by A. L. Jambor
"No, thank you."
Mari thought about Harry and his bruised and mangled body. She hadn't seen it, but her imagination had conjured several images of what she thought he might have looked like after they pulled him from the wreckage. Cassie saw the forlorn look on Mari's face.
"It wasn't your fault."
"You keep saying that."
Mari shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans kept walking.
"Because it's true," Cassie said as she followed her. "And you'd know it if you read the police report. Or better yet, why don't you talk to the man driving the other car?"
"He was drunk."
Cassie rolled her eyes. "Mari, I already told you he wasn't drunk."
"The cops said he was."
Cassie grabbed Mari's arm. "No, they didn't. The news people got it wrong when they said that. He was not drunk."
Mari shook her arm to get out of Cassie's grip, but Cassie held on.
"Then why did he plow into me?"
"I don't know. That's why you should talk to him." Cassie smiled wanly. "The police said it was the ice, that he hit the brakes too hard and fishtailed." She put her hands on Mari's shoulders. "You have the report. Why don't you read it again and then talk to the man?"
Mari blushed and looked away. She didn't want to admit that she hadn't read the report yet. Cassie had given her a copy a week after she moved into the apartment. She'd shoved it in a kitchen drawer and forgotten about it as she cocooned herself in the sweet numbness of depression.
"I'll think about it," she said.
They didn't talk as they walked toward the boardwalk. When they saw the beach, Cassie took Mari's hand.
"Let's sit on a bench."
Mari followed her to a bench. The sun was behind them, but it still warmed the spring air, which, for now, seemed clear of pollen. Mari took a deep breath as she stared at the water.
"I want to enjoy this," she said.
"What's stopping you?"
"Harry keeps popping into my mind." She felt tears forming in her eyes. "I had to get the research done and there wasn't any time left because of the storm. Harry wanted to go with me to keep me safe." Mari sniggered and shook her head. "Safe." She looked at the sea and sighed. "He wanted to take care of me."
"It wasn't your fault," Cassie said.
"I shouldn't have taken him with me."
"He wanted to go."
"Only because I was too stupid to stay put. I wanted the story. It was mine, and if I didn't get it done, they'd send someone else. I couldn't let that happen."
Cassie squeezed her hand. "He was a grown-ass man who made a decision. You didn't make him go with you."
Mari pulled her hand from Cassie's and shoved her hands into her pockets again.
"I don't want to talk about this." She looked at Cassie. "I don't want to do anything."
Cassie put her arm around Mari's shoulders.
"We all go through shit, sweetie, it's what we do with it that counts. Now, you can sit on your ass and brood about how awful you are, or you can decide you've punished yourself long enough and start living again."
"I've heard that before."
"And I'm sure you'll hear it again. You'll keep hearing it until you get it." Cassie squeezed her. "Until that damaged brain of yours gets it."
"I am brain damaged, aren't I?" Mari smiled. "MaybeI could get disability."
"Oh, no," Cassie said. "You are not going to live in my apartment forever. You are going to work again, brain damaged or not, so just stop that nonsense." Cassie looked at her watch. "We better get back. I bought some cookies and if we leave that boy too long, he'll climb up on the counter and take them out of the cabinet."
Mari smiled. "What kind?"
Cassie stood up. "Oreos."
Mari stood up. "Can I have some?"
"Yes, Mari, you can have some."
Cassie watched her friend heading across the street, walking faster than she had before, and all because she knew there were Oreos at the end of her journey. Is this what was left of Mari, this childlike shadow of the strong woman she'd been?
Cassie had talked to Mari's roommate, Jesse, and had asked him what Mari was like before, and he'd told her that nothing would have stopped Mari from getting to the truth, that her desire to be first made her a good research analyst, and that other networks had pursued her, sort of the way Mari was pursuing those Oreos now.
It made Cassie sad to think that Mari might never recover, and she worried about Mari's future. Disability would take away any hope of a future as an independent person, and Cassie was determined to help her find her way back to a good life.
