by Jean Stone
He spotted the road to Lobsterville Beach. Without thinking, he ripped the wheel toward the road, the van’s rear end fishtailing behind him. If he was on real land he would keep driving forever … to California, if possible, or even Alaska … as far as the van would take him, as far as he could get.
But he was stuck on the island. And all he could do was look at the sea … maybe there he would find an answer … or maybe he could pretend to get lost the way he had done so many times when he was a kid trying to escape from the watchful eye of Gramps and the constant feeling of responsibility pushed upon him just because he was named after Daniel and because … why? Because he was Ken and Barbie’s son?
He wheeled around the corner and came to the dunes. The small, tired sand mounds that now stood in solitude were getting pelted in a steady staccato symphony, abandoned by all bathers who had the sense, unlike Danny, to go in out of the rain. Then again, he reasoned, they probably had homes to go to. Homes and families, families who really were families, not half-bred, lied-about people they thought they belonged to because they’d always been stupid enough to believe people, to trust people, for godsake, people like his mother and his … shit. Not his father. Michael Barton was not his father.
He came to a halt at the top of a dune overlooking the water, facing Cuttyhunk and Penikese Islands—Penikese, that wretched, untalked-about place where the lepers were once kept, lepers, society’s dysfunctional, much like himself, those whom others did not want to face, did not want to see, did not want to look at lest they be reminded that there is pain and deformity and fucked-up shit in the world. And then, a disjointed thought rushed at him in an instant: Danny wondered if his father … if Michael knew.
His gut went empty. He did not, of course, feel it, but rather he sensed it, the way most men (or women, he supposed) sense there is a facial hair sticking out where it doesn’t belong, or that a fly is unzipped when there is no breeze blowing. For at least two of these past three wheelchair-bound years, Danny’s senses had been acute enough to know when he’d peed in his bag.
“Fuck,” he said again, more quietly this time for he felt not so much angry now as ashamed. He looked down at the bulge in his pants that he knew wasn’t caused from an erection—would never be from an erection—but from the clear plastic bag that was undoubtedly filled with warm yellow liquid, warm yellow pee.
He told himself it could have been worse, that it could have been brown, that it could have been shit.
Tears once again stung his eyes. He wiped them away and tried to take a deep breath, tried to figure out what to do next. Straight ahead was a bluff, a wall of sheer rock that dropped twenty, maybe thirty feet into the water. He wondered what it would feel like to go over the ledge, not in the van but on his own, in the wheelchair, in his own death trap. Would centrifugal force keep him tightly plastered to the chair, like that amusement park ride where people stood around the perimeter of a wheel and spun up and down and around and around without falling off? Would those same forces of nature make them—man and machine—tumble over and over, down to their fate? Or would Danny be flung from the chair, then crashed against the rocks and careened into the sea—never having felt the plunge or the slams into his body, the mass of broken bones from his waist down to his toes?
Who would find him?
How long would it take?
And would his rescuers already know that Josh Miller was his father?
Everyone on the island probably knew. The Vineyard had a way of protecting its own, even the summer people who had been there since God.
But if he killed himself, would no one be elected president? Would both Michael and Josh have to withdraw from the race in humiliation? Would someone like Pat Buchanan or Donald Trump or that wrestler guy from Minnesota step in and claim victory?
He stared off at the horizon, that never-ending horizontal line separating this world from the next, reality from the unknown. Then Danny realized that the responsibility of having a Buchanan or a Trump or a wrestler in the White House was not going to be his, no way.
Silently, he opened the van door, loosened his pants, and juggled the catheter that, indeed, was quite full. He dumped the liquid out the door, watching as it splashed yellow tears up from the pavement, the waste of a man with a waste of a life, reduced to performing such a menial, physical task that had become essential to perform if he wanted to live in this great thing called society.
He put himself back together—physically, anyway—and looked out across the sea, searching for answers where he knew there were none.
