Learning to Swim

by Sara J. Henry

  Thomas looked at me, and when I nodded slightly, replied, “Certainly, we’d love to.”

  “It’s casual,” Marguerite added. “Just a few other couples, some friends I think you’ll like. We’ll be dining around seven, but do come earlier. Do you know where we live?”

  Thomas shook his head. Thibault pulled a card from his pocket, wrote an address on it, and handed it to him. “It’s easy to find. We’ll look forward to having you.”

  We thanked them as we headed out the door. “I hope that’s okay with you,” Thomas said as we climbed into his Toyota.

  “It’s fine; they seem nice. And, hey, a free dinner, right?”

  He laughed. I wondered if the Thibaults thought we were dating, and if that would be awkward. But if Thomas wanted to set them straight, I figured he would. I found it curious that he seemed enchanted by Marguerite, who was so different from me. But maybe he was branching out. Maybe his next girlfriend would be elegant, with precise makeup and carefully lacquered nails. I closed my eyes. It had been wearying to try to think and talk in French for nearly two hours.

  The next morning I drove out of town to see two apartments in the surrounding semi-rural area, but they clearly weren’t what I was seeking. On a whim I decided to take the afternoon off, and looked up movie schedules. The latest Gerard Butler movie was playing at the Roxy on College Street, and I could make the next matinee showing if I hustled. I took Tiger out, left a note for Thomas, and set off at a fast clip, eating a yogurt on the way.

  I’d been a Gerard Butler fan since some friends had talked me into watching the TV movie Attila from Netflix. Never in a million years would I have thought I would enjoy a three-hour movie about Attila the Hun, but, hey, it was Gerard Butler. Next came Dear Frankie and 300, and even P.S. I Love You and Nim’s Island—but I did draw the line at his screwball romantic comedies.

  I love going to the movies and prefer going alone, because then you don’t have to worry if the other person is enjoying it and can just lose yourself in the film. After the final credits, I sat in darkness a minute or two before emerging, blinking, into the sunlight.

  I’d once seen an old Albert Brooks movie about writers who required a muse for inspiration, and theirs was Sharon Stone. Mine, I thought, would be Butler, unshaven, rambling, gorgeous.

  “So, Gerard,” I would say. “I’m getting kind of stuck here. I’m not finding anything out.”

  He would look at me with that sideways grin and say in his delightful Scottish brogue, “Well, Troy, I think you need to try something new.”

  I was striking out with the apartments and the posters. Nothing had developed with the French club, and I’d gotten no replies to my newspaper or Craigslist ad or email. The only other possibility I could see was asking around at the Burlington ferries. Surely the police had already done this, but it couldn’t hurt to do it again.

  “Ferries,” I said to the imaginary Gerard. “I’ll try showing pictures and asking questions down at the docks.”

  He grinned and winked, and disappeared.

  That night I slept soundly. Maybe there was something to this muse thing.

  THE NEXT DAY, I BORROWED THOMAS’S OLD THREE-SPEED, pumped up the tires, and rode to the docks and locked it to a nearby fence. I wouldn’t leave a decent-looking bike locked outside in a university town, but this one was decrepit enough that no one was likely to cut through a cable for it.

  I had planned to show the ticket seller the picture and ask if she had seen the men, but when I saw her downward-turning mouth and dead stare, I chickened out. Instead I just bought a round-trip ticket.

  I watched the incoming ferry chug in between the pilings. When it docked, the ferry workers moved quickly, securing the boat, lowering the ramp, and motioning the cars off while the foot passengers walked off.

  I boarded, handing my ticket to a blond kid, and went on deck to wait while the cars drove on. Today was a clear day, not misty and drizzly like the afternoon I had found Paul. This wasn’t the boat I’d been on that day or the one Paul had been on either. Ours had had a separate section below deck for cars.

  When the ferry was under way, I walked about, trying to get up my nerve to ask questions. The first worker I tried, a thirtyish tanned guy with a black brush cut, neatly snubbed me. “I wouldn’t know,” he said, sneering, and hustled off as if he had something important to do.

