by Sharon Lee
Later, I came to understand what he wanted from my mother. From me—I was a toy. He wrapped me in his will, allowing me to remain just aware enough to know—and to hate—what he forced my body to do. Sometimes, he would free me to myself; at first, I would hope that he’d grown bored. But hope was what he wanted; when I had built sufficient supply, he would own me again and, slowly had my body undress itself, savoring both the death of hope, and my loathing; laughing as he walked me to his couch to perform acts no child . . .
I heard the land whine, felt the analog of a wet nose thrust into my hand; I smelled salt, and hot oil, and wet tarmac.
Blinking away tears, I embraced the land and moved, backing away from the memory . . .
. . . and bumped smack into the rooster.
I gasped a laugh, and shook my head to clear my eyes.
“Stupid bird,” I said, and smacked its rump hard enough to sting my hand. This was reality. The other—had been a long time ago. Against all odds, I had survived.
To come home.
The air horn sounded; I jumped—and then jumped from the deck to the floor, running to close the storm gates.
“Stop here,” I said, and Peggy did, pulling her Prius close in to the side of the steps, and shutting it down.
I got out and she did, and she stood looking up at Gran’s house.
“I just need an apartment, Kate. I mean, the expense account is covering meals and lodging, but there’s no way I can stretch to a house. Especially”—she pointed to her left—“a house right on the damn’ beach. How does anybody afford that?”
“Been in the family for years and years,” I said, which was true. “But I’m not renting you the house. That’s where I live. What I have to offer is right over here.”
I led the way around to the stairs, and the walkway hidden behind the hump of the dune, the windows sheltered by the summer parlor, directly above.
I’d left the patio light on. It shone on paving stones swept as sand-free as possible, and a couple of woven-web chairs that I’d found in the storage closet.
“You’ll have to keep an eye on them,” I told her. “The wind—especially storm winds—come over the dunes sometimes, and loft the furniture around. Best to keep them inside, and bring them out when you’re going to use them.”
“If I take the place,” Peggy said.
“That’s right. And don’t think I’ll be brokenhearted if you don’t. Come on in and see what you think.”
I pushed the door open and stood back to let her go in first.
As living quarters went, it was pretty basic. The front door opened into the living room, with that big window looking out over the dunes, and a concrete floor covered with indoor/outdoor carpet. At the back of the big room was a kitchenette, to the left was the bathroom, and beyond that, the bedroom.
I’d spent the early afternoon before my shift at the carousel cleaning the place and airing it out. It didn’t look, or smell, too bad, and it did have, as the woman said, location.
My biggest worry had been that the appliances and heating system were as bad as I remembered them. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried; Gran had updated the place sometime during the years I was away. The living room was furnished with a serviceable, middling-new sofa, a recliner, coffee table, and a television set. One corner of the bathroom housed a washer and dryer, stacked one on top the other. In the kitchen, the stove was electric; there was a microwave slotted in over it and a good range hood with lights and an exhaust fan that might’ve proven a danger to a cat, if Peggy had one, which I was willing to bet she didn’t. No dishwasher, but the refrigerator was full-sized Frigidaire—totally up to the task of keeping the beer cold.
Peggy walked the place, opened the cupboards and the drawers, looking over the dishes and the silverware, the serviceable pots and pans.
She flicked the light on in the bedroom, tried the bed, opened the wardrobe, walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
Back in the living room, she flopped on the sofa and bounced—testing the springs, I guess—and looked up at me out of wide purple eyes.
“Linens come with, and all the kitchen stuff,” I said, “like you see. You’re responsible for doing the laundry and cleaning the place—there’s no maid service here.”
She shook her head.
“Kate, we’re still at the same place. Arbitrary and Cruel uses the Federal per diem and lodging guidelines because that way everybody suffers equally. I got . . .” She closed one eye, apparently to help her calculate.
“. . . seventy-five hundred dollars to spend on lodging from June ’til the day after Labor Day.”
Standing by the door, I shrugged.
“So? I’ll charge you half that.”
