The House on Fripp Island

by Rebecca Kauffman

  “It’s good to feel sad sometimes,” John said. “You did just fine, though, you did your best. I bet you’ll get the next one, and every single one after that.”

  It was a good lesson, John thought. It was good to feel how bad it was for something to suffer unnecessarily.

  Their fishing success today had been so quick and so surprising that John had almost forgotten his promise to try to find out if Alex knew anything about the Wheeling phone booth caller. He turned around to adjust the ice in the cooler behind him to make sure all their fish were covered, then he cast his line and remarked, as casually as he could manage, “Hey, by the way, you happen to know anyone from home who uses a pay phone?”

  “Like in a booth?” Alex said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Not really. I mean, if somebody’s mom’s late picking them up from school, sometimes somebody’ll use the one in the lobby to call home or something.”

  “Right,” John said. “But nobody that you know of uses one, like, often, right? Or, nobody has maybe a dad or older brother you know of that uses one?”

  Alex shook her head disinterestedly.

  It was quiet for a while.

  Alex acted as though she might be getting a nibble and bounced her line, but nothing came of it.

  John decided to take the conversation further. Though he didn’t suspect the caller from home was anything to worry about, it couldn’t hurt to have a little bit of a chat . . . He couldn’t remember the last time he and Poppy had the Good Touch, Bad Touch talk with Alex. They had made a point to do that with both kids, he was sure of that, but he couldn’t remember how long it’d been, which probably meant it had been too long.

  John cleared his throat, adjusted his posture, and said, “There’s no one from home you can think of, other than your friends from school, who ever tries to get in touch with you on the phone. Right?”

  “Like who?”

  “I don’t know,” John said. “Like a teacher, or one of our neighbors, or one of your friends’ dads . . . I just mean, nobody like that . . . You’ve never had any sort of private relationship with somebody like that, right?”

  “What the heck do you mean, Daddy?”

  John cleared his throat and said, “We’ve talked about good touches and bad touches—”

  “Oh my gosh, Daddy.” Alex’s cheeks flushed and brightened fully to bubble-gum pink. “Yes, we’ve talked about that, and they also talk to us about that at school. I know what all that stuff is, like molesters and stuff. Oh my gosh, why do you want to talk about such gross stuff?”

  John instantly felt so reassured by this response that he laughed. Then he stopped abruptly, not wanting Alex to think it was a laughing matter.

  “I just wanted to make sure,” he said. “It’s been a while since we’ve had that talk, and I want to remind you, don’t ever be scared to say something to your mom or me. About that kind of thing, or any kind of thing.”

  “I know, duh,” Alex said. She paused. “Did you bring this up because I started my period last night?”

  “No,” John glanced at her stiffly. “Nothing to do with that. But your mom told me.” A few words shuffled around in his mind: Congratulations? Good job?

  Eventually, he said, “You’re feeling alright, then?”

  Alex said, “It’s not a big deal.”

  John reached out a hand to put around his daughter’s shoulders, but realized that his fingers were smelly and stained with fish blood and soil from the bait container, so he just patted the concrete between the two of them.

  Back at the shore, Rae had settled into a beach chair with her book, Lisa was doing some yoga stretches in the shade of the umbrella, Kimmy was making a drip castle at the water’s edge, and Ryan and Poppy were floating on their backs in the ocean.

  “Hey,” Poppy said, creating a gentle current with her palms in order to move closer to Ryan. “You weren’t expecting any calls here this week, were you?”

  “Huh?” Ryan grunted, but otherwise his posture showed no discernible reaction to the question. He was facing the sky, eyes closed, expression blank, body stiff as a board, like a mannequin that had been tossed to sea.

  Poppy said, “Nobody would be calling the house phone for you here, right?”

  Ryan’s brow twitched once: up, down. “No. Why?”

  When Poppy didn’t answer, it was quiet between them for a bit, then Ryan said again, “Why?”

  She said, “Oh, a weird call came in this morning. Like a . . . a guy, a man at the other end, sorta breathed heavy into the phone . . .”

