by Jean Stone
“Let’s start in Gay Head,” BeBe said. “Danny always liked to look out from the cliffs.” No one mentioned that it would soon be dark. “If he’s not there,” BeBe added, “we can try Oak Bluffs. Maybe he did something really simple like go to the movies.”
“The movies?” Liz asked.
“This is his first taste of real freedom in years,” BeBe said with more conviction than she felt. “He might want to have fun. Besides, the Strand is still there. So is The Island.”
Liz looked at her sister, then looked away again, as if not wanting to remember those nights at the movies, the popcorn blocks, the saltwater taffy. And Josh.
This was her penance. Liz numbly stared out the dirty side window of the rattling old pickup truck and knew that this was her penance for being with Josh again, for letting herself succumb to lust or memories or vulnerability—whatever it was that had propelled her into doing what she should not have done, then, now, or ever.
It was difficult to believe that it had only been last night and that she had felt so happy, so blissfully content, as if she had come home, as if there had still been a home left to come to.
She didn’t even know how she felt about him. Had she loved him all these years? She had, of course, thought of him often, more often of late, since he’d entered the race against Michael. Once, such a thing had been inconceivable. But Liz had allowed herself only a few moments of wondering if he had done it on purpose, if he were trying to prove he was good enough for her, if perhaps he still loved her, had always loved her, and this was his only way of proving it.
Then she had realized that was a feverishly selfish way of thinking, as if the world or anyone else’s world revolved around her.
“You know, of course, that Gay Head’s now called Aquinnah,” Tuna said to BeBe.
Liz tuned them out, these two people beside her who she suspected once had been lovers.
Old lovers, Liz thought, and once again, an ache blossomed somewhere inside her.
She suddenly wondered if she should have told Josh that Danny was missing. Was that how it worked? Now that he knew Danny was really his son, was he entitled to know anything? And more importantly, did he think he was entitled to know anything?
She put a thumbnail into her mouth and slowly chewed the edge. Of course, Danny wasn’t a child; he was a full-fledged adult, legally entitled to make his own decisions. Did that make a difference?
The windshield wipers creaked. The breath of three adults crammed into the cab of the old truck began to steam up the windows. Tuna laughed. Then BeBe laughed.
Liz squeezed her eyes closed. “Shut up!” she screamed. “Both of you, please just shut up!”
The laughter halted, chopped like a carrot by a ginzu knife on one of those TV infomercials that Liz sometimes watched in the middle of the night when she could not sleep.
Liz opened her eyes and was not surprised to sense they were wet, as wet as the pavement that stretched up toward the lighthouse, the empty pavement where no cars—not even pink tourist buses—were parked at the souvenir shacks. No cars, no buses, no van. For a few moments they sat there in silence, staring out at the vacant cliffs and the dark, choppy waters below.
“You’ll have to excuse my sister,” BeBe said softly. “She’s so worried about Danny.”
For all his seeming character flaws, Tuna at least had the sense not to speak.
Liz felt like a fool. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have a lot on my mind, but that’s no excuse to be rude. I do appreciate your help, Tuna.”
“Guess it’s best to head down to Oak Bluffs,” Tuna said, steering the truck around the big, U-shaped loop, the one that began the return to the island.
And then Liz remembered that Danny had once called this spot “end of the world,” because your only choice was to turn back or to go forward, off into the sea. He had called it that long ago, back when he was a child, back when he was a whole child and would never have run off without letting his mother know where he had gone.
The boat pitched and rolled and heaved like a Disney World E-Ride gone out of control. Danny hung on to the edges of the bench where Reggie and LeeAnn had plunked him and tried to focus on not throwing up and on not looking to see if his catheter was full because there was nothing he could do if it was. It wasn’t as if he could mosey out of the wheelhouse, walk up to the rail, pop the cap, and drain his pee into Vineyard Sound. It wasn’t as if he could ask Reggie to do it for him, because Reggie had relieved LeeAnn and was now at the helm, struggling to keep the catamaran upright, struggling to keep them alive. He couldn’t ask LeeAnn, either, because she had gone below to puke her seasick guts out, and Danny could not have followed her there, because there was merely a ladder from the wheelhouse down to the galley and bunks, and, well, ladders were pretty much out of the question for a guy with virtually no legs.