“No, you ignorant provincial peasant, you’ll charge me ten times that because places like this, overlooking that”—she waved a dramatic hand toward the window—“do not grow on trees. However, if you’re serious about renting to me, and because I am a big, scary fixer from the Big City, and you’re not, I will trick you into taking exactly that seventy-five hundred bucks Arbitrary and Cruel is willing to pay. Done?”
It didn’t actually matter to me what rent she paid, but Peggy wasn’t the kind of girl who’d believe that. And she wasn’t, so I strongly suspected, the kind of girl who took freebies.
“Done,” I said, with another shrug.
“Thank God. Now, tell me why you don’t rent this out to summer people for a thousand dollars a night.”
“I don’t do summer people,” I told her, truthfully, and with maybe a little more force than necessary.
Peggy blinked.
“Beg pardon?”
“I don’t do summer people—coming home drunk every night, with a new toy, and trying to go longer and louder than last night. I’m a working woman and I need my sleep. Speaking of which”—I pointed out the door and up—“that’s my front porch over top, there. And over that is the window to my bedroom. Fine weather, it’s usually open, so if you do bring somebody home . . .”
Peggy grinned. “I’ll be quiet, promise.”
“I’m just letting you know that privacy isn’t something you necessarily get with all that.” I swept my hand out toward the dunes in imitation of her gesture.
“So, you were going to let this, what—sit empty all summer?”
“No matter to me if it does,” I said. “When I was a little kid, Gran used to rent it every summer to a painter. He’d come up in mid-June. If the weather was good, he’d stay through September. Never any trouble, just a slight smell of turpentine from time to time. Friday nights, he’d get in a six-pack, kick back and listen to Big Band music.”
“So that’s why you hate summer people!”
I ignored her.
“After he stopped coming—we got a note one May from his daughter saying he’d retired to a nursing home and wouldn’t be coming up in June. Got another note in August, saying he’d gone on ahead . . . Anyhow, after that, Gran tried renting it by the week. It wasn’t a happy experience. A couple years, she rented it out Season-long, mostly to artists, or writers, but there were years we’d air it out, then just close it up again.”
“Well, I’m pleased to be able to profit from your indolence,” Peggy said brightly. “When can I move in?”
I pulled the key from my pocket and held it out to her.
“Best before Friday,” I said.
She took the key and stood jiggling it in her hand, looking around, as if she was thinking about what else she was going to need to make the place homey enough for the summer.
“Before Friday, absolutely.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Monday, June 12
Low Tide 6:04 A.M.
Sunrise 5:00 A.M. EDT
According to my phone, it had just turned eight o’clock when I pushed open the door of the Garden Cafe.
Apparently, my phone was slow.
It wasn’t a big place—maybe room for fifty to sit down and eat, including the
five stools at the counter. Four of the tables had been shoved together just in front of the counter, where they’d interfere least with the waitstaff’s routes. All sixteen of those seats were full, and a table for two over against the wall. Five more folks holding coffee mugs stood behind the occupants of the chairs.
I recognized a good many of the faces: Jelly Lee, sitting at the head of the pushed-together long table; Joan Anderson; Brand Carver; Millie Bouchard; Henry Emerson, the Pepperidge family lawyer; Beth Abernathy, owner of Play Me; Tom Violette, owner of the Sweet Shoppe; Gregor of Gregor’s Electronics; Mr. Kristanos, from Dynamite; Janice Wing, the town librarian; Johnny Gardner, the second-man at Ka-pow!; Ernie Travis, who owned the hardware store; Bob . . .
“Kate!”
Jess Robald got up out of a chair midway downtable, and hurried ’round to clasp my arm, like I was a returning war hero.
“Brand, get off your can and let Kate sit down. Everybody, this is Kate Archer. Kate, I think you know every—well, here’s Michelle—”
A stocky woman with graying brown hair gave me a nod from behind Millie’s shoulder.
“. . . and Ahzan Dhar . . .”
A slight, brown man wearing tortoiseshell glasses, nodded to me from the chair next to Bob.
