He jerks a thumb at me. “Got any fresh observations for him? Come on, you were so eloquent before.”
“No, sir.”
“Right. Well, if you say so. Here’s your ticket.” He pulls out his pad, scribbles something on it, hands it to one of them. “Merry Christmas.”
The two troglodytes stare at him open mouthed. They haven’t even gotten into their car. It’s as if they’ve wandered into a dense forest and forgotten how to get home. Billy sketches a friendly wave and I do the same, much emboldened. But once we turn the corner, I collapse into his arms.
“Oh, damn, are you okay?” He’s holding me close, concerned. He takes my face in his hands. Only then does he realize I’m laughing hysterically.
“Yes,” I say, still choking, “Better than okay. I just realized how much fun it is to date a cop!”
* * *
While I was in the hospital, Aunt Constance hired a nurse for Grandma, a sensible soul named Mariana Tipatuna whom Maggie immediately, inevitably, began calling Rosalie. I don’t correct her. Mariana is Guatemalan and motherly, about fifty years old with grown children and an invalid husband in Central Falls. She moved into the guest room and visits her family on weekends. I come back from the adventure of the Black Pearl to a kitchen filled with the unfamiliar smells of achiote and coriander, and Grandma happily carving up plantains. “We’re making bananas Foster!” she announces.
Mariana nods and smiles toothlessly. “Yes, yes, very good, Maggie! Slice them small now!” She comes over to me and whispers, “It is mole de platanos. I make for my children all the time.”
Mariana is short, even shorter than me, and almost spherical. Her hands are like paddles, and she plays marimba on old cassette tapes while she dusts and vacuums. “Is that Arthur Lyman?” Grandma would call from the other room. “That’s Arthur Lyman. Mike and I saw his show at the Moana in Waikiki. Him and Martin Denny. Mike said he thought they were queers, but who cares? It was a good show. They let live birds fly around the stage.” Mariana sways her hips in time to the music, unperturbed. Even the Hired Help seems cowed by her. Once while she was making hilachas, the mixing bowl began whirring of its own accord, beating angrily against the table. Mariana turned round and bellowed, “¡Eh, cerote, sho pizado!” It went quiet at once. She shrugged and returned to peeling carrots, muttering, “Pusa. Don’t make me bring in a priest.”
Tonight is Christmas Eve, as I said, the real one this time. This is the night for which New England was made: candles glittering in windows, fields of bluish snow crackling underfoot, smell of woodsmoke in the air. Everything about a New England Christmas is traditional, from the carols to the ornaments (each with its own story, retold each year as it emerges from tissue paper), to Uncle Richard’s plaid cardigan that Aunt Agnes only lets him wear this day, to overdone ham with the sad fringe of eight pineapple rings—no more, no less—to Lionel trains around the Christmas tree and the same stories told at dinner, again and again. We take comfort from these things. But sometimes they can also heighten the absence. When I wake tomorrow, there will be no stockings on the hearth. Grandma will not be laying out plates in the dining room, nor Grandpa trundling back from the woodshed with a wheelbarrow full of firewood. The Laughing Sarahs will still come, as they always do, but be greeted with the smell of gallo en chicha and fried plantains. We will sit together around the dining table and reminisce about Christmases when we were whole, alive.
At six thirty in the evening, Aunt Irene’s ancient Dodge rumbles into the driveway. Grandma is in winter tweeds with a cashmere shawl and a clutch of pearls at her throat. She pulls on gray doeskin gloves and adjusts a tam o’shanter that looks like a fluffy woolen bladder. I’ve long since given up trying to choose her clothes for her; I just want her to be warm. But Mariana is unexpectedly determined on this point. “Is Christmas Eve,” she repeats. “She need look good for Jesus.” Grandma, who tried to bite me the last time I dressed her, submits to her ministrations like a lamb. Sometimes I think she just does it to annoy me.
Mariana sees us off, leaving a plate of fresh tamales colorados on the kitchen table—traditional Christmas dinner in San Andres Itzapa, apparently—and waves goodbye before heading back over the Mount Hope Bridge to her waiting family. The trip from our house to the church is not long. Snowfall from the storm still lies heavy on the ground outside, covered with a fresh dusting from the night before. Little Compton looks like a postcard. Little knots of the faithful pick their way across slippery walks to the summoning bell of the First Congregational. Every church window gleams with electric candles, and open doors throw a pool of warm yellow light on the glittering pavement. Inside, the altar rail is wrapped in garland that perfumes the air with a sweet woodsy scent. Colored lights twinkle from the chandeliers. Pastor Paige waits in the vestibule, bestowing a smile on each of us in turn, but his eye is always on the door. There’s a decent turnout of visitors on Christmas Eve—tourists or in-laws or those who have some dim memory of pageants and candle wax from their childhoods. Paige won’t close the doors until ten minutes past the hour, just in case of late arrivals.
