Returning to Shore

by Corinne Demas

  It’s true, thought Clare, a man of many secrets. There was an awkward moment, a moment when it was Richard’s turn to say something. But he didn’t. He just stood there, not extending himself to help the conversation. But if Steffi was disappointed by his lack of social grace, his inhospitality, she didn’t let on.

  “I work with Rich on the terrapin project,” she said, her voice cheerful and excited. “On his terrapin project, I should say. He’s our guiding light.”

  “Hardly,” said Richard dryly.

  “You know how modest he is,” said Steffi to Clare. Clare nodded as if she knew, but she didn’t know at all. “The project was his idea; he got the grant money; he organized the volunteer network—I’m just a volunteer; I’m not a real naturalist.

  “I’m not trained as a naturalist, either,” protested Richard.

  Steffi ignored him. “And when journalists want to do a story about the project, he won’t take any credit for what he’s doing.”

  There was another long pause. At this moment Clare would have expected Richard to offer Steffi something to drink—but he didn’t. They all stood there, and Steffi smiled brightly at Clare. She was remarkably resilient. Perhaps she was so familiar with his awkwardness she didn’t take it personally.

  “So, you’ll be helping out with the turtles while you’re here, I bet.”

  “I guess so,” said Clare.

  “That’s great,” said Steffi. “Nesting season, you know, is the busy time; we can use all the help we can get. Have you done this before?”

  Clare shook her head.

  “But you’ve been to the island before?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Clare. “Of course.” She stole a look at Richard, and he caught her eye. His mouth moved slightly, not quite a smile, and he gave just the slightly hint of a nod.

  Again there was a pause. Steffi took in her breath, pulled up her shoulders. “I’ve got to be going,” she said, “great meeting you, Clare. We’ll be seeing each other, no doubt.” She turned towards Richard and touched his elbow. Her three fingers rested for a second on the fabric of his blue work shirt, then pressed cloth against skin. “I have some cages in the car I could use your help with,” she said. Her flip-flops slapped against the soles of her feet as she walked off. Clare felt a touch of —what was it? jealousy? and on whose behalf? Steffi was the kind of woman who would have irritated Vera, a woman who seemed as if she hadn’t put a lot of work into looking attractive, but who was attractive anyway. But it wasn’t Vera whom she was feeling for; it was herself, for the fact that this woman seemed to know her father better than she did. Clare sat down and opened her book. She didn’t want them to think she was watching them to see how they dealt with each other when they weren’t with her. She didn’t know what was between them. It seemed clear that Steffi was interested in her father—but was he interested in Steffi?

  When he came back to the deck, he said, “Ready to go for pizza now?” Nothing about the visit from Steffi. So she didn’t bring it up, either.

  10

  It felt strange to Clare to be going up and over the wooden bridge, leaving the island behind. Out on the main road Blackfish Island seemed as if it was a continent away. People speeding along to other parts of the Cape would never know that it existed, perhaps would not know that a place like it could exist.

  The restaurant was noisy with big ceiling fans that swirled the air around but didn’t do much to cool it. The teenagers who were working there looked sweaty and tired. Still, Clare envied them. It would be fun to have a real summer job, to be working with a bunch of friends and get to wear one of those red shirts that said “Dave’s Crew” across the back and had a name tag on the front. You probably had to be at least sixteen to get a job like that, though.

  Richard studied the menu. “Should we get a whole pizza each or share one?” he asked.

  “Aren’t they kind of big?”

  Richard caught the attention of the girl behind the counter. “How large are the pizzas?” he asked.

  The girl’s name was Maureen. Her dark hair was held up on her head with a plastic clip as big as a lobster claw, but half of the curls had escaped, and she kept pushing them off her damp face with the back of her arm.

  “Regular size has eight slices. It would feed a family of four if you each had two pieces.”

  “Or a family of two, if you each had four?” asked Richard.

  Maureen looked puzzled. “I guess,” she said.

  “In that case,” said Richard to Clare, “I think we should share a pizza. Are you a traditionalist? Or do you want to try some exotic toppings?”

  “You can get it half and half,” suggested Maureen.

  “A workable solution,” said Richard. “Ready to order?” he asked Clare. She nodded. “I’ll have mushrooms and extra cheese.”

  “And I’ll risk the clams and pesto.”

  They found a table near the side window that looked out on a miniature golf course. It had a lighthouse and a windmill that were so detailed you could imagine that they were real, just far in the distance. Clare watched a family that had little twin daughters who kept pushing each other to get ahead. Behind them, an older brother was taking his shots very seriously.

  “Interested in playing?” Richard asked her.

  Clare shook her head. “No, that’s OK,” she said.

  “That’s a relief,” said Richard. Clare was glad she hadn’t said she wanted to play. If she had, he probably would have done it just to please her.

  When their number was called, Richard got up and claimed their order. He placed the plates carefully on their table and slid back onto his seat.

  “You might want to check for a souvenir of Maureen’s tresses before you take a bite,” he said. Clare couldn’t tell from the expression on his face whether he was teasing her or not. It was like that comment about the miniature golf. He might have been joking, but she couldn’t be sure.

