Embers

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  Allie looked away, toward the harbor. "Really?" she asked in a voice as soft as silk.

  "Really. C'mon, let's set up some tables," he said, taking her by the hand and walking with her to a small potting shed where half a dozen folding tables were stacked on end. "I'm surprised they're not out already."

  "Heavens, no," Allie said with a grin so radiant that it vied with the sun. "Uncle Billy never wants them marring the view until the last possible moment."

  They grabbed hold of the first table, and that set off a silent signal that brought all the men running. Reluctant to approach Wyler purely on social grounds, the men seemed much more willing to mingle now that there was work to do.

  Introductions were made all around, and things picked up even more when the plates and utensils started coming out. A kind of human utensil-brigade formed spontaneously between the kitchen and the lawn, with baskets of forks and boxes of glasses and napkins by the gross being passed down briskly to the proper tables. Wyler broke out of the line to grab a soda for Allie and a beer for himself. When Meg appeared briefly he offered her a beer as well.

  "No, thanks, I'll wait," she said breathlessly, and then she smiled and said, "Maybe just a sip of yours."

  He offered her his bottle, and she drank from it, and he felt as if they'd shared something sacred. But then he looked up and saw Allie watching them both, and he felt ashamed to have enjoyed both beer and her sister in front of her.

  He wanted to make it up to Allie. He had enough copper friends in AA to know how hard a social gathering like this could be. He put his beer aside and took a Coke from the cooler, then went up to Allie and said, "It looks like we have a lull while they crank up the grills. Why don't you give me a tour?"

  She acquiesced, but her heart obviously wasn't in it. They began strolling down the lawn toward the right-of-way that led to the water while Wyler made small talk about the view. Allie kept answering in monosyllables. Finally he said, "Hey, how come I'm doing all the work? You're supposed to be the Energizer Bunny in this relationship."

  "What relationship," she murmured, slapping a dandelion listlessly against her thigh.

  He had the feeling that "relationship" was maybe a loaded word, but he couldn't think of another, so he said, "You know: you, me. Old fart. Young dynamo. Palling around town. Relationship. I think that's what it's called."

  "My God, Tom, you don't know anything," she said wearily. "Palling around does not make for a relationship."

  He had the sense that he was walking on quicksand now; whether he went forward or backward, it made no difference. So he went forward. "How can you say that? We've been relating like crazy. I know all about you: your favorite song, your favorite movie, your favorite food, your favorite color —"

  "Which proves you're a good listener, that's all."

  "I've told you all about my ex-wife," he said, much more seriously. "I've never talked to anyone else about the breakup."

  "Because it's easier to tell some stranger a thousand miles from home, that's all."

  She was right, dammit. "Well, what do you call a relationship?" he asked, kicking himself even before the words were out.

  "A relationship is when you're only half alive if the other person's not around," Allie murmured, her eyes glistening. "A relationship is when you can't help but do ... this," she added, lifting her arms around his neck.

  That was not how Wyler felt about her, but he hated like hell to disappoint her. She was so very, very beautiful and her violet eyes were so very sad ... and she smelled so terrific ... and he'd clearly hurt her somehow ... and now she was closing her eyes and parting her lips ... so maybe, who knew, maybe he was interested in a relationship with her.

  He slipped his arms around her waist. He was aware that he was stepping deeper into the bog, but he didn't see how he could not kiss her. And then something kicked in, something that had nothing to do with relationships but had everything to do with the image of Meg standing in dappled sunlight.

  "Whoa," he said in a shaky voice, suddenly holding Allie at arm's length. "Not such a good idea. I don't want your uncle coming after me with a barbecue fork," he said, offering the first excuse he could think of.

  But Allie smiled a dreamy smile and said, "I know where we can hide."

  "C'mon, minx," he said, laughing off the moment by sweeping her back up the hill.

  They headed back to the house, with Allie's mood only marginally improved. The whole time, Wyler was thinking, God, I've screwed this thing up. The whole time, Wyler was wishing that Allie was Meg alongside him.