“Good morning,” I said, since it seemed like Jess expected me to say something. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Not late,” Brand said, leaning over my shoulder to put a nice thick white mug of coffee in front of me. “We’re all just early.”
“It’s Michelle’s fault,” said Beth Abernathy. “Not only does she open at five, but she said she’d stand coffee for the lot of us.”
“And then of course some of us,” said Millie, pushing a conspicuously empty plate away from her, “wanted our breakfasts.”
“So, if nobody minds,” Jess said, giving Brand an especially stern stare, “let’s begin this meeting of Archers Beach Twelve to Twelve.”
“What’s—wait.” That was Gregor. “Twelve to Twelve?”
Jess looked conscious. “Well, we had to call ourselves something, and I thought, we’re trying to go from a twelve-week Season to a twelve-month Season.” She looked around the table, and added, somewhat subdued. “Eventually, I mean . . .”
“I like it,” Joan Anderson said, and smiled at Jess.
“Sure, hell, yes!” Millie thumped her coffee mug on the table. “If we’re in, then we’re in. No sense getting half-wet.”
“So we’ll be all wet?” asked Tom Violette—and jerked, as if he’d been kicked. “Hey! That hurt.”
“Archers Beach Twelve to Twelve,” Michelle said. “That’s good.”
“The group has established a working name,” Henry said, with an urbane inclination of the head toward Jess. “Carry on, chairwoman.”
Jess gulped, then straightened her shoulders.
“So the reason we’re here is that we all believe that a twelve-week Season is too short, and that for the good of the town, and the good of—well, us, we should work together to expand the Season. The Chamber already proved that a Super Early Season can work. We missed a trick, there, us in the park. We shoulda gone to Marilyn and fought to go right into Early Season hours, instead shutting down for two weeks after we were up and running.”
“Well. Marilyn would’ve had to check with the Big Bosses,” Millie said, “and by the time they’d got back, would’ve been Early Season, anyhow.”
“Water under the bridge,” Bob said. “What’re you thinking, going forward?”
“The first thing I’m thinking,” Jess said, looking around the table, “is there’s no reason at all that Labor Day needs to be the last gasp. Sure, people go back to work, but you got your retireds, like came Early, and you got your folks who got jobs don’t let ’em take time during the summer, and”—she turned her hands palms-up—“there’s enough. Enough to stretch us out, what? Four weeks on either side.”
“Where’s President Dan by the way?” Henry asked.
“For that matter, where’s the town manager?” Millie added.
“Town manager got nothing to do with how we operate our businesses,” Bob said surprisingly. “So long’s we don’t violate an ordinance, and nobody’s saying anything illegal here, right, Henry?”
“That is correct. This is a group of business owners who have formed a task force in order to facilitate efforts to increase consumer traffic and legitimately maximize profit. Nothing for the town to care about. The Chamber, however . . .”
“Mr. Poirier felt that this meeting was in the nature of exploration, rather than affirmation,” Janice Wing said. “I wonder, Henry, if you would have time to stop by his office and share your impression of what we accomplish here today?”
“I would be delighted,” Henry answered promptly. “I owe Dan a cup of coffee, come to think of it.”
“Thank you,” Janice said, and looked to Jess. “Excuse me, chairwoman.”
“That’s fine,” Jess said, and added, “Thanks, Henry. Having the Chamber with us on this is going to be huge. Now, the first thing I’d like us to agree on, as a group, is that we’ll commit to staying open through the end of September.”
“Those of us who are in the park,” Jelly murmured, “though we may agree in spirit, may not be able to honor such a pledge. Our hours of operation are set by Manager Michaud.”
“Arcade’s in,” Johnny Gardner said. “Tell Marilyn that, an’ see if she can’t find the phone to call down south.” He nodded to Jess. “We believe there’s money to be made, and we’re willing—Ms. Belleville and me—we’re willing to stake a couple weeks’ operating costs to see if we’re right.” He raised his coffee cup, his forehead wrinkling, and looked back to Jess. “And, if we’re not, to see if there’s a way to make us right. All of us.”
