Summer Harbor

by Susan Wilson

  “The official report states that he was somehow caught in the nets and pulled overboard. Cause of death was drowning.”

  “Was he drunk?”

  “Yes. Alcohol was a factor.”

  “I figured.”

  “The coroner needs to know what arrangements you wish to make. He needs you to claim the body.”

  Rollie had barely claimed him as a son, and now Grainger was responsible for seeing that he got a decent burial. He wanted to say, “Toss him back,” but instead he said “I’ll be there tomorrow,” booked the first flight he could to Boston, and began to jot a list of things he’d need to do to give Rollie Egan a funeral. In twenty-four hours Grainger was right back where he’d started, staring at his father’s bloated ugly face, wondering why he cared enough to bother with a service. By some carelessness, Rollie’s eyes were half open, hooded, and the tips of his cigarette-yellowed front teeth were exposed in a kind of grimace.

  If he felt no sorrow at his passing, drunk and dragged into the cold ocean, neither did Grainger feel relief or happiness. A calm neutrality settled on him. Once he was in Great Harbor to claim Rollie’s body and arrange for his cremation, it took very little to drive across the bridge to Hawke’s Cove. Grainger drove around, noting how little things had changed, wondering if he had changed as little.

  Eventually he passed the boatyard with a For Sale sign dangling, its worn appearance indicating that the ravaged old place had been on the market for years. And he knew that without Rollie and the painful associations with him, Hawke’s Cove might be where he could make his land-based living.

  The other pain from this place he carried with him, so it mattered very little where he was. He accepted that. Maybe even, deep in his heart, he hoped that being there might vitiate his contract with grief.

  That last night, angry, hurt, and confused, and thinking that his father was still out squidding, Grainger had gone back to the motel room. He didn’t know what he was going to do; he wanted only to hole up, lick his wounds, and regroup. But when Grainger opened the heavy motel door, there was Rollie, quietly drunk. The small space smelled of his sour body and cigarettes, with an overlay of fish. Grainger knew he should go back out, but he didn’t, he walked in and shut the door.

  Oblivious to Grainger’s anguished face, Rollie had begun a tirade against him. “So, you come crawlin’ back to your old man when the do-gooders don’t want you? Eh? Better to stick with your own kind, boy. Course, with your mother tramping around, who knows what kind that is?” It was a favorite theme with him in recent months, an inexplicable obsession. He’d been put off the squidder for drunkenness, and he was happy to take out his frustration on Grainger, as he so often had on his wife. He was sitting down in a chair, his head lolling as if it were still on the boat while his body was on land. Rollie’s eyes were half closed, studying Grainger standing there in front of him. Grainger knew that look, the look that preceded a beating.

  No more. Never again. Grainger plucked some money out of his wallet to drop on the nightstand, keeping his eyes on Rollie as if on a cobra, and slung his backpack over his shoulder. Rollie looked at the money, forty dollars, his lips drawing into a thin, tight line. Grainger knew he had either impressed or infuriated him. He wasn’t going to wait and find out. Grainger slammed the door behind him.

  It had started to rain hard by the time Grainger found a working phone booth. It was almost dawn, but he didn’t care. He dialed Mack’s number, hoping that Mack would answer, and that he’d want to try and patch things up. They mustn’t let Kiley come between them.

  Mrs. MacKenzie’s voice answered. “Grainger, thank God, we thought you were with him.”

  “No, Mack went to go cool off by himself.”

  “Grainger.” Mrs. MacKenzie sounded hard, cold. As if knowing that he wasn’t with Mack, that they hadn’t shared the same fate, had now penetrated her with ice and she had no will to be gentle. “He took the boat.”

  “Mrs. MacKenzie, what happened?” But he knew. He heard the raging tears in her voice and he knew. Mack was lost and he hadn’t prevented it. Grainger had always been the one to guide, to lead; the responsible one. He should never have let Mack go out alone to Blithe Spirit.

  “Why didn’t you stop him, Grainger?”

  “I had no idea what he was going to do.”

  “What made him do this?”

  “We had a big fight. I thought he’d just sit out there.” The first thin light of dawn illuminated the rough gray water of the harbor.

  “But he didn’t.”

  Mrs. MacKenzie didn’t ask where he was, or how he was. She hung up the phone. He was no longer her care.

  The postmark on his mother’s one letter to him, the letter Kiley had brought, was from Boston. By holding it up to a bright light, Grainger could make out McLean Hospital underneath the blacked-out return address. In it had been a ten dollar bill and a short note: “I thought you maybe have graduated high school by now. Congradulashions. From your mother.” Nothing more, no explanation or apology, nor love. He reread the note, not seeing its limitations this time, but interpreting a shy kindness.

  At the entrance to the highway, he stuck out his thumb. He had three weeks before reporting for duty. In that time maybe he could finally find his mother. She was all he had left in the world.

  Losing Will would be as painful as any other loss he had endured. But as long as Will agreed, there was nothing preventing Grainger from keeping in touch, from having Will return to visit, even going to see him at school. Grainger wouldn’t allow him to disappear into the ether like his mother; or, like Mack, into the sea.

  Twenty-seven

  Catherine had charmed his mother. Not in a phony, Eddie Haskell sort of way, like in the Leave It to Beaver reruns on Nick at Nite, but in a genuine and cheerful way—much as she’d charmed him, but without the physical attraction. Catherine’s plan to go premed had given the pair a lot to talk about and he’d been able to relax.

  If only Grainger had agreed to stay. Or his mother had been more gracious in inviting him. Will was certain that, once in the same room, they would begin to renew their relationship. He wasn’t looking for miracles, just for the two of them to be comfortable enough that he could speak of one to the other. Was this what it was like for kids with divorced parents? Right now, his mother winced whenever he brought up Grainger’s name—like today, telling her how much fun he was having working on the boats. Grainger had told him about crewing for Pop on Random, and had all but suggested that Will might be a part of that team. On hearing this, Mom had turned away from him, falling back on the usual “We’ll see,” as if he were a little kid. And Grainger—Christ, he changed the subject so fast any time he said anything about his mother.

  He had spent a very productive morning with Grainger. He was beginning to really enjoy the work, the physicality of it, the sight and feel of a smooth board. This morning Grainger had uncovered the smallest of the boats in his yard.

  “This one needs a lot of sanding, then caulking. She’s been out of the water for a long time. I’ll start varnishing Random; you get started on this one.”

  Will noticed a line along the starboard side of the bow, above the waterline. The morning light touched it in exactly the right way to reveal an outline. He looked around for Grainger, but he was inside on the phone. Will pressed with the palm of his hand. Sure enough, the tactile difference between the bent wood of the lapped boards and the fiberglass-over-canvas that repaired the hole was obvious. She had to be Blithe Spirit.

  Grainger came back out into the yard. “You wouldn’t believe that some people think they can buy time. They think they can hurry me up with money.” He came around the side of the boat. Will had his hands back on the sander. Grainger’s eyes were on Will, then the boat and the unsanded bow. “Let’s go sailing.”

  Grainger had let him work his way out of the small cove, threading the boat around the three other craft moored on Grainger’s private moorings. Grainger sat on the starboard side, ha
t pulled down against the mid-morning sun, saying little, letting Will figure out how much to let out the mainsheet, how little to move the tiller. As they came around the edge of the cove, Grainger nodded.

  “Well done.”

  Will had often been commended, for pitching a good game, or writing a meaningful essay, or raising more money for the AIDS Alliance than any other student. But those two words, Well done, touched a deeper part of him than any others. He grinned into the wind.

  “Tell me about Catherine.” Grainger was watching the blue pennant at the top of the mast.

  “She’s great.”

  “You really like her.” A statement of fact.

  “Yeah. I’ve never met anyone it was so easy to be with. She doesn’t play any games.” Will moved the tiller a degree, straightening their course.

  “What kind of games do girls play these days?”

  “Lori, my old girlfriend, liked to yank my chain.” Will glanced away from the horizon at Grainger’s slight smile. “I mean, she’d say she didn’t mind if I went out with my friends, then get all mad if I did. I never knew if she was testing me or just changing her mind.” Will pulled a little too much on the mainsheet, then quickly corrected his error before Grainger had to say anything.

  “Sounds like a bitch.”

  Will grinned. “She could be. Especially the way she broke it off.”

  “How was that?”

  “Her parents were away, so she had a party. She asked me to go outside with her and I thought she meant for some, well, private time.” Will took a better hold on the mainsheet. “Anyway, she told me that since we were going to two different colleges, we should break it off. No sense holding each other back.”

  “Pretty harsh.”

  “I thought so.”

  They sailed in silence for a few minutes; then Grainger gave the order to jibe. The mainsheet slid between Will’s fingers and he watched Grainger deftly shift to the port side of the boat as the boom swung. For an instant all motion was suspended; then Will gathered the sail back into control, catching the wind with ease.

  “Very nice.”

  Again Will felt the unaccountable happiness those simple words stirred in his heart. As if, all of his life, despite unstinting maternal confirmation of his worthiness, he was finally getting the paternal approval he’d craved.

  “Did you love her?”

  “I thought I did. But now, knowing Catherine, I see that I was mistaken.”

  Grainger poured some coffee out of a thermos into his mug.

  “Then I did something totally stupid.” Will adjusted the tiller slightly.

  “What was that?”

  “I went with my buddies and got high. And got caught.”

  “Pot?”

  “Yeah.”

  Grainger didn’t say anything to that, and Will was a little afraid that Grainger’s opinion of him was sullied. “I only did it that once. I’m an athlete. I just did it because…”

  “Because it felt better to hurt yourself than let someone else do it.”

  Will nodded.

  “We all do stupid things, Will. It’s how we behave afterward that counts.”

  “Catherine says that it was actually a good thing that I did it. If I hadn’t, Mom wouldn’t have brought me here to get away from those friends of mine. The stupid thing is, I have so little in common with D.C. and Mike except that we’re in the same homeroom, and we’ve always just hung out from habit. We’re not that close. I really wouldn’t have been hanging around with them this summer, at least not much, but I didn’t say that. And she went ballistic on me and decided that I would become a pothead if I stayed home. I guess I really fucked up her trust in me. Sorry, didn’t mean to use that word.”

  Grainger’s burst of laughter surprised them both. “I spent ten years in the Merchant Marine; I don’t think you can shock me. Anyway, maybe Catherine’s right. Sometimes things do work out for the best.”

  Will adjusted his course gently, and the bow sliced through the green-gray water with an audible hiss. They were clipping along, his sail set to maximize the light airs. It had felt so right telling Grainger the truth about that night; why hadn’t he been able to tell his mother yet?

  As a little kid, Will would sometimes pick out some guy and imagine he was his father. Never one of the guys his mother dated; usually some clerk in an ice cream shop or hardware store. Once it was a school-bus driver who’d been solicitous to him one day when he’d tripped and fallen on the sidewalk and his lunch had spilled out all over the pavement. The guy had actually gotten up out of his seat and helped Will scoop up his rolling thermos and scattered Goldfish crackers. Mom had been there too, and it was the broad thank-you she’d expressed to the guy for helping, instead of driving away to keep on his schedule, that had filled Will’s daydreams for most of second grade.

  But this was different. It wasn’t a daydream. He could prove that Grainger was his father.

  • • •

  Will sat quietly, a glass of cola slowly warming in his hand as he happily listened to Catherine and his mother chat with animation about the medical profession. Kiley was already into anecdotes from her years in school. He was pleased, and happy to let them keep the conversational ball to themselves. The two women lazed on the porch rockers, keeping an identical slow rhythm. Will sat on the porch rail with his back against the post. The late July sunset was earlier than it had been even a week ago, and they sat in near dark. A tin bucket of citronella burned at their feet, its tiny flame the same color as the waxing moon that peeked over the eastern horizon, casting a yellow swath of light against the darkening water.

  “This is so beautiful, Ms. Harris. Thank you for inviting me to dinner.”

  “I’m glad you came. I hope you come again.” Despite the farewell quality of the words, neither one moved to end the evening.

  Will closed his eyes and listened to the soft rhythmic thump of the rockers. The dinner could only have been better if Grainger had stayed. But all in all, it had been great. He smiled. Catherine was right; his punishment had become his reward. Unfortunately, his reward had been hard on his mother. Selling this place was taking a toll on her, and his friendship with Grainger was stressing her out so much that she’d taken to sleepless wandering around. Will knew the difference in his mother’s fretting. The house-fretting generally meant under-the-breath cussing about Toby, and slamming doors. The Grainger stress was sharper, deeper, and was revealed only in her sighs when she thought herself unobserved. Sighs born of nostalgia and pain and maybe a little jealousy of his ease with her former friend.

  When he was little, sometimes he’d hear his mother sigh like that, generally only in the late spring when Nana and Pop were loading the car up for Hawke’s Cove. Then he’d hear her slow intake of breath, with a rapid release, like someone getting ready to scream or cry. As a child, he’d distracted her by dropping a glass, or skinning his knee. Now, older, he let her wallow a little before pulling up some half-interesting anecdote about school or friends to entertain her out of her doldrums.

  “Well, I should leave you two alone.” His mother got up, stretched, and leaned her hands on the porch rail. “No, stay put, Catherine, I can manage the few dishes.”

  Will slid down from the rail. “We might go catch a movie.”

  “Great. Home right after, though, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Will kissed his mother’s cheek, then grasped his new girlfriend’s hand. They called again their thanks and good-nights. As they pulled away from the house, his mother was still standing there, gazing out at the rising moon. Even though she was shadowed by the cover of the porch roof, Will sensed she looked out with sadness. Toby had said that he was coming tomorrow with an offer from that couple who had looked at the house today. How many more nights did they have to sit and watch the moon rise over Hawke’s Cove? A very finite number.

  “I like your mother; she’s really sweet.” Catherine’s voice broke through the building nostalgia, sending it sc
urrying. There would be plenty of time later to be sorry the house was gone. Right now he had this great girl sitting beside him, one who, with the right care, might remain a part of his autumn and beyond.

  “Not all the time, but I guess she’s all right.” Will was pleased with the way Kiley and Catherine had gotten along, only a little embarrassed that his mother had drilled Catherine about whether she had done the same sorts of things that she herself had done a million years ago. Did she go to the Yacht Club dances? Catherine’s family weren’t members. Did kids still hang out at the harbor? Mostly kids were discouraged from hanging out in Hawke’s Cove; they went to the mall in Great Harbor instead. Those sorts of questions got a little old after a while, but Catherine hadn’t seemed to mind. Will had finally moved the interrogation off memory lane and into the present.

  They drove slowly along the bluff road. “Thanks for putting up with her inquisition. She’s reliving her past by being here.”

  “I didn’t mind. I can’t imagine not ever coming back here, and then, when I did, knowing it was for the last time.”

  Catherine’s remark brought a fresh lurch of nostalgia to Will. He’d been denied any contact with this place until the last minute, and now it was too late. He hadn’t planned on loving it, he did love this place, despite his intention to spend the time here sulking. It wasn’t just meeting the man who might be his father, or even meeting a girl he so instantly cared about. It was this place.

  “Do we have to go to the movies?” Will turned the car radio down, the insistent beat of a rap song suddenly too harsh for the quiet between them.

  “I guess not. Why?”

  “I’d like to just sit on the beach for a little while.”

  Catherine took her hand off the wheel and touched his hand. “I’d like that.”

  They went past Catherine’s house to the small parking area at the head of the path to Bailey’s Beach. They found damp towels in the backseat of her car and carried them down to the beach. There the waves lapped hungrily at the shoreline, arrhythmic, sensual.