by Susan Wilson
They fumbled around straightening the tiles, but their desire to play the game was gone, and Grainger stood to go home. As if in afterthought, he plucked the scrap of paper off the tiles and stuck it in his pocket.
Kiley glanced at Mack, and Grainger could see that she’d already mentioned this nonsense to him and he’d rejected the notion. For him, it wasn’t a challenge. For him, as with so much, it was a joke. It was an example of the two sides to their natures. Mack saw lightness, Grainger saw dark. But Mack wasn’t in love with Kiley.
Walking along the high bluff toward the village, Grainger knew he couldn’t make himself go back to Mack’s house, knowing that Mack would soon appear and wonder what had gotten into him. He’d pester and tease until Grainger found an excuse he’d accept. He just didn’t have the energy to make up some believable reason for his stalking away. Grainger punched the air. Maybe he should just confess to both of them his feelings. As he had repeatedly done since his first glimpse of Kiley dancing blithely in her window, Grainger choked back the impulse to speak of his love. Not this summer, not this temporary and fragile summer. He couldn’t bear to ruin their perfect friendship with his secret desire. Especially if Kiley didn’t share his feelings.
Right then, Grainger decided to hitchhike into Great Harbor and see his father. No longer a sleepover guest, Grainger had lived with the MacKenzies ever since Mrs. MacKenzie handed Rollie Egan a paper giving her rights in loco parentis over Grainger. She had explained gently to Grainger that it meant he was safe.
With any responsibility for his son effectively removed, Rollie had given up having a permanent address, and, when he wasn’t out to sea, stayed at the Seasaw Motel in Great Harbor. It was there Grainger headed, needing suddenly to remind himself of who he was.
He was lucky and caught a ride with Joe Green. Mr. Green was always good about not asking stupid questions of kids. Their small talk centered on Grainger’s baseball success, and it was easy to give answers or remarks without having to let go of the thoughts he was chewing on.
“So, where are you off to in the fall?” An innocent enough question.
“Army.”
Joe Green sighed deeply. “I’ve got to tell you, I’m sorry to hear that.”
Grainger remembered that Joe had lost a son in Vietnam, a boy who’d signed up against Joe’s wishes.
“Can’t afford college unless I do.”
“Scholarships wouldn’t help?”
“It’s hard to explain.” He needed to strike out on his own, and the Army provided a way.
Joe Green pulled his truck onto the side of the road at the one-lane bridge that connected Hawke’s Cove to Great Harbor across the marshy wetlands. Everyone knew the former milk-man never left Hawke’s Cove.
“Thanks for the ride.”
Joe leaned one elbow out the window. “Tell your father hello.”
“I will.”
Rollie had been in the Marines. In Vietnam, he’d been wounded and sent home with a Purple Heart and an honorable discharge. Grainger’s mother had been visiting her brother in the VA hospital where Rollie had been recovering. That’s all Grainger had ever known about their brief courtship, which resulted in his conception and her misguided insistence Rollie marry her. Grainger often wondered if she’d ever imagined that the passive patient lying on white hospital sheets, seducing her in his hospital bed, would turn out to be the bitter, mean-spirited man he did. Grainger never blamed her for leaving, only for not taking him with her. Maybe he represented her youthful mistakes, and that’s why she left without him.
Failing to secure another ride on the other side of the short bridge, Grainger walked the rest of the way into Great Harbor. From across the parking lot of the Seasaw Motel, he saw his father just coming out of his room. As always, upon seeing his father, he felt this desire to spit. He couldn’t grasp the logic behind wanting to visit him, except that he needed a reminder of who he was. Where he’d come from.
Three days’ growth of beard, condor eyes staring at Grainger as if he was an unwelcome stranger, his father stood in worn jeans and rubber boots, and, despite the July warmth, a flannel shirt, tucked incompletely into his pants. A leather case dangled off his belt, his fishing knife. In one hand he held a gym bag, and Grainger knew he was off again.
“What brings you here? I sent money.”
“Don’t know. Some filial urge, I suppose.”
“Filial, eh. Big words, kid. Looks like living with the doctor’s smart-ass son and his beautiful-ass wife has rubbed off.”
Grainger never touched anyone in anger, but the desire to now was powerful, and served to remind him of their connection. “I’m here to see how you are.”
“Out again. Squidding.” He walked toward his son.
Grainger squinted against the late July sun as he approached.
“When do you leave for boot camp?”
“September fifteenth.”
Rollie was beside him now, and Grainger smelled the beer on his breath. It was as close as they had stood in a long time, and Grainger was surprised to find himself taller than his father. Rollie took a step back, as if he’d noticed the same thing. “It was a good choice, boy. The service. Make a man out of you. Shake out some of that la-di-da crap you got from the MacKenzies. Filial.” He said the word as if to taste it, then spat. “Filial, my ass. Got no proof of that. Who knew who your mother was fucking?”
Grainger remained standing in the shadeless parking lot as his father walked away; then he turned around and started walking back to Hawke’s Cove. It would be a relief not to be his son, not to contain the genetic material for abuse. It made sense then, this mistreatment of his mother. Yet if it were true, why did she leave him with Rollie? Could his mother have loved him so little?
His thoughts churned in his brain and into his belly, until he bent over by the side of the road and vomited.
Grainger hadn’t realized how close to the surface his memories were, how fragile the layer of years covering them was. Two years in the Army, then college at Maine Maritime; the nearly dozen years in the Merchant Marine. Traveling, months at sea, even two love affairs. All of this had only covered his past the way topsoil covers seeds. Since hearing of Kiley’s return to Hawke’s Cove, the seedlings of memory had begun to sprout, to work their way toward the sunlight. Forcing him to yank them out by the stems before they took full flower.
He pulled into an empty parking space in front of Linda’s Coffee Shop. Toby Reynolds’ Lexus was in its usual place, straddling the white line in an attempt to prevent dings. Some devil in Grainger always wanted to make him slide his truck up close to the driver’s side door, but his truck wasn’t so old that he really wanted to get into a silent battle of dings and dents. As soon as he got out of the truck, Pilot took up his vigil, chin on the steering wheel, eyes on his master’s back as he went into the coffee shop.
Grainger sat next to Toby, nodding to the teenage waitress who set a mug of black coffee in front of him and dropped a handful of creamers beside it. Grainger reached for The Boston Globe lying on the counter. Red Sox were doing okay. His day might brighten, after all.
“Mornin’.”
“Mornin’, Toby.”
Their usual morning conversation.
“Watch the game last night?” Toby slid the sports section over to Grainger.
“Yeah, good one.” Grainger dumped the contents of two of the creamers into his mug. “Nice to see them win.”
“That Kiley Harris is a piece of work.” Toby, in his inimitable way, leapt right into whatever thought was at the forefront of his mind.
All Grainger wanted was to glance at the paper and have his third coffee of the day before going back to work on Miss Emily. He stirred his coffee with slow counterclockwise strokes; he would not rise to the bait. Who better than he knew just what a “piece of work” Kiley Harris was?
“She’s sounding like she could be an obstacle to a sale. Doesn’t want the place to change, but doesn’t want to be there herself, either. Go figure.”<
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“I couldn’t say.” Grainger kept stirring long after the two creamers had turned his coffee a light tan.
“I shouldn’t talk about clients…” Toby held the front section of the paper in front of him.
“No, you shouldn’t.”
“…but she has this crazy notion it’s up to her. It’s her parents’ house; she’s just getting it ready. She practically threatened to fire me. No one else will get them the best money. How much influence do you suppose she has on their decision?” Toby was off on one of his monologues. “At the same time, she can’t want to jeopardize her kid’s education.”
Grainger tossed a couple of dollars down on the counter and stood up, leaving his coffee untouched.
Toby still had his eyes on the paper in front of him. “I heard you used to date her.”
“No. We never dated.” What they’d had could never be mistaken for dating.