  “Ew,” Ryan said, sinking in the water, then moving to stand so that he could fully face his mother. He flicked a piece of debris on the surface near him, sent it soaring. “Seriously?”

  Poppy waved a hand casually to indicate, Maybe, maybe not. She said, “It’s no big deal, not really clear who it is, nothing to worry about. I just wanted to make sure it wouldn’t be somebody trying to reach you.”

  “Nope,” Ryan said. He was quiet for a while, then said, “Nobody knows anything about the caller?”

  Poppy shook her head. “I’m sure it was a misdial.”

  “Sure.”

  Satisfied with this conversation and eager to speak of other things, Poppy said, “How’s your crab coming along, anyway? You ever figure out what killed that little guy?”

  Ryan shook his head. “Not a clue.”

  15

  SCOTT WAS ON HIS way back from Beaufort (well, Beaufort by way of Ashdale, Burton, and Port Royal) before eleven o’clock that morning, and he was in some deep shit.

  Already this morning, Scott had driven to all six banks within a thirty-mile radius of their beach house, withdrawn the maximum amount of cash, and was still $380 short of what he needed by noon today. At the last bank, a Wells Fargo in Port Royal, his debit card had been declined altogether. He spoke to a teller who explained that suspicious activity had caused the account to be frozen. She made a call to a headquarters and said that the problem had been corrected, but it would take forty-eight hours for his funds to become accessible again.

  “Forty-eight hours?” Scott stared at her. “You friggin’ kidding me? Did you say forty-eight hours?”

  The teller shrank as she nodded to confirm this information.

  Scott experienced a brief out-of-body moment as anger overtook him. He grabbed a deposit slip from the counter before him and ripped it to pieces. Then he hightailed it out of the bank, recognizing that he might well get himself arrested if his temper got the best of him.

  Now he was on his way back to the beach house with just over three grand in cash, but what he really needed was thirty-five hundred even, to get himself out of this mess. Three grand was close, and he was lucky he’d gotten that much before his account was frozen, but close didn’t cut it with these kind of guys. And he couldn’t just not show up at their place at noon—he had already ruled that out. Not showing would be the worst possible thing he could do. The guys had the address of the beach house where Scott was staying, so not appearing at their place would almost certainly mean they would come looking for him there when the family was around. There would be a scene. Things would get ugly.

  Scott’s current plan, adapted since he hadn’t been able to withdraw the full amount, was to take them the cash he had and offer up his watch, which was worth twice the remaining $380 balance. Still, he might end up with a black eye—it would depend on what sort of mood they were in and if they’d been drinking. A black eye wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world; he’d say he got whacked with a stray golf ball or had gotten into a fight with some drunk at the car show. Scott wasn’t a fighter, Lisa knew that, but it would probably fly. His biggest hope was that even if a black eye was involved, these guys wouldn’t demand his diamond-encrusted wedding band, like they’d threatened to the day before, because Scott knew that showing up at the house without his wedding band would send Lisa into absolute hysterics.

  Scott knew his wife already suspected an affair.
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  If only it were that, he thought. Wouldn’t that be easy? You could end an affair with some lame excuse and a snap of the fingers. Right? Scott had never cheated in all their years of marriage, but he imagined it was easy to cut it off with a mistress, bada-boom, some tears, some insults or threats, some guilt trips, then it was done. But the sort of mess Scott was in . . . And it was a brand-new mess every few weeks, to be fair, depending on the size of the debt, and each one entirely his own doing, but still, a gambling debt wasn’t the sort of trouble you could weasel out of with a dozen roses.

  Shit, shit. Scott pounded the steering wheel with his palms as he waited in line to cross the bridge onto Fripp Island. You dumb shit. Why couldn’t you quit when you were ahead? He had been up twelve hundred dollars after an hour and a half of poker the first afternoon at the beach, when he’d met these guys. Four of them, trashy real-estate hotshots, down from Newark for the week. They had rescued Scott from the golf course before the storm that afternoon, had him back to their condo, couple cocktails, couple hands of poker. Everything great, all good fun. Scott had suggested playing for money, nothing serious, fifty dollar buy-in. Everyone had been on board, and Scott had gone up quick.