  When they got back, Wyler automatically scanned the crowd, looking for Meg. She had a big stainless bowl of something or other in her arms and was deep in conversation with Comfort, who was holding herself oddly around her waist. Wyler watched with more than passing curiosity as Meg put the bowl down on the nearest folding table, then took Comfort by the shoulders with a look he couldn't begin to fathom: of joy, surprise, dismay, tension ... but mostly joy, he thought.

  She hugged Comfort, then began talking excitedly, then hugged Comfort again. Then Bill Atwells said something to them, and Comfort said something back to him, and Bill Atwells roared out, "Good God! Everybody! Comfort's got a bun in the oven!"

  Instantly Allie broke from Wyler's side in a gleeful run for her sister-in-law and got swallowed in the crowd of well-wishers surrounding Comfort. Wyler half expected them to hoist Comfort on their shoulders and carry her down Main Street.

  Meg slipped away and came up to him. "This is wonderful news," she said, wiping away tears from her eyes. "Comfort and my brother had given up trying."

  Wyler smiled and said, "You know what? I don't think so." He couldn't take his eyes away from Meg's face. She looked so overwhelmed, so emotional. "It's an odd time to announce, no?"

  "Oh, she hadn't planned to tell anyone yet. But she's been feeling woozy and I was sure she was coming down with a bug. I was trying to make her leave the picnic, and that's when she told me. We forgot that Uncle Billy has ears like a collie."

  "And a voice like a megaphone. How's Lloyd taking the news?" In fact, Wyler was wondering how he himself would take that kind of news nowadays.

  "He's ecstatic. But anxious, naturally. Comfort's forty-two, and Lloyd's still trying to find steady work. They have a fierce deductible on their medical insurance. It won't be easy. But I expect we'll manage somehow."

  She slipped into that "we" so easily. Their problems were her problems. He wondered whether it ever occurred to Meg that she had the means — a valuable dollhouse — to alleviate the whole family's money worries, at least in the near term. But it was hardly his business to say.

  Meg had her hands on her hips. "My God. There's the potato salad, on the grass. I'd better get the bowl up and out of the ants' way. Please excuse me." She started off and then turned back to him. "I hope you're having a good time," she said, flushing.

  "Just now I was," he answered truthfully.

  "I really am glad," she said. "I wanted you to so much."

  ****

  Two hours later, Wyler, like everyone else, was stuffed with lobster, steak, corn, and fourteen — he counted them — different salads, everything from Caesar's to Szechwan.

  He'd made it a point of honor to sample every one, then had gone back for seconds of the crab-stuffed artichokes, the shrimp ring, the lobster mold, and the fisherman's salad. After that he collapsed into an Adirondack chair and chatted amiably with first and second cousins about hunting, fishing, canoeing, and half a dozen other sports he'd never tried in his life.

  Someone put an infant in his arms; the smell of baby powder made him feel ridiculously tender and protective. The womenfolk brought out coffee and dessert for the menfolk, which struck Wyler as the way things ought to be. A dozen preteens gobbled cake and ran off to the lower end of the yard to play badminton, while their older counterparts — kissing cousins, presumably — flirted and slipped away to the shore path in couples and small groups.

  Everything w
as perfect until the sisters came and ruined it all.

  Allie grabbed his visor from the back of his chair and slapped it back on his head. "Time for my surprise," she said. "I've got us a boat! It belongs to my uncle's neighbor; he said we can take it for a sail. So get up, lazybones. Let's go!"

  He stared incredulously at her. She'd come up with the game plan from hell. "No, I don't think so —" he began, quietly locking his elbows around the arms of his chair.

  Meg wasn't in on Allie's surprise, either. "Allie, you don't know how to sail," she reminded her.

  "You're going to sail the thing, Meg. All I have to do is try to look nautical. C'mon, Wyler. Outta the chair."

  "No, really, I'm stuffed," Wyler groaned. "I can't move." Couldn't they do something he merely hated, like charades? Must they do something he loathed?

  "Allie, I am not going to be your gondolier," Meg said tautly.

  Allie, truly baffled, turned from Meg to Wyler. "I can't believe this. I went to all this trouble so that you can see Bar Harbor the way the Norsemen saw it ... and Samuel de Champlain ... Henry Hudson ... Captain John Smith ... John Winthrop ... Lafayette ... Talleyrand ... Lord Nelson himself, if the legend is true! You're supposed to be the historian; where's your sense of history?"

