Cape Cod Noir

by David L. Ulin

  Anna shifted under him, trying to find a comfortable spot on the lumpy pallet. She sighed with happiness, intoxicated with love.

  They woke in each other’s arms. Bram rolled over, cradled his head, moaning, but made a brave show of it when Anna looked at him.

  “It’s nothing. A pounding head is a small price to pay for such a reunion.”

  “We’ll be in Boston in two days,” she said. The hopefulness that attended the thought was a sensation virtually forgotten since he’d left so abruptly five years ago. “I’ll set you up there in a shop of your own.”

  He nodded eagerly. “It will be good to be back where I belong, back among the embers, bending metal to my will.” He hesitated. “Anywhere else but Boston, though. I have enemies there.”

  “How so?” she said, smiling. “It’s not possible. An age since you left, and all unpleasantness long forgotten, I’m sure.”

  “Alas, my former master—in title only!”

  “Who is this man? I’ll have him run out of town.” She was proud to realize she had some influence now, a way to solve his problems for him.

  “Bah, a bully of the first order, and he is dead, thank God. But his cousin, the one who threatened me, has a long memory. A sod the name of—Owen? Oliver. Oliver Browne.”

  Anna’s heart seemed to stop beating for a long moment, before it resumed with a painful thump.

  “But it is no matter,” he continued. “We can go anywhere else, and be happy.”

  She thought again of her tavern. Must she choose between the Queen and Bram? There was nothing to be gained by asking aloud. Anna nodded, smiled, and dressed, and with a heavy soul and a newly aching head, she made sure no one was about as she slipped away to her room.

  Had Samuel Stratton walked into the Queen’s Arms, Anna would have nodded welcome, as to anyone else, and offered him one of the better chairs. Then she would have signaled her man, Josiah Ball, who handled the heavy lifting and peacemaking. He would address the more volatile regulars, finding pretext to send them home. She would go about her business, pausing only to make sure the cudgel she kept behind her bar was at hand when violence broke out. Something in Stratton’s carriage, and that of men like him, alerted her, like dark clouds and a drop in the barometer told of a storm. If Adam Seaver was a man to rely quietly on his reputation, retaliating privately and viciously, Samuel Stratton wore his aggression as a cloak, flourishing it at every opportunity, spoiling for trouble.

  She recognized him as the man who had beaten the boy.

  Stratton looked well enough—tall and hale and dark—and he seated her with a gruff and rusty courtesy. This she understood was a rarity, a gesture to Seaver’s presence and Browne’s influence. It extended only that far; for as soon as the tavern-keeper’s wife deposited their dinner on the table and left, he ignored Anna and turned to Seaver.

  “My works have been bedeviled of late. My still and stores were destroyed in the fire, and I can’t supply Mr. Browne nor pay him his interest until I rebuild. If you’d convey that to him, I’d be obliged.” Stratton used his knife to joint the roast bird, and then forswore cutlery as he ate the wing, using the tablecloth to wipe his fingers. “I may be delayed for months.”

  Seaver helped Anna to a plate of oysters, but took nothing for himself. “And the nature of this devilry?”

  “Petty theft, and worse: arson and murder. My man was burned alive, trapped in the building when it went up.”

  Suddenly, Anna was reminded of another fire, long ago. Just before Bram had left.

  “Someone has a grudge against you,” Seaver said. The humor in his words suggested this was no surprise.

  Stratton only grunted. “Someone will pay for it, when I find ’em.” He threw the bones down, and rubbed his greasy hands together. The light in his eyes caused Anna to turn to her plate. “I think I know who it is. A little weasel I thought I could get cheap. A smith with ideas too big for him. I’ll string him up by his balls, and when I’m done with him, hungry seagulls won’t touch what’s left.”

  Bram. Panic seized Anna.

  “Interesting,” Seaver said. “I’d like to inspect the site. I am required in Boston shortly, but I would present a full report of your troubles to Mr. Browne, and your request to—once again—delay payment.”

  At this invocation of Browne’s name, Stratton grew less agitated, more unsure. “Thank you.”