  Before parting ways that first day, Scott had suggested playing for money on the golf course the following day. He was being cocky, of course, just wanted to ride out the win. Couldn’t stand to call it quits while he was ahead. That was the disease, wasn’t it? That’s what they called it in the meetings: a disease. Scott had been to only a few meetings over the past few years. They made him feel real shitty. Because he knew this was bad, knew this made him a bad man, and if he allowed himself to dwell on it for more than two seconds, it crushed his heart. He’d broken so many promises to himself, he’d lost count. He didn’t want to hurt his family, didn’t want to be this bad man. But the impulse overcame all logic, all thoughts of family and future, when it took hold. A disease.

  All of this had started about three years ago, with a buddy’s bachelor party in Atlantic City. Who had bachelor parties for their second marriage? Anyhow, that was the start, and it had been a riotous affair ever since. Once he reached his mid-forties, Scott didn’t expect to feel anything new—he thought he’d pretty much done it all, seen it all, felt all the things he was going to feel. But when he got that first whiff and then that first real taste of gambling that weekend in Atlantic City, it brought with it a new kind of adrenaline that knocked him upside down, socked him silly, sucked him right in. He was powerless, instantly in love with everything about it: the games themselves (it didn’t matter if it was blackjack online, roulette at the casino in Germantown, throwing a grand at the Redskins game, or Aces and Deuces on the golf course with some dudes from New Jersey), the smell of cash, the big wins, the wildly fluctuating bank account . . . It was, quite frankly—and it brought Scott no pleasure to admit this—better than the best sex. And along with all of this came the rush of trying to hide it all from Lisa, which was the highest-stakes game of all. God, it was brilliant, some of the maneuvers he’d pulled, some of the disasters he’d worked his way out of. He had to cover his tracks when it came to his internet activity, the happy hours at Monnetti’s to meet up with the bookie, and the occasional weekend at the casino, but so far Lisa was still completely in the dark. There had been a few times when she’d gotten close to catching him in a lie about his whereabouts, but even then, all it took was a bit of convincing and Lisa ultimately bought the lie and let it go.

  Scott had noticed a decline in his sex drive when he first started gambling, and worried at the time that this would arouse suspicion. But Lisa seemed fine with it, perhaps even favorable to the new, less frequent routine. Scott didn’t like to dwell on this too much. And when it came to the money, gambling had required Scott to create secret accounts, make transfers that wouldn’t raise red flags, and be sure that he always had enough in the joint account to cover the bills and Lisa’s credit card spending. He tried hard never to touch this joint account, and so far had done it only once, dipping in for a hefty loan that he was able to replenish the very next day. Some way, somehow, Scott had always been able to pull out a big win when he needed it most. It was almost like somebody up there cared and was looking out for him.

  That’s what made this whole golf situation so annoying. Thirty-five hundred dollars was nothing to Scott, really. At present, he had millions in the bank. But he’d planned poorly—it hadn’t crossed his mind to bring a bunch of cash with him because he knew Poppy and John wouldn’t be down to gamble, and he hadn’t anticipated making friends on the island who were. When they set the stakes before golf yesterday, it never occurred to him that he might lose as badly as he did.

  Of course, as bad luck would have it, he’d played the worst round of his life. He had a few excuses—lame, but still. First of all, in his enthusiasm to gamble, he had forgotten his golf glove in his room that morning. He’d forgotten his club pass too, for crying out loud—fortunately, one of the other guys had an extra to lend him. But no one had an extra glove, so Scott had a blister to contend with by the fifth hole. Also, it was a relatively unfamiliar course, he was nervous, could have been something in the air . . . Regardless, he was in a pile of shit by the tenth hole, and when he didn’t have the cash on him at the end of the round, those guys were drunk, pissed, and just about pounded him then and there. New Jersey trash, all of them. Scott knew the score, though: it was terrible form to enter a game with strangers if you weren’t prepared to pony up on the spot. Jesus, he had been stupid. Sloppy.