“Problem’s getting the word out.” That was Bob again; downright talkative this morning, Bob. I wondered who was minding his restaurant while he came uphill to a meeting, of all things. “We can stay open all winter long, and if nobody knows it, nobody’ll come.”
“That’s exactly right,” Jess said, smiling at him. “We’re gonna talk about that in a minute, okay? Just let me—” She looked downtable to Jelly. “The ride operators, we’ll have a—a sub-meeting, figure out what we want to say and who’ll say it, then we’ll make an appointment with Marilyn. That sound good?”
“It does, thank you. The Lee family does want to be involved in this, please.”
“Sure,” she said.
“Send Anna to talk to Marilyn,” Brand said, from behind Millie’s chair. “Talking about convincing.”
“That’s not a bad idea, but first let’s talk ’mong ourselves and see what we wanna say,” Jess said. “I’ll come ’round to all of you and we’ll figure out a time. The park . . .” She frowned.
“The Fun Country subcommittee?” Henry suggested, and her face cleared.
“That’s right. Thank you, Henry.” She took a breath and looked around at the mob of faces. I was impressed, myself, both with Jess’ command of her meeting, and with the meeting’s air of serious, practical, intent.
“Okay. The next thing we have for—for Twelve to Twelve as a whole—and speaking to Bob’s point—is something Ms. Wing, our town librarian, found out about. I’ll just let her explain, if she would.”
“Thank you.” Janice leaned forward, her hands folded neatly on the table in front of her. “Some of you may know that the State of Maine government includes a tourism department. Their mission is to promote Maine to people from Away. It also offers assistance to towns wishing to . . . make themselves more attractive to tourists, or to, say, figure out how to expand a Season, or deepen an existing Season.” She smiled a slight, librarian smile. “It may be that we are overlooking something of interest—something that we don’t even think is notable, because we have it all the time.”
“You mean, like the Atlantic Ocean?” asked Bob, maybe half flippant.
“The Atlantic Ocean is one thing, yes,” Ms. Wing acknowled
ged. “Fun Country is another—it has a history, and is one of the few seaside amusement parks still operating. The carousel is another feature. Antique wooden carousels are notable, aren’t they, Ms. Archer? There are, I believe, carousel tours for enthusiasts.”
“That’s right,” I said, and, this being a brainstorming session, didn’t add that we weren’t really well fixed for a carousel tour, since those liked to have four or more within reasonable touring distance of each other.
“The Galaxi is also from another era; I believe that there are roller coaster enthusiasts, as well.” She leaned forward, looking from face to face.
“The point is that the Office of Tourism will help us identify our strengths, so that we can promote them—as Bob said, if no one knows that we have the Atlantic Ocean; a century-old, operating wooden carousel; a classic roller coaster; the Garden Cafe—we have many treasures! But, if no one knows those things are here, no one will come to Archers Beach looking for them.
“I propose to make contact with the Office of Tourism and find out what sort of assistance is available, the procedure for applying, and if there are any out-of-pocket costs involved.” She bit her lip and looked to Henry.
“The Chamber will, I think, need to be involved at some point, but I believe that no one can object to my mounting an exploratory expedition.”
“I think it shows initiative, and an understanding that President Poirier’s time is valuable,” Henry said seriously. “I’ll just mention to him, over that cup of coffee, that Twelve to Twelve is making sure it has all of its ducks in a row before calling on the Chamber’s assistance.”
Ms. Wing looked relieved.
“Thank you, Henry.”
“Anybody have any objection to Ms. Wing touching base with the tourism office up in Augusta, to see what kind of help they can give us?” Jess asked.
Nobody said anything.
She nodded. “Okay, then. Ms. Wing—that’s yours to do. Anybody else have something to say?”
“Just something to keep in the back of your mind,” I said, and paused when all eyes turned respectfully in my direction. That wasn’t how it usually went in the meetings I was used to, and it caught me off-balance for a second.