  Anna and Seaver left shortly thereafter, claiming fatigue, and returned to their inn across the harbor.

  “What think you of our host?” Seaver extracted his pipe and tobacco pouch.

  “He lacks … economy. I saw him beat a boy almost to death, when he could have had the information he wanted for a piece of bread and bacon fat.”

  Seaver shrugged. “And the current matter?”

  Anna spoke carefully, trying not to let memory—Bram’s former master watching his house burn down—color her words. “He’s either lying or mistaken.”

  “How so?”

  “Thieves don’t set fires; they don’t want to get caught. It was an accident, or perhaps he set the fire himself, having removed the equipment first, to save paying what he owes Mr. Browne while secretly distilling elsewhere.”

  “I see.” Seaver considered this. “The man killed inside?”

  “Accidental or intentional, the fire covers the deed. Do you think Stratton cares about anything but his profit?”

  “I think you are right, Mrs. Hoyt.” He rose, and grinned. He did not truly smile, as his teeth were not made to express happiness. “I shall examine the place. Thank you for your opinion.”

  She nodded goodnight, not trusting her voice, and climbed to her room.

  The door was ajar.

  Her heart quickened. It mustn’t be Bram, not here …

  She rested her hand against the door, as if to discern his presence, then pushed it open.

  A movement by the curtain. Anna took two steps to the table and her Bible. She picked it up, and from the recently repaired binding withdrew a strong, slender blade. The steel was German, sharp and bright, flat for concealment in the spine of the book.

  Holding it behind her skirts, she said, “Who’s there? Show yourself!”

  The curtains twitched again, and a bedraggled girl, barely twenty, stepped out. “Please. It’s only me.”

  Anna knew the inn’s household; this girl was no part of it. “Who are you? What are you doing here? I have no time for thieves.”

  “I’m Clarissa. Please … I need … Take me away from here.”

  A smell of molasses and charcoal and sugar burnt to acid assailed Anna’s nose. “You’re the one Stratton is looking for. You started the fire.”

  The girl straightened herself, jutted her chin out. “I didn’t. I have money, I can pay my way, I just need help—”

  “Money you stole.” Her sureness, her lack of servility, immediately set Anna against her.

  Clarissa shook her head. “My own,” she said haughtily. “I stole nothing.”

  “Show me.”

  The girl unknotted a stained handkerchief. It was filled with small coins, the sort of sum accumulated with great care over a long time. A pair of new pieces of silver shone among them.

  Anna took a step forward and slapped the girl twice, hard. “Those two you stole.”

  Clarissa’s face burned, but she held Anna’s stare. “It’s mostly my own, with whatever was in the man’s pockets. Exactly what I was owed—and if I kept the stillery running, shouldn’t I have my wages? He wouldn’t pay me.”

  “So you killed him?”

  “An accident. In defense of my own person, when he tried to take advantage. And when I saw he didn’t get up, I knew I’d have to leave here forever. He had no more use for the money.”

  “And the fire?”

  “I know nothing about it, I swear.”

  Anna waited for the truth.

  Clarissa relented. “The door opened, another man came in. I hid. I watched him pull apart the still and strike a l
ight to a barrel of spirits. I got out as soon as I could.” She shivered. “I was not certain he would ever leave, he stared at the flames so.” She held out the money again. “I only need help. I can pay!”

  “Why come here?”

  “You stood out, on your way to church. With your fine clothes and cloak, you weren’t here to stay. I thought you might need a lady’s maid. And you’re a stranger.”

  “I dined with Mr. Stratton tonight. A stranger to these parts, but not unknown.”

  The girl blanched. “Then let me leave.”

  Anna turned, and barred the door. “Sit. I may have use for you.”

  She glanced at Dolly, cold and mute on the table, as she reached for her Bible. She let the book fall open where it would, and began to read in Proverbs, the twentieth verse of the twenty-sixth chapter: Where no wood is, there the fire goeth out; so where there is no talebearer, the strife ceases.

  Anna sighed and stared at Clarissa, who’d not moved all the while. She’d admitted killing Stratton’s man, and had been at the fire. She had a grievance against Stratton.

  Anna needed to save Bram from Stratton. She opened a trunk, studied the bottles there, selected one, and left the girl in the room, locking the door behind her.

  Anna could not see for the tears in her eyes as she stumbled toward Bram’s shack, splashing along the sandy shore. The salt water soaked her skirts, making them heavier and heavier, as if clutching fingers were dragging her down. The more she moved, the more difficult it became, but she slogged on until she reached the path. She sat exhausted, on a vertebra of one of the great whales they fished and slaughtered here; the place was never free of the stench. She stared at the moon, wishing it would strike her blind or remove the terrible choices before her. A few miles to the east was the wild ocean, stretching for a world away, seething, chaotic. Here, calmer waters separated her and home and all she knew too well. She sat between them to choose.

  She could not hand Bram to Seaver.

  She could not abandon the Queen’s Arms, leave with Bram, forsake what she had. It was little enough, but hard-won and more than she’d ever dreamed of.

  She thought for another hour, shivering under the moonlight. She got up heavily and walked toward the shack where Bram was sleeping. She unlatched the door, now knowing the trick of keeping it silent, and pulled it closed behind her. She watched him by the light of a guttering candle, asleep on the old pallet, snoring, as she struggled with the hooks and lacings of her sodden clothes. With patient fingers she worked; then, naked and numb, she slipped under the covers next to him.

  He stirred, shuddered awake, but smiled when he saw her. “I was dreaming of you. And now you’re here, conjured from the sea.” He started. “You’re cold as the grave—”

  She put her hand on his mouth and climbed on top of him, feeling his warm body beneath her.

  An hour later, when it was quiet and they could hear the wintry rain on the roof of the shed, Bram kissed Anna on the back of the neck.

  In response, she reached for his hand and kissed each finger. Her lips slid down past his knuckle. He sighed, contented.

  She eased the ring off his index finger, slid it onto her own, then looked into his eyes.

  “I heard Samuel Stratton is looking for you. I won’t let him have you. We’ll run away, to New York. There’s a ship tomorrow night.”

  He sat up. “Let us go now! I can find a horse—”

  “No, be patient. I must keep them from you forever. Can you trust me to do that? I have a plan, and will come aboard the ship at the last minute, just before it sails.”

  He stared at her, then dropped his head in agreement. “Anna, you must take care. If anything should happen to you, I’d die.” He held his hand over the flame of the candle, until a blister raised. “I swear it.”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “I understand. But you must trust me.”

  “With my life.”

  She found the bottle she’d brought with her and offered it. “Drink to it, then.”

  As Anna left, Bram was still and silent. She hadn’t realized what hope did to a person, until this moment. Unrealistic expectation coupled with … something. Optimism.

  It was terrible. She wept as she found her way back to her room.

  The next day, Anna returned to Boston and the Queen’s Arms, and found it much the same as before she’d left for London, in the care of her man Josiah. As welcome as its familiarity was, the tavern’s walls seemed to press in around her, leaving her breathless.

  All was well, but not yet to her liking.

  If she had given up Bram, not willing to relinquish the small fortune and cupful of power she’d carefully amassed, neither was she ready to return to drawing beer and measuring rum. By choosing to thwart Browne and Seaver and Stratton, she’d chosen more.

  There was no certainty in life. She’d learned the power of social barriers in London, but she’d also learned how laws could be winked at, and yet public esteem maintained, by the respectable whore in the Eastham church.

  So more it must be, and by her will, rather than certainty.

  But carefully, carefully. She would never be free of Browne and Seaver, but she might learn to work … in their margins. Alongside them, if not beneath them.

  In the next days, she went to the merchant Rowe about the purchase of a piece of his land outside the city. They shook hands after negotiating; he had a faint smile on his face. Hers was quite determined. It would be the first of many such purchases she’d make. She had plans of her own now.

  She sat at her desk, entered the transaction in her ledger, then drafted a note to the lawyer Clark, giving him instructions about the purchase and asking him to find a secondhand copper still for her. She considered who she would employ in her future enterprises and drew a list. It was short, but every one reliable.

  There was a knock at her door; the taproom boy was there, announcing a visitor. His eyes were wide.

  Seaver? It might be a short career, then, if he discovered her betrayal. She looked to the little blond manikin and asked, “Dolly, what is the right lie?”

  The caller was Clarissa.

  The girl looked much better for a change of air and a change of dress. Fresh-scrubbed and the gray under her eyes replaced with roses, she was the picture of modesty. Better, she was unrecognizable, even in Anna’s blue velvet cloak.

  “Mr. Munroe took my absence well?” Anna asked.

  Clarissa laughed.

  Anna shrugged, surprised at how little she felt now, only glad her plan worked. “But he won’t be back?”

  “Oh, no. He won’t dare come to Boston, now that he believes you left his ring at the site of the fire for Mr. Seaver and Mr. Stratton to find. He cursed you, roundly and foully. Even threatened to kill you—I wasn’t sure I’d escape his rage—but the money you paid the captain was enough to keep him on board, while I slipped back ashore. He won’t show himself here.”

  Anna nodded, trying not to look at her battered Bible. There was a slight gap between the pages in the middle, where she’d hidden Bram’s ring. “Where no wood is, there the fire goeth out.”

  “What’s that?”

  “From Proverbs. You can read?”

  Clarissa nodded.

  Anna hesitated. The girl owed her much and was clever enough. Perhaps she would do.

  “Start with this, then.” She handed Clarissa a new Bible. “You’ll need to read, if you’re to work for me, and you’ll find many answers here.”

  NINETEEN SNAPSHOTS

  OF DENNISPORT

  BY PAUL TREMBLAY

  Dennisport

  1.

  That’s me standing on the porch of the summer house we always rented. I drove by the old place today. Sunset Lane, just off Depot Street. The house still has that aqua-green paint job. Four other summer houses crowd around it, almost like they’re boxing it in, or protecting it. I don’t remember those other houses being so close, taking up the whole lane. Everything seemed bigger back then. />
  Look at me. Hard to believe how skinny and little I was. She’s not in the shot, but my sister Liz, who was one year younger, towered over me, and probably outweighed me by a solid twenty pounds. Would you just look at that kid? Those legs are skinnier and whiter than the porch slats. This was, what, 1986, so I’d just turned thirteen. It’s the first picture on that vacation roll. I always had to be in the first picture by myself. It was my thing.

  2.

  That’s my mother carrying the towels. She already looks aggravated. I would’ve been too. None of us kids helped to unpack. The other woman is her younger sister, my Aunt Christine. She was my coolest aunt. She lived in Boston and always liked to play games or take us kids to the movies. I think that’s an emergency rainy-day puzzle box tucked under her arm. Aunt Christine and my parents were in their mid-thirties. Jesus, everyone was so young. People don’t do that anymore, do they? Have kids so young.

  My cheap camera makes everyone look so far away. It broke before the end of the summer. That group of people running away, on the right side of the house, they’re hard to make out, but that’s my younger brother, Ronnie, slung over my dad’s shoulder. He stole Dad’s floppy Budweiser hat and tried to make a quick escape. You can kind of see the hat bunched up in one hand. Ronnie was eight and built like a hobbit. Liz was tickling Ronnie, trying to help Dad. She always took his side over ours.

  3.

  Here’s Ronnie and his summer buzz cut, standing in a big sand pit we spent most of the day digging. Can’t really tell in the picture, but he had this white patch of hair on the right side of his head. Buzzed that short, it looked like the map of some island country.

  The sand at the bottom of that pit was shockingly wet and cold. I couldn’t admit it to Ronnie, but we got to a point where I didn’t want to reach down to dig anymore. I was a big scaredy cat. Always was, especially compared to Ronnie.

  We’re on one of those Nantucket Sound beaches off Old Wharf Road. I remember the road as a long string of nameless hotels and motels and restaurants and beaches fitting together, squares on a chessboard. In this picture, we’re at the public beach next to what’s now called the Edgewater Beach Resort. I don’t remember what was there back then. Isn’t that terrible? So many of the little details always go missing. Maybe if I hadn’t been so preoccupied with taking pictures, I would’ve remembered more.