Grainger left and climbed back into his truck, his throat painful as he held back the words he wanted to say. Shut up Toby. Do not mention that woman’s name to me again. What we had was not the normal boy-girl relationship, and I know nothing about the woman she’s become. Until Kiley left Hawke’s Cove, or Toby sold the damned house, he wouldn’t be having morning coffee at Linda’s again.
If he didn’t have so much work promised to his customers, he might have thrown his tent and backpack in the truck and gone camping until August.
And there was something else keeping him here. Grainger had promised Will sailing lessons, and he wouldn’t renege on that. He’d been thinking about it, and decided he wouldn’t deprive either of them of the chance to get to know one another. Even if he wasn’t Will’s father, at least he could do for him what a father should do. Make a sailor of him. And if he was his actual father…Well, it would be better if he wasn’t, the way he felt about Will’s mother. Grainger wanted to think of him as Mack’s son. That’s what he wanted.
Fourteen
Will banged through the front door and up the stairs to his room. Kiley heard the thump of dropped sneakers and the squeak of the old-fashioned shower faucets being turned on. She lit the fire under the kettle and went back to the phone.
Her conversation with Mrs. Finnergan had been wrenching. Just yesterday, they’d sent in a deposit for their fortieth-anniversary cruise. He told her he’d be back, go back to sleep, and kissed her gently. Worst of all, the patient he’d been called in to see was fine; it hadn’t been necessary for John to go in at all. Kiley and Mrs. Finnergan had wept together. Before Kiley hung up, Mrs. Finnergan reiterated that there was no need for her to cut her vacation short. The memorial service wouldn’t be for at least two weeks. No need to go home at all, Kiley thought; nothing to hurry back to.
Afterward, she’d tried twice to reach her mother. She had to tell her about Doc John, but also needed to talk her into finding another agent. Toby, with his skewed sense of value, was the wrong guy to represent this house. It was more than just selling the place; it was finding it a new family. You didn’t just sell a three-generation—no, four-generation with Will—family summerhouse, a place filled with memories; you chose a new family for it, someone who would love it and fill it with their own memories, compatible with those already in residence.
The line was still busy.
Will was in the kitchen making his tea, and Kiley went to join him, needing a few minutes of easy conversation before she told him what had happened. “So, how was your run? You were gone longer than I would have given you credit for. Maybe you’ll run in the Boston Marathon next year.” She took out a mug and dropped an Earl Grey teabag into it.
“It was okay. I got a ride back.”
“I wish you hadn’t done that, Will; you know how I feel about hitchhiking. Even here, you can’t be taking rides with strangers.” So much for easy conversation.
“It wasn’t a stranger. Not really.” As Will turned to hunt for the box of lemon tea, she could see his damp hair swirling at the crown with the undefeatable cowlick that had always charmed her and annoyed him. “Grainger Egan brought me home.”
Kiley handed him the box, then poured hot water into her mug, watching the teabag plump with air. “How did you bump into him?” She jabbed the floating teabag with her spoon, sinking it.
“I didn’t. He’s giving me sailing lessons.”
Kiley sat down at the kitchen table. Her hands encircled the hot mug and she stared into it. “And how did that come about?”
“I guess I sort of asked him if he would teach me.”
“When did you do that?”
“A couple of days ago.” Will yanked open the silverware drawer, rattling the loose flatware. “Before I asked you about lessons.”
Kiley kept her eyes on the tea. “Before I introduced you to him?”
Will didn’t answer, just fiddled with making his tea.
Kiley slapped the table. “Will Harris, how many more secrets are you planning on keeping from me? First you’re smoking dope; then you’re taking sailing lessons behind my back. What else aren’t you telling me?”
“Hey, I never lied to you. I told you I smoked; I never denied it. And I just told you I’m taking the lessons. I’m only doing what you’ve done all my life.”
“What?”
“Keeping back the truth.”
“How dare you.” Kiley lay her palms flat on the tabletop to prevent their trembling; she tried to imagine how Will and Grainger might have met. Their equal silence that night was damning. Grainger must have initiated the contact and then asked Will to keep it secret. “How dare he?”