And then he saw the Annabella. Docked at the pier across the inlet was LeeAnn and Reggie’s catamaran. LeeAnn and Reggie—his Vineyard friends! They must not have had a charter to Cuttyhunk today. Maybe it was because of the forecasted rain, which already was happening, or maybe they didn’t have a party willing to pay a high enough price.
Well, Danny didn’t give about the damn rain and, as he’d learned from Gramps, what good was having money if it couldn’t buy you friends?
He backed up the van and drove down toward the bike ferry, where he could get safe passage across the inlet. Keeping his eyes on the Annabella, Danny smiled. Maybe there were at least two honest people left in the world, after all, a friend who had once been his good buddy, and the friend’s sister who had once been a great … well, he thought with a shrug, she had been, back then.
Getting across on the bike ferry had been simple. He’d left the van and wheeled down to the small raftlike boat, removed the ropes, and started the engine with the key that someone—the owner, apparently—had left behind. Danny had never been sure exactly who owned this Mark Twain–like ferry, but as far back as he could remember it had been used on an honor system by whoever wanted to get from one bank of the Menemsha inlet to the other, pedestrians and bicyclists alike. But because it was free, and because it was used on a first-come, first-served basis, when the ferry sat on the opposite bank, hugging the charcoal rock-jetty that carved out the bay, that’s when the hopeful travelers were SOL—shit out of luck, tough darts, better luck next time or next year or whenever you’d be coming back to the Vineyard again.
Danny was grateful he was not SOL today, especially because of the rain.
As simple as getting across on the bike ferry was, the rest posed a huge problem, that never-going-to-go-away problem that added to his pain right now and just simply pissed him off: where the ferry was easy to glide onto, the Annabella had a four-step step stool that Danny could not have traversed if his life depended on it, which, right now, it felt like it did.
“Fuck,” he said, running his fingers over his rain-soaked scalp. With his hand still feeling the shaved stubble on his head, Danny had a sudden thought: dark hair. Unlike Mags, unlike Greg, Danny’s hair was thick and dark, had always been thick and dark. Thick and dark like Josh Miller’s hair.
He yanked his hand from his head and screamed into the water-drenched air. Why had his life become so fucked up and why was this all happening to him?
“Danny? Is that you?”
He lifted his eyes toward where the voice had come from. From the hole in the galley of the catamaran a head popped up. A head with dirty blond hair that hung straight and lifeless but framed a face that showed nothing but life. Life, a deep, sunny tan, and bright, sky blue eyes. “LeeAnn,” Danny said. “Yeah, it’s me.”
LeeAnn pulled herself up from the hold. Gray sweats fell over her slim, well-toned body, the product of days on the water hoisting the mainsail and hauling the rigging, or whatever it was called by those real sailors who spent more than a few days each summer adrift on the water. “Jesus, what are you doing here?” she asked. “And have you noticed it’s raining?”
The sound and sight of a friend was almost too much to bear. He bit his lip again and hoped he was not going to cry. “That’s a fine greeting. I haven’t seen you in almost three years and that’s all I get? Besides, I’m the son of the next president,” he added, pushing down the reality that thos
e words would be the truth no matter who won, no matter who lost. “And yes, I noticed it’s raining.” He swiped his hand over his wet head again. “Where’s Reggie?”
She slung her legs over the side of the boat and sat on the edge. “I’m not going to tell you if you’re going to be such a dick. I guess all this notoriety was bound to change you.”
Danny lowered his eyes, then raised them again. “Fuck you,” he said, and was grateful she did not say “Been there, done that.” Instead, she smiled.
“Reggie’s over at the Texaco station listening to the shortwave. Rumor is there’s a hurricane headed our way.”
Great, he thought. Just great.
“Would you like to sit out here all day in the rain or come inside?” LeeAnn asked.
Danny mimicked a laugh. “Do you happen to have a crane that can haul me up the steps?”
“Shit,” she said, not awkward, really, about Danny’s problem. Not awkward, like so many others. If anything, she seemed a little embarrassed that she’d forgotten, which was, of course, the best Danny hoped for from people. Just forget it, he’d often wanted to say. Just forget it, the way I would like to. “Reggie should be back in a minute,” LeeAnn continued. “He can help …”
“I can wait,” he said with a shrug. “No charters today?”
She smiled. “Nope. We were about to stock up with food when the rains came. Not many tourists want to trek to Cuttyhunk in this weather.”
“I do,” Danny said, not knowing until this moment that he did, not knowing until now that getting off this damn island and away from having to face his mother and away from having to think about what had happened and all that it meant and would mean …
“Yes,” he repeated, “I want to charter the Annabella. Is my credit any good?” He noticed that the rain was beginning to soak through his jeans now. He wondered if his legs were already wet. He wondered if he’d “catch his death of pneumonia,” as his nurse in Switzerland had always warned of when Danny insisted on sitting on the balcony overlooking Lake Lucerne even on the dampest, wettest days. His nurse, Anna, so much prettier than Clay. And so … well, like LeeAnn …
“You want to go to Cuttyhunk?” LeeAnn asked. “Are you nuts?”
He needed to think for only a second. Then he shook his head. “Not Cuttyhunk exactly. Penikese.”
“Nobody goes to Penikese, Danny. It’s uninhabited.”
“It was good enough for the lepers. I think it’s appropriate for me. Will you take me over?”
“And do what? Have a picnic?”
“Maybe leave me there.”
“You are crazy. Besides, it’ll be dark in a few hours. And I told you, there’s a hurricane coming.…”
“You said maybe there’s a hurricane coming. And it only takes forty-five minutes. An hour tops.”
“Maybe tomorrow, Danny. If it stops raining.”
“Why? Because you’re too chicken to go out in the rain? Reggie won’t be.”
Just then Reggie appeared, his long legs loping down the pier, his yellow slicker flapping behind him.
“Hey, Danny!” he shouted. “What brings you out on this fine day?”
“You,” Danny said. “I need you to take me to Penikese.”
Reggie laughed. “Gee, and I thought it was because you missed us.” He gave Danny a slap on the shoulder.
“He’s serious,” LeeAnn said. “He wants to go to Penikese.”
Reggie scowled. “Nobody goes there anymore, Danny.”
“So I’ve heard. I also remember that you have always enjoyed being the exception.”
“Except when it comes to Hurricane Carol. I just heard at the station. She’s on the way.”
“Will she be here by sundown?”
“Not until the wee hours.”
“Then we have plenty of time. I only want to go across the sound, not halfway around the fucking world.” He had no idea if he would want to return or not. He had no idea, and, right now, he did not care. “You can spend the time telling me what the hell you’ve been up to in the last few years.”
“That would only take ten minutes. Twenty, if we include the part about how many times we wrote to you and you never wrote back. Or how many times we called and you wouldn’t come to the phone.”
“I was busy,” Danny said.
“Yeah, sure,” Reggie said.
“Leave him alone, Reggie,” LeeAnn said, standing up. “Danny had better things to do than talk to us. He probably still does. But I’m not sure going to Penikese should be one of them. What if we get across and the seas are too rough to get back?”
Reggie scratched his one- or two-day-old beard growth. “LeeAnn’s right, Danny. It’s too risky.”
Danny threw back his head, opened his mouth, and caught some rain. “Then fuck you,” he said. “Fuck both of you.” He put the wheelchair into gear and started to leave. Reggie caught up with him.
“Jesus, Danny, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, goddammit. I just came over here to ask a favor of my friends and they don’t want to be bothered, that’s all. Well, like I said, fuck you.” He rolled back toward the bike ferry.
“Okay, okay,” Reggie called out. “We’ll take you over. God, you are such a spoiled brat.”
If Danny had felt better he might have smiled. Instead, he felt a small sense of relief. Just getting off this damn island would maybe give him a chance to think.
He went back to the boat, where LeeAnn and Reggie had the pleasure of lifting him out of his wheelchair, lugging him onto the catamaran, and dumping him in the wheelhouse where they told him he was lucky to have them for his friends and he’d better stop being an asshole and remember that. It was the first time in a long time that Danny had smiled and felt good about it.