The service has been the same since I was a child. There is comfort in that. A Bach introit is followed at once with a rousing chorus of “O Come All Ye Faithful,” then a quavering solo by Mrs. Elsie Featherstone (song of her own choosing, but usually “Once in Royal David’s City”), then “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” (first and last verses only, thank you). Voices droning like bees in a hive. “He was crucified for us under Pontius Pilate, and suffered, and was buried, and the third day he rose again, according to the Scriptures…”
Change. Transformation. The very essence of our faith. Something in that, surely. Marcus and I were alike in one way at least. Both of us trying to break free from the chrysalis of our own bodies, our desires, our pasts. Perhaps that’s what drew him to me, and I—though I’d be loath to admit it—to him. Perhaps that’s why he died.
But then we pass rapidly on. Pastor Paige delivers himself of a short message, allegedly on the coming of Christ, but usually on the subject of Christmases celebrated by him and his dead, sainted first wife (while his second wife, Mildred, glowers at him from the front pew). “Joy to the World”
is sung with the ebullience of convicts about to be released; a doxology and collection follow in quick succession (Bach again, an air, for God loveth a cheerful giver), another reading from the scripture, and finally it’s time for the candlelight send-off. When I was little, they still used real candles with a paper tray around the bottom that never quite protected your hand from drippings. Now they’re all electric, which is safer but less inspirational. The church lights dim, the candles ignite, and we stand to sing “Silent Night.” For that moment only, the ghosts of our Puritan forbears are satisfied.
In years past, Christmas Eve service would be followed by a caravan procession back to Grandma’s for Bundt cake and hot chocolate laced with brandy. The husbands would grow expansive, the Aunts keeping a watchful eye on them. Eventually they would sing carols, until Uncle Robert (Constance’s third and last) began substituting the lyrics with his own. These were considerably livelier than the originals, and you couldn’t deny the man had a real flair for show tunes. Later, of course, we found out why.
For some reason I’ve never understood, the evening always ended with Grandpa and Uncle Phil singing a song about dogs’ assholes. Phil claimed he got it off some Brits from the America’s Cup. He would finish his drink and intone mournfully, “All the dogs once held a meeting, they came from near and far; Some came by train, some walked, and others came by car…”
And Grandpa, wherever he was, whatever he was doing, would immediately join in: “But before they got inside the hall and were allowed to take a look; they had to take their assholes off and hang them on a hook.”
That part never made any sense. They took their assholes off? How? Why? So that, of course, one prankster dog could rush in and shout “FIRE!” whereupon all the dogs rushed to the coatroom, grabbed an asshole and slapped it on, hopelessly mixing them up in the process. “That’s the reason why,” Uncle Phil concluded, “a dog will leave a nice, fat bone; to sniff another asshole, ’cause he hopes to find his own!”
Tonight Aunt Constance suggests drinks at the shop instead. Her own house is too small for entertaining, and Aunt Irene’s is too far (by Little Compton standards), so the shop has become a kind of clubhouse. There’s a decent-sized common room where the men once hung their fishing tackle and kept a foosball table and some playing cards. The Sarahs junked the table but kept the cards and tackle, adding a leather sofa and a few squashy, comfortable chairs. The room hasn’t changed in years. Aunt Constance dispenses old fashioneds in chipped china mugs; Irene passes around a plate of fruitcake. Grandma is off in her own world, humming tunelessly, though I notice she makes short work of the fruitcake. Lately she has taken to watching television shows inside her head and will occasionally laugh aloud or sigh in consternation at whatever scene plays before her. The other Sarahs move nervously. Conversation is halting, as it often is now. They don’t want to talk about the past, and I don’t want to talk about Marcus. We trade desultory bits of gossip that we already know, each of us wondering how long we need to keep this going before appearances are satisfied.
“Have another drink if you want,” Aunt Constance says finally.
That’s the signal the party’s ended. It must be past midnight now, so I kiss each of them on the cheek and murmur, “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas!” Grandma exclaims, delighted to know it’s come around again.
“We’ll see you in the morning,” Irene tells her gently.
The phone in my pocket starts buzzing. It’s Billy. Aunt Constance looks over my shoulder and raises an eyebrow. “Oh, shut up,” I tell her and answer more nervously than I expected, “Hi?”
“Where are you? You’re not at the house; I was just there. Where are you?”
Billy’s voice sounds oddly strained. “I’m at Aunt Constance’s shop down by the pier. What’s up?”
“I can be there in like five or so. Can you come outside?”
“I’m with Grandma and the Aunts, Billy.”
“I know, I know. But it’s important. Can you? Please?”
Thoroughly mystified, I answer, “I guess so.”
“Thanks.” He hangs up without another word.
The Aunts are still peering at me closely. Something in my expression has alerted them. “Everything okay?” Irene asks.
“Yeah. Billy’s coming over. Wants to talk about something.”