It was amazing, Danny mused, how focusing on battling the elements to stay alive took one’s mind off other, less consequential things, like learning your father was not who you thought.
“If we make it into the channel we’ll be okay,” Reggie shouted above the whip of wind that lashed against the windows.
Danny knew the channel was Canapitsit, which, tucked between Cuttyhunk and Nashawena, provided the only access from Vineyard Sound to the town dock at Cuttyhunk. He knew all this because, back in his youth, he had made it a point to learn all about the Indians and their influence on the Vineyard because he’d been trying to score points with LeeAnn and make her think he was really one of them, not one of those summer people who only “took” from the island and never gave back. It had never occurred to him that she knew what he was and had liked him in spite of it.
“We’re not going to make it to Penikese are we?” Danny asked.
Reggie pulled his eyes from the horizon and shouted above the roar of the wind. “Danny, my boy, we’ll be lucky to make Cuttyhunk. The storm is kicking up sooner than expected. LeeAnn was right. We were stupid to try.”
Danny dropped his gaze to the floor, to the wet, thin carpeting that had seen the feet of so many happy tourists. “Sorry, Reg,” he said. “I was miserable and depressed and had no right to drag you two into my problems.”
Suddenly the boat lurched on a wave that seemed as high as the Prudential Center in downtown Boston. Danny felt the roll come in a split second. He grabbed for the edge of the bench. But he was too late, and his body was flung onto its side and dumped onto the blue indoor-outdoor-carpeted floor.
“Fuck,” he said.
“No kidding,” Reggie said. “Hold still a minute and I’ll get you up.”
“Forget about me,” Danny said, hoisting his upper body as upright as possible. “Keep us afloat. I’ll be fine until we get there.” With the force of his hands, that at least still worked, Danny tried to push his body around, tried to straighten the rest of himself so he would not be too twisted, so he would not break any bones if he already hadn’t. Pain below the waist, like pleasure, was something Danny did not have to worry about.
He did, however, have to worry about the catheter, which he now could see quite clearly and see that it bulged. Just as he knew that the last thing he could do to his friends was release his pee all over the boat, they hit another wave, and the boat pitched again. Danny automatically clutched at the catheter just in time for it to pop open and empty its contents.
“Jesus, Danny, are you okay?” It was LeeAnn’s voice, calling to him not from below deck where she should have been, but from the ladder she had climbed to check up on them.
He would have been more embarrassed if her face was not barf-seasick green.
“Just another day in paradise,” he said. “Sorry, though. It seems I’ve pissed the bed.”
Reggie glanced down at him, then back to the helm. “Jesus,” he said.
LeeAnn’s eyes fell to the floor, to the puddle of urine that surrounded him now, mixing with the rainwater and creeping up to his chest—he knew because he could feel its warmth there.
LeeAnn started to laugh. “This is absurd,” she yelled above the noisy assault of Mom Nature or whoever was causing such chaos. “I’m downstairs puking my guts out, you’re up here pissing your pants, and Reggie is barely keeping us alive. I say it’s absurd and it’s more fun than I’ve had in years.” With that, she clutched her stomach, rolled her eyes, and ran back down to the galley, retching as she went.
“She’s right,” Danny admitted from where he was sprawled on the floor. “It’s more fun than I’ve had, too.”
“Which only proves,” Reggie added, “that you’re both assholes.”
Danny smiled. The boat rose up again, then quickly slapped down. And Danny realized that if he died out here, if they all died out here, it was better to die happy with friends than to die miserable and alone … or even worse, with people who had spent your whole life lying to you.