  The pizza wasn’t especially good, but Richard didn’t seem to notice. “I haven’t had pizza in years,” he told Clare.

  “They have pizza in California, don’t they?”

  “They do. They have every imaginable configuration of the species, but I think the last time I had pizza it was nothing fancy, at a place near campus where your mother and I liked to go.”

  Clare, with a piece of pizza half dangling from her mouth, looked up at him suddenly. This man, with the sun-bleached grey hair and the frayed work shirt, who was sitting across the table from her, had dated Vera. Had actually been married to her.

  “You seem surprised,” said Richard. “I guess Vera eats only gourmet pizza these days.”

  “She doesn’t really eat pizza much anymore,” said Clare. “She used to eat it a lot. Sometimes Peter made it for dinner, from scratch.”

  Richard’s face was down, looking at his plate.

  “Peter, Vera’s second husband,” added Clare.

  “I know Peter,” said Richard.

  “You do?” asked Clare, brightly. “I didn’t know you knew him.”

  Richard looked up at her slowly. “Peter was on the scene before I moved to California.”

  “Oh,” said Clare. “I thought Vera met him in a workshop she was taking after you had moved away.”

  “Workshop, yes,” said Richard. This time he was looking straight at Clare, waiting for her next question. But what could she ask?

  “Don’t worry, Clare,” he continued. “Peter’s not to blame for the end of your parents’ marriage. And he was a good stepfather to you, wasn’t he?”

  Clare wanted to say something about Richard’s use of the past tense. Peter was still her stepfather, wasn’t he, even if he and Vera weren’t married? But she felt that Peter was not a subject that Richard was eager to talk about.

  “Sure,” she said. It seemed unfair to Peter not to say something more on his behalf, not to say how wonderful he is.

  “How about some ice cream for dessert?” asked Richard. “I noticed a place on the way here.”
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  “OK,” she said.

  There was a long line at the ice cream place, and Clare was afraid Richard regretted suggesting they stop.

  “I don’t really need ice cream,” she said.

  “No one needs ice cream,” said Richard, and he took his place stoically in line. When they got their ice cream they got back in the car and Richard handed his cone to Clare while he started up the engine. When they were out on the main road again she handed it back to him. Her ice cream was soft-serve, and she had to work fast with her tongue to keep up with the drips down the sides of the cone.

  By the time they had turned off onto the smaller road that led to the Blackfish Island Bridge, Richard had popped the last two inches of his cone into his mouth and wiped his hand on his shirt front, and Clare had reduced the swirls of vanilla to a mound barely higher than her cone. Somewhere, beyond the trees, the sun was setting now, and the sky was the faint violet color of dusk. There was a boy on a bicycle riding towards them. He was on an old-fashioned bike with big handlebars, and he was riding in lazy loops. He didn’t have a helmet on, and he was barefoot. Richard slowed way down, but a car came up behind them—a jeep—and passed them just as the road curved to the left. The driver spotted the bicycle rider just in time, honked and swerved to miss him. Richard slammed on his brakes. The jeep raced off. The boy managed to keep his balance on the bike. He looked back over his shoulder at the jeep, then continued on his way. Richard drove a little farther, then pulled to the side of the road. Clare had gripped her ice cream, and her finger had poked through the cone to the cold inside. She started to lean over to take a big lick of the cone, but something made her turn to look at Richard before her tongue met the ice cream. He was bent over, his head on the steering wheel.

  “Dad?” she asked. “Dad, are you all right?”

  He lifted his head slowly. He was breathing heavily, as if he had been running. She dropped the ice cream cone to the floor of the car.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “I’ve got to get out of the car,” he said. “I’ve got to get some air.”

  “Dad! What should I do?”

  He flung open the door of the car and scrambled outside. But once he was on his feet he gripped the side of the car with one hand, his other clutched his chest. His breath came in small spurts.

  “Are you having a heart attack?” she cried. “Should I go for help?” There were no other people around that she could see, but there was a mailbox just ahead of them at the end of a driveway, and there must be a house there not far away.

  Richard held on to the door frame and leaned in the window. “I’m all right, Clare. It’s not a heart attack. Don’t worry. I’ll be all right.” He opened the car door and lowered himself cautiously to his seat. He was breathing more evenly now, as if he had practiced this, as if he was making himself slow down.

  “What can I do?” asked Clare.

  “Can you drive?” asked Richard.

  “I don’t have a license,” said Clare, “but I’ve driven a little.”

  “Can you drive a stick shift?”

  “No,” said Clare.

  “We’ll just sit here for a moment, then,” said Richard. “Just give me a moment to catch my breath.”

  Richard sat still with his eyes shut. Clare watched the sky begin to darken, the colors fading until, eventually, there were no colors at all. She thought about the ice cream on the floor of the car and wondered if she should do something to clean it up, but ended up just moving her feet back. She closed her eyes and listened to the traffic in the distance. A pickup truck came along the road towards them, and she opened her eyes. The truck slowed for a moment when it passed them, then kept on going. Its headlights opened a swath of the darkness and grew dimmer, until it was too far away to see. Somewhere in the woods a night bird began a monotonous, plaintive call.