“Oho!” says Aunt Constance, smirking. Irene carves off another slice of fruitcake and hands it to me. “Never talk about serious stuff on an empty stomach, I always say,” she confides with a wink.
It seems like only seconds before the headlights from Billy’s truck flare against the shop windows. As I come outside, I’m acutely aware that my sweater is emerald green with an embroidered cat wearing reindeer antlers, a gift from Aunt Irene and the least alluring garment in the Western Hemisphere.
“You rang?” I ask, heaving myself into the cab.
Billy’s face is flushed and strangely excited. His eyes glitter in the green dashboard light. I wonder if he’s been drinking. “That story about your old Uncle Sylvanus,” he says without preamble. “The one your grandma told you. Tell it to me again.”
“Huh?” I stare at him blankly. “What are you on about? It’s Christmas Eve, for heaven’s sake.”
“Never mind that.” He brushes the Holy Birth aside with his hand. “Tell me the story. Please.”
Confused, angry, and more than a little cold (the heater in Billy’s truck hasn’t worked right since the Bush administration), I repeat the story of Sylvanus and his unlikely romance. Billy listens intently, as if I’m an eyewitness to a homicide. But when I come to the end he says, “No.”
“No, what?”
“There was something else. The island. Your grandma talked about an island where Sylvanus ran the ships. Remember?”
“Shaped like a crescent, with a harbor inlet too narrow to be seen. Scilly Island, I think Grandma called it. You can’t see the approaches unless you’re almost on top of them.”
Billy’s eyes glitter more than ever. “Your grandma ever tell you where this island was?”
“I think she said it was somewhere past Dolphin Rock. But she was pretty vague. And anyway, why… Oh!” Now I’ve seen it too.
“A secret island,” he repeats, “that looks like solid rock but conceals an inner harbor. Just the place to hide a missing yacht, for instance?”
But even as he speaks, I shake my head. “The Calliope’s gone, Billy. You said so yourself. Twenty-six bags of fertilizer wouldn’t leave much behind.”
“We have no proof they were ever detonated. For all we know, they could still be inside the hull.”
“Even so, Scilly Island’s probably washed away. And if it did exist, what are the odds anyone alive would know about it?”
He shrugs. “Depends on who we’re talking about. I’ve never heard of it, and I lived here my whole life. But there’s people that spend a lot more time trolling around the bay than you or me.” To my amazement, he opens the glove box and pulls out a folded map. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. Well, shit, nothing else to do, right? You see here,” he says, unfurling the map on the seat between us and pointing. “There’s a cluster of rocks off Briggs Point that would be just about perfect. But we searched all of them, I remember. Nothing big enough to hide a boat. Then I found this.” He indicates an egg-shaped outcropping about a mile off Little Pond Cove.
“Can’t say I recognize it, but the position fits. Jesus, it feels like Treasure Island all of a sudden.”
“Wanna go take a look?”
“Yeah, I guess, if… But, you mean, now?”
“Why not?” He waggles his eyebrows humorously. “It’s an adventure.”
“It’s Christmas Eve!” I repeat. “I’ve got to get Grandma home. And the Aunts are waiting for me.” I look over to the shop windows, and sure enough, they are both there, Constance and Ir
ene, faces pressed to the glass like children at Macy’s window. Billy waves at them cordially. Aunt Irene waves back.
“They’ll be okay,” he promises me.
“But it’s dark! And even if we find it, you couldn’t call it in. It’s too late; nobody’ll be there…”
“If we find it, it’ll still be there in the morning. I can call it in then.”
“How will we get there?” I ask, fishing for objections.
“The police launch. It’s always got a full tank of gas.” Billy’s enthusiasm is infectious. There’s something else too, and I’d be a fool not to realize it. He’s been in the doghouse ever since Alicia disappeared. If he could actually find the Calliope, it would be a coup. The fact that he wants me along for the hunt is actually endearing. Still it’s bad policy to give a boyfriend what he wants without at least a token struggle. I let him wrangle me for about ten minutes before I finally, with a great sigh, assent.
Fifteen minutes later I’m regretting my decision and just about every other one for the last three months—especially the fruitcake. The police boat is a Boston Whaler with an unheated, closet-sized cabin wedged in the bow and two giant Chrysler diesels hanging off the stern. It tackles the waves like they owe it money, raising its fist and hammering them into submission. Great curtains of foam engulf the cabin and us. My reindeer cat is completely soaked. “Can’t…we…go…slower?”
Billy grins and, like all men everywhere, guns the engine. He takes us out of the harbor and turns south, running close along the coast with the Cormorant Light flashing off the port bow. The twin diesels lift us right out of the water, and the roar fills the cabin. We are reduced to making dumb show with our hands and, finally, staring out through the windscreen at the endless dark of the sea. I check my watch. 2:04. “Hey, Billy!” I scream, holding up the watch and forcing myself to be heard over the engines, “Merry Christmas!”