Chapter 27
By the time they arrived in Oak Bluffs, it was dark. Like Gay Head, it looked like a ghost town. BeBe gazed at the huge Victorian homes that rimmed the water and were now boarded up with beige plywood eye patches that covered their windows, blocking their view of the blackened sea. The few vehicles on the streets were mostly all parked, abandoned like the houses, waiting for the wrath of Carol.
They circled around the Flying Horses carousel and drove up Circuit Avenue, past the movie theater on the corner, past the T-shirt and fudge shops and the bar where Josh had once extricated BeBe. There was no green van parked in any of the angled spaces that bordered the left side of the street.
“Stop,” Liz commanded. “I’m going to go into the theater. Maybe he parked somewhere else.”
BeBe did not point out how unlikely it was that Danny would park any distance away since he would have to wheel himself all the way.
Tuna stepped on the brake and stopped the truck. Liz pulled the navy-lined slicker hood over her head, got out, and slammed the door. The rumble from the truck bed told BeBe that Joe was following Liz.
BeBe dropped her face into her hands. “This is such a nightmare.”
“Does her son run away often?” Tuna asked.
BeBe shook her head. “You don’t understand. There’s so much more involved. So much at stake …”
“Do you think Barton will win the election? Do you think he has a chance to beat out the Jew?”
BeBe winced at the way Tuna referred to Josh, at the prejudice that people like Tuna—and Father—could not seem to break through. Despite how she felt about Josh, the prejudice repulsed her. “I don’t know if Michael will win the election,” BeBe said quietly. “I don’t know anything anymore.”
Tuna parked the truck. “Come on, Beebs, I’ll buy you a quick cup of coffee at Linda Jean’s. And you can tell me how rotten your life is, and I’ll tell you how perfect mine is.”
After a moment of hesitation, BeBe agreed. Even if Liz came back before they did, BeBe needed a break. And at least Tuna would always be Tuna and never pretend to be anyone else.
“My wife doesn’t understand me,” Tuna was saying while BeBe stared into the mug of steaming coffee. She didn’t know which was funnier—the outdated pickup line or the fact that Tuna thought there was anything there for his wife to understand in the first place.
“What’s to understand?” she asked. “You like to fish, you like to fuck. What else is there?”
“Come on, BeBe, you know me better than that.”
“No I don’t. And you’d better not be making a move on me, Tuna, because now’s not the time or the place, and I’m definitely not the right person. Besides, the last time I saw you, you were happy with your marriage.”
“The last time you saw me was almost twenty-five years ago.”
“Shit,” she said, “we’re getting old, Tuna.”
“All the more reason we should take advantage of every opportunity that comes our way.” He took a long drink of his coffee, plucked a thin paper napkin from a chrome container, and wiped the Formica table where he had spilled a drop.
BeBe was fairly certain he wasn’t doing all this because he was neat. He’s thinking, she knew. He’s thinking about making his next move. She hated it that he was so transparent. She glanced out the window, wishing that her next move could be out the door, fast. Leave it to her to find the one man on the island knee-deep in male menopause, and to drag him back into her life. God, how she longed to be at her desk, consumed by her work, where the real world could not intrude.
“It must be exciting,” he said, “this political life. Being out there campaigning, traveling around the country.”
It took her a second to get what he meant. “Political life?” Then she laughed. “Not me, pal. I stay as far away from that as I can. That’s my sister’s life, not mine.”
“But you must get into part of it. All the celebrities that do all those golf tournaments and things. All the singers who perform at fund-raising concerts. God, it sure is a lot different than being stuck here on a damn island.”
BeBe leaned across the table. “Get this straight, Tuna. The last ‘celebrity’ I saw was James Taylor when he gave a benefit concert right here on this ‘damn island.’ I do not travel around the country. I live in Palm Beach, where I sweat to death in summer and work my ass off at my very successful business. I never have time to play golf; nor do I care. And I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I like my life.” As she said it, she realized she wasn’t far from the truth. Well, not too far.
“Geez, what a waste,” Tuna said.