Chapter 25
“I thought he was with you,” Liz said to her sister, after BeBe had toweled off and changed into jeans and an old sweatshirt of Danny’s.
Warmly tucked into the gray and crimson Harvard attire, BeBe wished she was eighteen again instead of ninety-five like she felt. “I haven’t seen Danny since he brought us the iced tea,” she replied, then added, “Do you have any brandy around here?”
“Brandy? My son has disappeared. Am I the only one who is concerned?”
“He hasn’t disappeared, Liz,” BeBe said, her words laced with exasperation. “He’s obviously driven off somewhere in the van.” Her head was throbbing now, from the sun then the vodka then the implosion of her sinuses behind her eyes thanks to the damn rain. Not to mention the aftershock of meeting Josh and the realization of what she had said, what she had done. She rubbed her forehead and wondered how she could ask Liz to please just shut up.
“Alone?” Liz asked from between nearly closed teeth. “God, Beebs, he never even drove the van until today. Until he went to get you.”
“I thought you were the one who’d been hounding him to drive.”
Liz sucked in a breath. “You don’t understand. I’m worried about him.”
BeBe did not point out that perhaps Liz was worried about the wrong thing. “Maybe he went back to the airport. Maybe he went to pick up someone else. Your husband, for example.”
The color drained from Liz’s face. She kept her eyes fixed on BeBe and winced.
BeBe could not believe her big mouth. She remembered the old gun that Evelyn had given to Daniel. She wished she could dig it out of Father’s desk drawer, place it to her temple, and pull the trigger. It was the least she could do to spare her sister any more misery than she’d already created. “I’m sorry, Lizzie,” she said, approaching her kid sister to give her a hug like old times.
Liz turned away.
BeBe pulled the long arms of the sweatshirt down over her hands and folded her arms. “Don’t you get it, Liz? You weren’t supposed to be like me. You weren’t supposed to be the one with the fucked-up life. Your life was supposed to be perfect, unharmed, without scars.”
Tears welled in Liz’s eyes. “I know that’s what eve
ryone expected,” she said. “But I’m human, Beebs. We all screw up stuff. Nothing has ever been perfect in my life. Especially since Daniel was killed. I thought, of all people, you knew that.”
BeBe wondered if Liz could forgive her for telling Josh about Danny, by justifying that she, too, was human. “Yeah, well,” BeBe stammered, “I tried my best to make things perfect for you, kid. To keep the dream alive for at least one of us.”
Liz smiled. “It wasn’t your job to make my life perfect, Beebs. Maybe Mother should have, but she was too busy either making life grand for Daniel or wallowing in his death. And Father was too busy with his own agenda, trying to get me to take Daniel’s place, to live out the life Father had always wanted for himself, but had never dared to go after.”
Never dared to go after? BeBe did not understand what Liz meant. Did Liz think Will Adams had once wanted to be president? And if so, did she wonder what had stopped him? BeBe suddenly wondered whether Liz had been more aware of Father’s motives than she’d once thought, that maybe Liz, too, had learned that Father had not kept Daniel from getting orders for Vietnam, all for the sake of “credentials” to pave the road to Pennsylvania Avenue. But as BeBe looked into Liz’s hurt eyes, she knew her sister did not know, could not have known. And BeBe had revealed enough secrets for one day, perhaps for a lifetime.
“Okay, Lizzie,” she said, “so none of our lives has been perfect. Look at Danny’s. He’s stuck in a wheelchair. And now he’s found a way to gain a little freedom. Don’t take it away from him. And don’t, for godsake, worry about him.”
The tears dripped from Liz’s eyes and she turned to the window. “I just wish he hadn’t picked now to take off again.”
BeBe looked out at the rain. “A little rain won’t hurt him.”
With her eyes lowered, Liz admitted, “It’s not that. It’s that I need him here now. I need him with me. He is more of my strength than he knows.”
BeBe studied her sister a moment: her perfect sister, now standing there without makeup, without the help of hair stylists and wardrobe consultants, just a middle-aged woman out on the Vineyard, trying to make some sense of her life.