  Scott had tried to deescalate. They weren’t humored. He explained that he’d just have to hit a few ATMs to get the cash. “Just give me until tomorrow,” Scott had pled with them. “Noon tomorrow, I’ll be at your place with the money.” They had demanded the address of his beach house, and they almost took his wedding ring as collateral, but Scott was able to talk them out of that, thank goodness—things were bad enough with Lisa as it was.

  He thought he’d be able to produce the cash, no problem, but had neglected to consider the fact that here on this godforsaken island, he was a five-hour drive from the closest branch of his bank, and of course there would be withdrawal limits at any other institution . . . No checkbook, and he obviously couldn’t ask John for a loan without it getting back to Lisa . . . Christ, what a mess. What a stupid, stupid mess. What the hell is wrong with you? Scott slammed his palms on the steering wheel. What’s it gonna take to quit? A divorce? A bullet through your skull? He was consumed by shame.

  It was 10:48 now, the clock was ticking, bridge traffic backed up, and he had to get to the beach house to pick up his watch before he went to those guys’ condo, due there at twelve o’clock sharp. He could only hope they would accept three grand and an eight-hundred-dollar watch in lieu of thirty-five hundred all in cash. They’d be fools not to take the watch and call it even, but Jesus Christ, New Jersey, who knew what to expect from New Jersey?

  Bridge traffic started to improve at 10:55. Within a few more minutes, it was moving at a good pace.

  Scott made it back to the house by a quarter after eleven. Now he just had to hope that everybody was still either out fishing or on the beach, so that he wouldn’t encounter anyone and have to make any small talk, answer questions about the car show in Beaufort, where he had allegedly spent his morning. The Omni was gone—that was a good sign. As he parked his car, Scott ran his hands over his scalp, not sure if his sweaty palms were dampening his dry hair, or the other way around. Everything sweaty now, hot and tense and tight as a drum. Everything shit.

  Scott entered through the front door of the house and jogged up the stairs that led to the kitchen and main room, connecting to the bedroom hallway. He was halfway up the steps when he heard a voice, and he froze instantly. Only one voice. Male. With the Omni gone, most likely it was Ryan. Only one voice, so . . . on the phone? Scott would make a beeline for his room, he decided, give a friendly nod to Ryan on his way to and from the bedroom, in and out . . .

  B
ut when Scott, on the stairs, peeked up over the floor level so that he could see Ryan, something stopped him from proceeding. Scott stayed where he was, eyes level with the floor, so he could see Ryan, but Ryan wouldn’t see Scott unless he had reason to turn and look his way.

  Ryan was hunched over beside the refrigerator, phone at his ear. He spoke with a palm over his mouth and was facing out to the patio, presumably so that he would see anyone approach from the beach before they saw him. The air of secrecy—Ryan clearly did not want to be heard, did not want anyone to know he was on the phone at all. Scott was intrigued. Illicit girlfriend? Illicit boyfriend? Still facing out toward the beach, Ryan hissed, “That was my mom who answered this morning, you moron,” and a little chuckle escaped him, despite his obvious agitation with the person at the other end of the line.

  Scott stayed perfectly still.

  When Ryan spoke again it was at full volume—seemingly confident now that no one else was in the house. “Anyway,” Ryan said, “like I said, it went fine.” He was quiet for a bit. “Don’t worry about it, nobody’s gonna ask any more questions if you don’t call again, so just don’t call again, dude.” Ryan paused and then snorted laughter into his fist. “My mom said you like breathed heavy or something?” Whatever the guy at the other end of the line said in response made Ryan laugh even harder. Then he got quiet. “Anyway, it ended up being twelve hundred. Yeah, all cash.” Ryan was quiet for a moment, then he said, “I’ll see you in a few days. Don’t call here again, you mouth-breather.” He hung up the phone.

  Scott froze in place, formulating a plan in case Ryan came his way once the phone call had ended, but Ryan exited the kitchen in the opposite direction almost immediately after hanging up the phone, heading out to the patio.

  Scott dashed up the stairs. Still pressed for time. He stood in the kitchen to watch as Ryan crossed the patio and walked toward the beach.