  Finally, Richard opened his eyes. “I’m all right now. I’m ready to get back home.”

  “What happened to you?” Clare asked.

  “I had a panic attack,” said Richard.

  “Not a heart attack?”

  “Nothing to do with my heart. My heart is sound as they come. It’s what happens in some situations—”

  “You mean because of that car that went by?”

  “The kid on the bicycle,” said Richard. “I was afraid he was going to be hit.”

  “He wasn’t hit,” said Clare.

  “I know,” said Richard. “But there was a moment—” He put the car into gear and pulled out onto the road. They drove up and over the Blackfish Island Bridge, the planks thumping under their weight. The smell of the marsh was familiar and comforting to Clare.

  Richard didn’t say anything until they were back at the house.

  “I’m sorry that I frightened you, Clare,” he said.

  “That’s OK,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine now,” said Richard. “Nothing to worry about. I owe you more of an explanation. Maybe tomorrow. In the meantime, believe me, I’m fine.” Richard gave her a slow, sad smile. “Good night, Clare,” he said.

  She’d called him Dad before. She cried it out then without thinking, but now she felt self-conscious about saying it.

  “Good night,” she said.

  11

  In the morning Richard was gone when she woke up. There was a note on the kitchen counter telling her he’d be back by nine. Clare was eating breakfast out on the deck when the phone rang. She ran to get it only because she thought it might be Richard—otherwise she would have felt shy answering the phone in his house.

  “Aunt Eva!” she cried.

  “Hi baby, how are you doing?” Eva’s voice was distant and crackly.

  “Fine.”

  “Reception’s lousy so I better talk quickly,” said Eva. “I’m going up to visit some friends in Maine. If you want, I can come and pick you up first. Are you ready to bail out?”

  “No, I’m OK.” She said it quickly, before she thought about it.

  “If I’m in Maine I’ll be about six hours away,” said Eva. “I don’t want you to be stuck there.”

  She thought for a moment now, but her answer was the same. “I’m not stuck. It’s fine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.” Clare paused a beat or two. “Eva?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did Vera meet Peter while she was still married to Richard?”

  There was a pause at the other end of the phone. Clare thought maybe she’d lost the connection, but then Eva let out a whistle.

  “Wow. Let me guess. Vera gave you a prettied up version of the story and Richard is telling you something else.”

  “Sort of.”

  “Well, honey, the truth is that Vera and Peter discovered each other while Vera and Richard were still married. But if you ask me if it hadn’t been Peter it would have been someone else. She and Richard weren’t exactly a match made in heaven. When Richard got the job in California she wouldn’t have gone to be with him, even if Peter wasn’t in the picture.”

  “I’m starting to have trouble hearing you,” said Clare.

  “Any other bombshell questions you’d like to ask before I lose reception completely?”

  Clare thought about what happened the night before. There was a lot to ask about that. But it wasn’t just the poor connection that made her hesitate. It seemed like a private thing that had happened with Richard, and even though Eva was someone she’d always felt she could tell everything to, this seemed like something that Richard wouldn’t want Eva to know.

  “No,” she said. “Have fun in Maine.”

  “Thanks, baby. Have fun out there on Goldfish Island. Call me if you need me, and even if it is six hours away, I’ll come running. I love you!”

  “I love you, too,” said Clare but by that time Eva’s connection was gone.

  It was still only eight o’clock. Clare finished her breakfast and put her dishes in the dishwasher. The house seemed very qui
et. Clare wandered into the living room and looked at the books on the bookcase. One whole section was nonfiction, books about nature and geology. There were lots of books about marine biology. Clare pulled out a fat book that said Seaweed on the spine, but it was just line drawings and lots of dull text. It was hard enough imagining someone devoting his life to writing about turtles—they at least had behavior you could observe—but seaweed!

  The door to Richard’s bedroom was open. Clare stood in the doorway and looked in. If Richard hadn’t wanted her to enter the room surely he would have kept the door closed. Still, she entered cautiously, checking over her shoulder to make sure Richard wasn’t home yet. The room was crammed with stuff, but strangely it revealed little of the man who inhabited it. It was all about work. It spoke only of Richard’s preoccupation with terrapins, but little of the man himself. The only personal items visible were a wooden hair brush on the dresser that was missing a few clumps of bristles and a wadded up paisley handkerchief. Clare longed to open the dresser drawers and look through them, but that seemed like a tremendous breach of privacy. If Richard were to arrive suddenly and discover her in his bedroom that would be awkward enough. But if he found her looking through his drawers that would be impossible to explain.

  On the bedside table a pair of glasses held a book open. She guessed they were reading glasses since she hadn’t seen Richard wearing them. She lifted the glasses and held them up to her face. If she looked through Richard’s glasses would she have a sense of the way her father saw the world? But the glasses made the room out of focus. She held up the book, The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats, but the poet was unfamiliar to Clare. The letters were magnified, louder. She looked at the poem that the book had been opened to: “The Wild Swans at Coole.” She read the poem through and lingered on the last two stanzas.

  Unwearied still, lover by lover,

  They paddle in the cold

  Companionable streams or climb the air;