  "I've seen it all by car," Wyler said lamely.

  "Cars weren't even allowed here until 1915! Cars aren't historic!"

  "Allie, if he doesn't want to, he doesn't want to," said Meg, cutting in. "I have better things to do, anyway," she added.

  It dawned a little late on Wyler that Meg was trying to slide out of his grasp again. Normally she was as elusive as a wood nymph, but once or twice today, for whatever reason, she'd lingered near him. He wanted more of her, and if that meant going to sea in a galvanized tub, then that was what he'd do. At least she couldn't slip away.

  He got up from his nicely earthbound chair and flopped his visor over Meg's hair. "I'm willing if you are, skipper," he said in a low-key taunt.

  Allie clapped her hands. "Awrii-ight!" she cried.

  The three of them strolled down the lawn past a badminton game in progress. Once Terry and Timmy got wind of their plan, they begged to come along.

  Meg said yes, Allie said no, and the twins fell in behind them, making the outing seem less like a ménage a trois and more like a typical Atwells free-for-all. The group scampered down the right-of-way, an overgrown cut through a neighbor's brush, and emerged on a small, pebbly beach with an upside-down dinghy sitting above the high-water mark.

  Wyler didn't like the look of the dinghy, which was wood and undoubtedly leaked, and he didn't like the look of the sailboat, a small, open thing moored a hundred yards away. They flipped the dinghy over and dragged it to the water's edge, and Terry set the oars in their oarlocks.

  They went out to the sailboat three and three, with Terry rowing Meg and his twin brother out first, then coming back for Allie and Wyler. Wyler was impressed: the boy knew what he was doing. Allie got into the bow of the dinghy and Wyler, who'd never been in such a cockleshell before, managed to shove off and get in without instantly grounding it. So far, so good.

  Goddammit! It does leak! "Is there something to bail with?" he asked with tight-lipped offhandedness.

  Allie looked around and handed him a plastic cup — a plastic cup! — and he began scooping what looked like the better part of the Atlantic out of the stern of the dinghy.

  "So, Terry," he said, bailing furiously, "where'd you learn to handle a boat so well?"

  "This isn't a boat," said Terry, snorting. "It's just a dinghy."

  "His grandfather takes him fishing all the time," Allie translated. "But Meg's the only one who knows how to sail. She learned it from Paul."

  "That's nice," Wyler said, flailing with the cup. He'd forgotten just how deep his water phobia went. Somehow, having forced himself through two swimming courses at the Y, he thought he could handle anything that might come up. Obviously the jury was still out on that one.

  They came alongside the sailboat and Wyler climbed aboard, counting his one blessing: that he was in water too deep to have seaweed that could wrap itself around his legs and drown him.

  Allie climbed out next and Terry handed her the painter, whatever or whoever that was, and then Terry got aboard and tied the dinghy to the mooring ball. Timmy was unlashing the tiller and Meg was standing on the bow, already hoisting the damn sail. Allie, the designated hostess, was popping open a Coke for him. In the meantime, the boat was rocking like crazy with every little move. It was like trying to play golf on a teeter-totter.

  The sail was up and flapping like mad over their heads, whipping the boom viciously and dangerously close to their skulls. Everyone had to stay ducked down. Meg yelled "Cast off" to Terry, who threw a line with a float attached off the bow and into the water. The boat fell away, the sail filled and quieted, and they were off and running.

  Just like that. No team huddle, no prayer. Just your basic suicide mission. Wyler declined the Coke, declined to talk, refused to look at the water, and mostly concentrated all the forces of his being on the single syllable "ohm." Meditation seemed like the only possible way to get through what was shaping up to be a genuine phobia-crisis.

  At some point he remembered to exhale. It came out in a long shudder.

  Allie said, "Are you prone to seasickness?"

  Oh, Christ. He'd never had to consider whether he was prone or not.

  "Anty Meg, can I sail?" asked Terry.

  Wyler was scandalized, then relieved, when Meg said, "Not downwind, Terry. It's a little tricky. Maybe later."

  Terry's blue eyes turned squinty and sullen. A minute later, while Allie was pointing out grand estates, Terry tried again. "If you hold the helm with me can I sail?"