When they got back to the house, Mari asked for the key and went inside first. Joey was still writing, and her smile faded. She sat at the table and watched him move his pencil across the paper.
"Are you almost done?" she asked him.
Joey shook his head.
"Do you want to stay for dinner?" Cassie asked.
Now Mari shook her head.
"I need food for my house. I should go before the store closes."
Cassie went into the closet, took out the package of Oreos, put some in a baggie, and handed them to Mari.
"For the road," she said.
Mari smiled broadly, and as she walked to the small grocery store in Cape Alden, she ate them.
Jack
1939
Isabelle Morton re-read the birthday card Jack Womack had given her for her sixteenth birthday while thirteen-year-old Cal Baker swept the floor behind the bar stools. With her father out of town, Isabelle was acting as bartender for the patrons of Morton's Inn, and her beauty drew the local men to the bar, where they would order beer and watch her walk back and forth between customers. Jack was her favorite; he was everyone's favorite, a handsome, charming Englishman with a quick smile and an extra dollar in his pocket for those who might come up a bit short at the end of the evening.
"So what will you do if there's a war over there?" she asked Jack when she brought his beer.
"I'll go home and fight for my country."
A shadow crossed Isabelle's face as she thought of Jack leaving Cape Alden. At twenty-six, Jack was much too old for her, but Isabelle had always harbored the fantasy that when she wasn't too young for him, he'd be there for her. Now, as the threat of war hung over England, Jack's decision to go back was set, and Isabelle doubted the prayers she said every night asking for continuing peace in Europe would be answered.
"It won't be the same here without you," Joe Jackson said.
Joe, the lighthouse keeper, had always taken advantage of Jack's offer to pay his tab. Without Jack, Joe would have to curtail his evenings at the inn and stay home with his wife and five kids, and the prospect of it made Joe cringe.
"He's not going anywhere yet," Isabelle said.
The tone of her voice reminded Joe of his wife's when he said he'd be home soon.
"Sure you will," Joan Jackson would say.
Isabelle was wiping the counter when Artie Johnson came in and sat beside Jack. The two had become friendly when Artie moved to Cape Alden with his young bride, Charlotte. He and his wife were just eighteen, and they lived in a cottage on the beach a half mile from the lighthouse. The cottage was owned by Gable Railroad, Artie's employer. While he barely made enough to keep body and soul together, Artie was grateful to have a job, but not a wife.
Artie always sat next to Jack, who would buy him a beer, and talk about Jack's life as a bootlegger. Artie would listen to the stories and long for such a life, but the closest he got to a sailor's life were the weekends Jack took him to Atlantic City. Artie and Charlotte were married in name only, so when they went to the boardwalk, Jack would find the cutest girls and introduce them to Artie. Artie lost his virginity to a cool redhead who told him what he wanted to hear, and who took three dollars from Jack on her way home from the hotel just before dawn.
Artie looked at Isabelle. All the men knew she was off limits, but Artie wasn't much older
than Isabelle, and his constant staring annoyed her. He watched her pouring drinks and his longing for her didn't go unnoticed by his drinking companions.
"How's Charlotte?" Jack asked.
Artie frowned at the mention of his wife's name and sipped his beer.
"She's fine," Artie said.
"I never see her in town. Does she ever leave that cottage?"
"She does go to the grocery store, but mostly she sits on the porch and watches the ocean."
"Sounds lonely," Jack said. "Maybe she could get a job."
Artie laughed. "Charlotte!" He shook his head. "What could Charlotte do? She's not that smart, Jack. Who would hire her?"
Artie and Charlotte had been raised together in an orphanage in upstate New York. She had been a timid girl while Artie was more gregarious. As they grew, though, she passed him in height, and her hair went from bright orange to smoldering auburn. She still felt awkward about her size, though, so when Artie asked her to marry him so he could get the job with the railroad, she accepted, because in one year, they would both be expelled from the state-run facility. At the wedding, Charlotte, who was six feet tall, wore flat shoes, but she still loomed over her five-foot-ten husband.