“Not really,” BeBe said, staring at him now, at the face that was leathered from too many years on the water, and weary perhaps from looking at the same wife for so long; the wife who probably also felt “stuck.”
“Thanks for the java.” BeBe stood up. “But I need to find out what my famous sister is doing.”
They left the restaurant, Tuna blessedly walking with distance between them, as if he had gotten the message, hallelujah. But BeBe felt a small seed of sadness for this man she had once known, sadness for his life, and for the lives, she supposed, of most people, whose lives had begun with so many possibilities that were now so few.
They made it to Cuttyhunk. The small hump of an island was barely visible through the heavy gray curtain that dripped with rain; the harbor itself was amass with few boats but hundreds of orange buoys that bounced with the chop, deserted by boat owners who must have believed that Carol was coming and they needed to get out of her way.
The Annabella, however, was, according to Reggie, too old and too mean to be dissuaded.
Once they were safely past the rock jetty and into the inlet, LeeAnn made it topside and helped Danny back onto the bench. She yanked off his shirt—the one covered with saltwater and pee—then washed his chest with a warm, wet cloth, dried him, and pulled a clean Black Dog sweatshirt over his head. Then, while Reggie steered delicately toward the pier, LeeAnn slid off Danny’s pants and studied the mess.
“Tell me what to do to fix you up,” she said, as if nursing duties were something she had willingly signed on for, simply by virtue of being his friend.
In another place, at another time, Danny might have been profoundly humiliated. But with Reggie at the helm and LeeAnn studying him so matter-of-factly, it did not seem humiliating. It seemed, instead, the most natural thing in the world.
He leaned back on the bench and told her what to do. Then he watched as she did everything perfectly, or nearly perfectly, and even told her it was a damn shame he couldn’t feel her touching him because he’d like that a lot, because he knew her hands would feel better on him than those of his Jamaican nurse, Clay.
“Shut up and try to let one of us know when you intend to pee your pants again,” she responded with good humor. She covered him in a pair of Reggie’s clean, dry sweatpants. They were too long but it didn’t matter, because it wasn’t as if Danny had to walk anywhere, and, anyway, he doubted that the fashion police were holed up on Cuttyhunk Island.
He had a quick thought that Josh Miller wa
s shorter than Michael Barton; that Danny was shorter than his sister, Mags, or brother, Greg. Shorter, and now he knew why: it was because he really wasn’t one of them; he was one of the opposite party. He tried to push away his thought.
Warmer and drier now, he thanked LeeAnn and told her she’d make someone a wonderful wife. She gave him the finger, buttoned a slicker around herself, and went out on deck to help Reggie tie off.
Reggie and LeeAnn “borrowed” a golf cart at the marina, hoisted Danny onto the seat, put his wheelchair in the back, and headed for the Vineyard View Bakery where they hoped to get much-needed food and more-needed shelter.
The restaurant was closed.
Reggie banged on the door. No one came.
“They’re home where they’re safe,” LeeAnn said. “They knew there wouldn’t be tourists on a day like this.”
The tourists, of course, only came and left Cuttyhunk: there were no hotels here, no welcoming inns. Danny had once heard that in winter less than fifty people inhabited the island. He would bet there’d be even fewer next winter if Hurricane Carol picked here to hit land.
Reggie climbed back into the cart and turned it around, the small canvas roof sagging from the persistent rain. He hooked a left and headed up a small hill—at one, two, maybe three miles an hour. Not that it mattered: the roads were deserted. It could have been No Mans Land—that spooky island south of here that was used for target practice in World War II, the place where few dared to go because of the rumored land mines and ammunition and ghosts that were there, ghosts that might have crossed the water and settled on Cuttyhunk for the lack of activity on the main street of town now.
The dim golf cart headlights revealed gray-shingled houses that dotted the road—many boarded, some, perhaps, in anticipation of Carol; some simply because they belonged to summer people who had already returned to the city.
They putt-putted through the wind and the rain until Reggie finally slowed. “Look,” he said, pointing under the golf cart canopy. “People.”