  I turned, flushed, and the blond kid who had taken my ticket winked at me. “Don’t mind Horse. He just likes to throw his weight around.”

  “Horse?” I thought I hadn’t heard right.

  He grinned widely. “His name is Horace, but we call him Horse. He hates it. What is it you need?”

  I pulled out the folded paper with the kidnappers’ pictures on it. “I’m looking for these two guys. They were on the last ferry going to Port Kent on the last Sunday in May.” This was a long shot. But it had been the first week this ferry route was open—ice on the river kept it from running year-round—so maybe it would stick in someone’s mind.

  The kid took the paper and squinted at it. His snub nose was sunburned and peeling, and he looked like a grown-up Dennis the Menace. “Why are you looking for them? Are you a PI or something?”

  “No, nothing like that. They snatched a friend’s kid, and we’re trying to track them down.”

  “Wow, a kidnapping. Or a custody thing, maybe, huh? Are these guys local?”

  “They’re French Canadian, from Montreal, I think, but they may have lived here.”

  “Which boat was it? We have three that sometimes run this route—the Adirondack, the Champlain, and this one, the Valcour.”

  “It wasn’t this one,” I told him. “It had a long lower deck for cars.”

  “Hey, Jimmy,” someone yelled to the blond kid.

  He looked up. “Be right there!” He started to hand the paper back to me. “That sounds like the Champlain. I don’t recognize these guys, but I can do some asking around and find out who was on that shift. Can you come back tomorrow?”

  “Sure, but keep the picture, I have a bunch.”

  Finally I’d met someone willing to try to help. Emboldened by my success, when the ferry docked I approached the ticket seller in Port Kent, who was younger and friendlier than the one in Vermont.

  “Hey, I’m looking for these guys who ran off with my sister’s kid, who were on the late-afternoon ferry from Burlington the first week the ferries ran,” I told her. “I’m wondering if you’ve seen them.”

  She looked at the picture. “Wow, that’s really tough. Nope, sorry.” As I turned away, she called out, “I hope you catch the bastards.” I thanked her and reboarded as the waiting cars filed onto the ferry.

  The blond kid, Jimmy, took my ticket. “You again, huh?” He winked.

  It did feel strange to cross to New York and then cross right back, spending an hour on a ferry and then heading back where you started from. I sat out on the deck, leaning back against the rail and feeling the wind on my face. I tried not to think of the last time I’d been on a ferry to Burlington. Another worker came by, this one with dark reddish hair, also young and tanned.

  “Hey, I was probably on that shift,” he said. “You want me to take a look at that picture?”

  I pulled a fresh one out of my daypack and handed it to him. He studied it and shook his head. “Don’t remember ’em. But that was one of the first trips of the year and I think Dwight was on that shift with me. If anyone will remember them, he will. He has an incredible eye for people and cars.”

  I perked up. “Dwight?”

  “Yeah, he’s not on today, but he’ll be working this boat tomorrow. I’ll give him a heads-up when I see him in the morning, if you wanna come back.”

  “Yeah, sure!”

  “Just be sure you get on the right ferry. Check the name.” He pointed it out, painted on bow and stern, and rattled off the departure times. I scribbled them down. If I missed it, it would be a two-hour wait before it returned.

  You wouldn’t th
ink a six-block bike ride followed by two hours on a ferry would be exhausting, but it was. I pedaled up the hill toward the apartment, wishing for a lower gear. Or a lighter bike. I’d left my bike at home so I’d concentrate on this—not that I ever would have left it at the dock. It would have been stolen in a flash.

  I threw rotini on to cook, and cut up some apples I found in the back of the fridge, mixed in oatmeal and cinnamon, dabbed butter on top, and popped it in the oven. I cooked green peppers and cauliflower, then added Ragu from a jar.

  Thomas sniffed appreciatively when he came in. “Apples?”

  “Yeah, I made an apple crisp with those old Granny Smiths.”

  Maybe it should have seemed odd eating dinner with him, but it just seemed like dining with an old friend. It had been a lifetime ago that I’d dated Thomas. I’d been someone else then.