When they moved to Cape Alden, Charlotte was excited to see the ocean, but the stares they drew from the townspeople reminded her of the taunts she'd endured while at the orphanage, and she chose to stay home rather than face their derision.
Artie, though, loved the town with its old Victorian homes and the shops that lined Main Street. He'd made friends in town and came home only when he had to, which meant Charlotte was left alone most of the time. Long after her marriage, Charlotte remained a virgin, and without a child to occupy her time, she began to fantasize about running away, but there was never enough money for that. What little Artie gave her went for food, and he expected her to use it that way.
When Charlotte married, the woman running the orphanage bought her a dress, along with a nightgown and sensible shoes. They were all she had to wear. She wasn't talented with a needle and thread, but she could knit. Sometimes she would brood and complain about her limited wardrobe, but Artie didn't care much about clothes, and he couldn't understand her need for something new. He also found her long face irritating, and wondered why she couldn't be like she'd been at the orphanage when they were kids. Charlotte was his buddy then, and she would always laugh at his jokes. Now, she always looked sad, and Artie's weekends in Atlantic City made him long for a real wife. He was tired of sleeping on the sofa, and would stay out after work, hoping she would go to bed early so he wouldn't have to talk to her when he got home.
"You should buy her something pretty," Jack said.
"Why?"
"Because she's your wife, and you're all she's got."
Artie shook his head again. "Not much longer. I can't stand her anymore."
Jack ordered another beer and Isabelle smiled at him as she filled his glass and ignored Artie.
"You can't do that to her," Jack said.
"Why not? Like you said, she can get a job."
"She's not smart enough for that, remember?"
Artie clenched his teeth. "I want a real wife."
An old man at the end of the bar cackled.
"What do you think a real wife is, kid?"
"Someone who makes me want to go home."
"Are you really going back if there's war?" Isabelle asked Jack.
"It's my home, and I'll fight to protect it with my life."
Her wan smile stirred Jack's heart. He knew Isabelle had a crush on him, and he was always careful not to let her think that anything would happen between them, but when she looked at him that way, all he wanted to do was take her in his arms.
"You look good tonight, Izzy," Artie said.
She glanced at him with half-lidded eyes as if he were a bug she found crawling on the bar, and then looked at Jack.
"That one's on me."
Artie frowned as he watched her walk away.
"Why doesn't she like me?"
"Because you're married and you always make a fool out of yourself around her."
"So you understand why I gotta get rid of Charlotte."
Jack thought of Artie's winsome bride. He'd seen her at the cottage a few times and thought she was charming. A bit reticent, yes, but she looked like one of Rafael's Madonnas with her sad eyes and wavy hair. Her eyes had sparkled when he spoke to her, and she'd acted like a puppy who'd been in the pound too long when he came around again. He'd come home with Artie all summer, guide him to the sofa, and then he and Charlotte would sit on the porch as he told her about his life as a sailor. Unlike his conversations with Artie, Jack embellished the romantic side of sailing -- the moonlit nights, the stars so far you couldn't count them, and the exotic ports that smelled like cinnamon. Charlotte listened intently, her face set in a smile that lasted until Jack left in the wee hours. She liked him, and he thought she was lovely.
"Don't make any hasty decisions," Jack said. "The railroad wanted a family man. They might discharge you if you leave her."
Artie's head drooped and he sighed. "I know, which is why I haven't left her yet." He looked at himself in the mirror behind the bar. "But I don't know how much longer I can do this."
Jack slapped him on the back. "Cheer up, old boy. Maybe if you spent some time with her you'd find out she's not so bad."
Artie looked at Jack. "Do you like her, because if you do, you can have her. I won't stand in your way."
"You're a fool," Jack said. He gulped his beer. "You've got a good woman and you can't see it."