  Wyler could see that Meg didn't want to crush the boy's fledgling interest in something legal. "Okay," she said, "but you have to let me do most of the steering."

  Terry began changing places with Timmy — far too recklessly; did he think they were in a parking lot? In the meantime Timmy noticed a pair of dolphins and cried, "Look! Over to starboard."

  Everybody looked, of course, even Meg; and that was when it happened. The boom came crashing from port to starboard with no warning, whacking Terry on the back of the head and knocking him out of the boat.

  Wyler saw it all in slow motion: The blue-and-green-striped T-shirt, the blue shorts, the two white legs and two tanned arms, the mop of brown hair — all of it sent flying like a rag doll into space, landing with a tremendous splash and then sinking, disappearing altogether.

  Allie screamed and Meg cried out his name. After an eternity Terry popped back up, coughing and spitting and flailing his arms wildly. He was in a complete panic.

  Wyler's heart constricted. He was Terry, Terry was him. It was Humboldt Park and the seaweed, all over again.

  "I'll save him," Timmy screamed in a high, cracking voice.

  "Sit down, Timmy! Sit down! Watch the boom!" Meg cried.

  Wyler grabbed him and threw him on the seat. "Stay there! I'll get him."

  He hardly recognized his own voice. Someone else, inhabiting his body, was speaking for him. Someone else was pulling off his sneakers while he said quickly to Meg, "Can he swim?"

  "Yes, but —"

  "Can you get the boat any nearer?"

  "Yes ... alongside. Watch for us. Can you swim?"

  "Some."

  He stared for one brief, eternal second at the deep blue water. Meg said, "Allie! Timmy! Move to the other side!"

  To balance my weight as I go over, he realized, admiring Meg's presence of mind.

  He slipped into the shockingly, offensively cold waters of the Gulf of Maine. His body seemed to contract into a fetal position. Drown, hell. I could have a heart attack. He fought his way back to the surface, blowing air out of his nose, but salt water got in anyway. It was everywhere, different and vile, making him crave a drink of fresh water as he kicked and moved one arm, then the other, in the direction of the panick
y twin.

  Half a dozen more strokes, and he was there. Terry was croaking "Help, help," in choking gasps, still thrashing hysterically.

  "Terry, I've got you," Wyler shouted as he reached him, even though it wasn't quite true. Strictly speaking, Terry had him. The boy grabbed onto Wyler and threatened to take them both down.

  "Relax, Terry. Calm down. I've got you. It's all right. I've got you. It's all right. It's all right."

  ****

  The sail back was long, cold, and wet. They had to "beat" back into the wind — perfect word — which meant that the boat stayed over on its ear the whole time, and the air felt twenty degrees colder. Wyler was forced to brace his injured leg, still throbbing from the rescue effort, against the opposite seat as the boat thrashed to windward. Every time they hit a wave, the boat lurched and shuddered, forcing him to brace himself still more, and ice-cold spray came over the bow, making sure his wet clothes stayed wet.

  So why was he so happy?

  Because a phobia the size of Cadillac Mountain had been lifted from his shoulders. He knew, really for the first time in his life, that he could handle a crisis on the water. It was a great, liberating feeling, but he kept it to himself. Anything else would've been inappropriate right now.

  He studied the shaken faces of the others and realized how much he'd come to care for every one of them: for Allie, shivering without the sweatshirt she'd given Terry; Meg, apologizing repeatedly for letting the boat jibe; gentle Timmy, temporarily disillusioned with his tough, clever brother; and especially for Terry himself.

  It was Terry that Wyler was concerned about most. The boy was clearly horrified with himself for panicking in front of everyone and had retreated behind a wall of bitter silence. Wyler understood all too well how Terry was feeling. He was determined to reach out to him now — before the boy's fear and embarrassment turned into a full-blown phobia.

  After the whole crew was ashore, Wyler told the others, "You go on ahead. Terry and I will stow the dinghy."

  Allie said, "Don't be silly! Timmy can —"

  "Never mind, Allie," Meg told her quietly. "Let them do it." She gave Wyler a look of complete understanding and hauled her sister and nephew away from the scene.