  He reminded me about dinner at the Thibaults’ the following night, and said he’d like to leave around 6:10. We’d be the first ones there, I figured, but these were his friends, so it was his call. I wished I could bow out of the whole thing, because I thought it might be awkward and almost assuredly a waste of time. But I didn’t want to let Thomas down. And maybe it would be good for me to get out.

  From my futon I called and talked to Paul, and then Philippe. We chatted about Paul, Elise, the weather, about anything but what I was doing in Burlington. The computer firm had set up office-wide backup and security, he said, and the accounting firm had turned up a steady flow of discrepancies, with figures altered to show more expenses than had actually occurred. Someone in his office had been skimming.

  My vote would have been on Claude, but it would be stupid of him to bite the hand that fed him. Claude, I suspected, was many things, but stupid was not one of them.

  Riding to the ferry the next morning in the brisk air felt good, and on the way I stopped at a bakery and got a selection of fresh pastries. I bought another round-trip ticket and boarded, double-checking the ship’s name.

  Jimmy must have pointed me out, because Dwight came to find me about ten minutes into the trip. He was a big guy, older than Jimmy and his red-haired friend, with scruffy brown hair that stuck up, a thick neck, and scars from what looked like a bad case of acne. Jimmy had given him the by-now dog-eared picture. He gestured toward the faces. “Yeah, I remember these guys. They had a van, an older Plymouth Grand Voyager, maybe a ninety-six or ninety-seven. Sort of a dark green.”

  Hope rose in me, tightened my throat. I’d never expected someone to have remembered this much. Could it be this easy? How could the police have missed this?

  He grinned. “Doesn’t look like much up here,” he said, pointing to his head, “but I remember faces and I remember cars. I thought maybe they didn’t know much English, because the driver seemed confused when I told him where to put his car.”

  “Do you remember the license or anything else about the van?”

  “Nah, pretty ordinary looking. A Vermont plate, I think, but I couldn’t swear to it.”

  I could barely get out my next question. “Did you see a child with them, a little boy?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. But you couldn’t see in the back of the van. They could have had half a dozen kids in there.”

  “You didn’t see which direction they drove when they got off the ferry?”

  Another head shake. “Nope, once they’re off, I don’t look.”

  “Did the police show you this picture?”

  “Nope. They probably only talked to the bosses. Or maybe asked on a day when I wasn’t here. I had a few weeks off a while back, when my sister was sick.”

  “Well, thanks. I really appreciate it.” I handed him the bag of pastries. “I thought you might like these.”

  He peered inside and sniffed. “Hey, great, the guys will love these. But don’t you want one?”

  I reached in and took one without looking. “Thanks, Dwight.”

  “No problemo!” He took off, bag in hand.

  I looked down. I’d pulled out a chocolate-filled croissant. A good omen.

  I’d finally found something.

  The last thing I wanted to do now was go to a dinner party, but I’d promised. It didn’t take long to shower and change, and Thomas had already walked Tiger. I was neglecting her, but she was happier than if I had left her in Lake Placid. And I needed her, especially at night.

  I put on a colorful silk shirt Kate had talked me into buying last summer and the cord slacks again. I was going to have to break down and buy another decent pair of pants.

  We found the house easily, an imposing brick three-story with large white columns in front. We were shown into an ornate entry-way, near an elaborate curving staircase. Thibault was well-off for a university professor, even a department head. Family money, I supposed, his or hers.

  We’d arrived what I thought was early, but we weren’t the first ones there. A couple in their late thirties, dark and slender, was ingratiating themselves with their hostess, and greeted us perfunctorily, which suited me fine, because even from across the room I didn’t like them. I’m beginning to learn to trust first impressions. I sipped the oaky red wine Marguerite had delivered into my hands, and Thomas went off to greet Vince.

  “Your house is gorgeous,” the woman gushed to Marguerite. “I adore your color scheme.”

  Gack. Burlington high society, I suppose, or the edges of it. I walked around. The rooms were decorated in golds and whites, with furnishings to match. Not my taste, but striking. My eyes were drawn to a huge photo on one wall, an artful shot of an attractive boy and girl with shiny brown hair and bright faces, holding tennis racquets and wearing immaculate tennis whites.