Jack caught something moving past his eye and looked toward the entrance to the bar. Celia Morton, Isabelle's mother, had come into the bar. Jack watched her come behind the bar and grab Isabelle's arms.
"It's time," Celia whispered. "They're coming."
"It's okay, Ma, nobody's coming."
Isabelle's pained expression sent Jack to his feet.
"Good evening, Mrs. Morton," he said. He walked around the bar and came up behind Celia. "And how are you this fine evening? Isabelle told me you have a new chair in your room. I'd love to see it."
Celia looked over her shoulder at Jack and smiled.
"It is a nice chair."
"Why don't you show Jack your chair, Ma?" Isabelle said.
"Would you like to see it?" Celia asked.
Jack put his arm out and Celia took it. They walked out of the bar and Artie saw a tear roll down Isabelle's face. Isabelle felt his eyes on her, glared at him, and wiped the tear away.
"Do you want something?" she said.
He shook his head and lowered his eyes.
An hour passed before Jack returned to the bar. He smiled at Isabelle, then he threw a five dollar bill on the counter, and put his hand on Artie's shoulder.
"I think she'll be all right," he said to Isabelle, and then he looked at Artie. "Go home. Talk to Charlotte. Life's short, Artie. Don't waste it dreamin' of some fantasy woman."
Jack looked at Isabelle again. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Good night, Jack," Isabelle said.
Jack waved to everyone at the bar before leaving. Artie stayed for a while and watched Isabelle serve beer to old, lecherous men with too much time on their hands, and then walked home. When he got there, the lights were out.
The next morning, he said goodbye to Charlotte and went to work where his supervisor sent Artie to switch the train tracks, a job he hadn't done by himself before. Half an hour later, a boy ran into the station to report that something terrible had happened. When he was found, his supervisor saw that Artie had fallen under a train and his body, which was severed in two, lay on each side of the tracks.
Constance Penny
The pink cottage that housed the Cape Alden Historical Society had been built in 1887 by a sea captain who wanted to be close to the ocean, but far enough away so that the rising tide wouldn't reach him in the event of a hurricane. The trim on the porch, which included an intricately carv
ed gingerbread arch and two thin Corinthian columns, was painted white, as were the window frames. The floor of the porch was painted dark green. It was the first building on Main Street as you entered town and, during the summer, visitors would stop by and ask for brochures.
The society had been created in the late 1960's and had been run by the same woman for over forty years -- a small yet formidable woman named Constance Penney. Constance was the first and last word when it came to any and all decisions regarding renovations to her beloved little town and she knew more about Cape Alden than anyone. She loved her job and the duty she performed, and woe to anyone who installed a shutter or a door on their home that didn't comply with the historical society's standards.
Her office housed a library of books she'd collected and preserved, books she loved as well as her own children. When Marigold Burnside came to town, the first place she visited was the Historical Society. Constance had been one of the many in town who wanted the television show to film in Cape Alden, and had gone to every meeting held to discuss the ramifications. She'd addressed the citizens of the town and told them that the publicity would be good for the town, which had been hit hard by the recession, and that businesses would reap the rewards of an influx of tourists.
Only one person voted against allowing the show to film, Charlie Jackson, Mayor Emeritus of Cape Alden, a man whose influence had waned over the years since he ran the town, but who still believed he was relevant enough to stop the council from allowing what he called an "uncivilized reality show whose main purpose was to dredge up the worst thing that had ever happened in Cape Alden."
Despite Charlie's protestations, the town voted in favor of the proposal, and eighty-eight-year-old Charlie was taken from town hall in an ambulance when he suffered a heart attack.
The first time Mari walked into the Historical Society, Constance greeted her with sincere warmth, and had even gone so far as to lend her two books - A Murder in Cape Alden and The History of Cape Alden. Mari had promised she would return them in two days, but six months later, their spot on Constance's shelf was still empty.