“What? Give me sailing lessons? That’s what he does.”
“No, how dare he have you keep it secret.”
“Grainger told me to tell you. He didn’t want me to keep it secret. Frankly, I think he’s as uncomfortable as you are with the idea.” Will sat down at the table with her. “Why are you both being so weird? Why won’t you admit you were good friends? Maybe better than good friends? What happened?”
You can’t come back to a place where memory is so powerful and survive. The anger thinned into resignation. She looked into Will’s eyes. “A very long time ago, we were friends. That’s all. Now drop it.”
The afternoon that she jokingly gave Grainger the scrap of paper with the twins’ telephone number on it, things began to change. Kiley had expected Grainger to react to the suggestion with the same derision Mack had. Instead he’d stalked off, looking hurt, even angry. Kiley scowled. It was just a joke. What made him so damned sensitive all of a sudden?
She scraped the tiles off the Scrabble board into the dark purple box, Grainger’s last word unscored. “So what’s the matter with Grainger?”
Mack shrugged, bending to pick up a couple of tiles that had fallen to the floor. “I don’t know.”
“Do you think he’s been a little different this summer?”
Mack dropped the tiles into the box and took the cover out of Kiley’s hands. “I think he has the same problem we all do this summer.”
“What’s that?”
“We know that after this summer, it will never be exactly the same.”
Kiley wished that she could say, “That’s not true,” and it wouldn’t be. But she, too, had been feeling this sense of finality at odd times, fighting the maudlin urge to think, “This is the last time we’ll ever do this,” whatever the moment or activity. She took a deep breath, afraid of voicing this thing, this death of their idyll. Of their childhoods. “Then we need to make this the best summer ever.”
“I’m trying, Kiley, I’m trying.”
“I know.” She stood behind Mack’s chair. As she had often done without a thought, Kiley reached her arms around his neck and hugged him. A quick squeeze of friendship, nothing more. Except that her hands touched his chest and she lay her soft cheek against his sun-roughened neck. Mack stood up and turned around, holding her in his arms as if afraid she’d run away. They didn’t kiss, but the action of his pulling her to him was enough to weight the
moment with significance. Maybe for an instant, maybe a little more, she let herself enjoy the full physical sensation of his arms around her. In the next instant they separated with a guilty pulling away, as if they expected Grainger to walk back through the door; instinctively knowing he’d be upset that they had crossed that unspoken boundary, committing a nearly incestuous act, creating a chink in the walls that safeguarded their friendship. Mack left soon after, neither saying another word, pretending that nothing had happened.
The heat of the July day was palpable in Kiley’s uninsulated upstairs bedroom. Stashed under her bed was a shoe box full of photographs from over the years. A lot of them were silly shots of too distant landmarks, or birthday parties, or Mortie as a puppy. Kiley spread all of them out on her bed, then selected five. When placed end to end, the five pictures created a photographic record of her childhood, of her decade’s worth of summers with Mack and Grainger.
It seemed terribly important she remember that not only were they both her best friends, they were also each other’s. Her friendship with either of them could never be romantic. Buddies. Mates. Pals. Boy friends, not boyfriends. Besides, how could she ever choose? She loved Mack for his jokes and loyalty. She loved Grainger for his kindness and intellect. She didn’t want to love them in any other way.
They were the two halves of her whole.
If she became attached to one more than the other, it would disconnect all three of them. As she scribbled names and dates on the backs of the pictures, it came to her that maybe it was only Mack, with his flowers and hug, who’d begun thinking of her in a romantic way.
Kiley hunted around her dresser drawer for some tacks. What if the two boys had discussed this, this girl-boy thing, and decided between them who should get her? Had Grainger left Mack here alone for just such a reason? Kiley rejected the idea out of hand. But was there something significant in Grainger’s strange behavior today? Between them, was there the tension of competing males? What value did their threesome have if she jeopardized it by making them compete for her?