  “That’s nice, isn’t it,” Marguerite said, noticing me looking at it. “The twins had just turned eleven.” She started to say something else, but as the doorbell chimed she excused herself.

  The other two couples were more congenial than the first, but all the women wore dresses and heels. Their definition of casual was clearly very different from mine.

  Marguerite came over to me. “How absolutely lovely your hair is,” she said, almost touching it.

  “Thank you,” I said brightly, making myself not move away. If I don’t tie my hair back, it automatically springs into curls. I never do much with it, and don’t own a hair dryer. Although I’ve discovered that when you go out in an Adirondack winter with wet hair it freezes into brittle little sticks, which probably isn’t particularly good for it.

  The food was excellent: lamb and vegetables in a cream sauce, served with fluffy hot rolls. Vince told amusing stories about his escapades as a child in England, where his father had been a French attaché. Marguerite was his perfect counterpoint, feeding him lines and laughing at just the right moment. It seemed a routine they’d perfected years ago. I made a comment or two, but mostly just watched and listened. Thomas was clearly enjoying himself.

  The first couple, who I’d gathered were both bankers, excused themselves before dessert. “We’re terribly sorry, but our sitter just couldn’t stay any longer, and we couldn’t find anyone else,” the woman said. “You know how difficult it is to get good sitters these days.” Marguerite made commiserating noises and went to show them out.

  “Speaking of children, how are Ryan and Rebecca?” asked a jovial red-haired man, who owned a real estate firm.

  “Oh, they’re doing marvelously,” Thibault said, waving his arm. “They’re spending the summer with their grandparents in France, and working on their French accents.”

  “They attend school in Connecticut, don’t they?” Thomas asked.

  Thibault chuckled. “Yes, the twins long ago decided that they wouldn’t be caught dead in high school here. They’re in their second year now and doing wonderfully. Becca’s decided to be a doctor and Ryan still wants to be a photographer.”

  Dessert was chocolate mousse, served with coffee in thin china. I prefer my chocolate not so airy, but it at least was chocolate. Afterward we retired to the living room for
after-dinner drinks, which seems an odd practice, considering that most people drive themselves home. I wasn’t driving, but didn’t care for liquor, so I sipped more wine. I let myself relax, and for the moment forget about kidnappers not found. I sat next to the wife of the real estate man, a sturdily built woman with a blond pageboy and a hearty laugh, who asked intelligent questions about writing. Marguerite was showing Thomas a painting behind one of the sofas, listening to him avidly. Vince was telling another funny story, and I gave it half my attention. After he finished and the laughter died away, Thomas caught my eye.

  “We should get going,” he said. The other couples simultaneously decided it was time to leave, and we thanked the Thibaults and made our farewells.

  The air was cool as Thomas and I walked to his car. “That was fun,” he said cheerily.

  He was being great for letting me stay with him and helping out with Tiger, so I made an agreeable sound and commented on how good the meal was.

  Before Ottawa, I would have been supremely uncomfortable at this dinner. While I did like Vince and maybe the real estate man’s wife—and Marguerite was all right, if maybe a little too carefully polished—to me these people mostly seemed like actors playing roles, reciting their lines, acting like they were having a good time whether they were or not.

  It made me long to be somewhere I felt I belonged—either home or Ottawa. Just not here.

  I SLEPT HEAVILY, AND AWOKE WITH A SLIGHT HEADACHE, PROBABLY from the wine. The note I found in the kitchen said Thomas had gone for a run with Tiger. My dog had abandoned me. Illogically, this made me cross.

  I drank two glasses of water and swallowed an aspirin, then had a slice of whole wheat toast spread thickly with crunchy peanut butter. I brewed tea, and thought as I sipped it. Now I had information to turn over to the police, but I wasn’t going to waltz into the police station. I didn’t know how the police would view the type of nosing around I was doing, or even if it was legal. I plugged my laptop into Thomas’s modem and looked up the Burlington Police Department website, but it didn’t list email addresses or fax numbers. I wasn’t going to leave all these details in an anonymous phone call, so I’d have to resort to regular mail. I wrote: