Joy set her lips together and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Simmons,” she said. “I’m very sorry, but we can’t stop. I’m afraid I’m due back at the store ten minutes ago.”
“Well, then you should have taken the other route home. It was faster.” A note of petulance crept into Mrs. Simmons’s voice, and she folded and refolded the shopping bag that had held the wreath.
Joy’s phone pinged. A text from Maggie: I got a job.
Joy used Siri to text back: You have a job. Maggie’s job was helping at Joy Bombs. Her other jobs were wearing her funny T-shirts and her Converse sneakers in all different colors, and being a stepdaughter to Dustin’s second wife, Sandy, while being careful not to like her as much as she liked Joy.
“Talking to a phone,” grumbled Mrs. Simmons. “With no one on the other line.”
Another job, Maggie wrote back. Mother’s helper.
Great, texted Joy. Can’t wait to hear about it. But all the way back home, after she drove past the blasted food truck (she might have to talk to Holly again about the permit, see if everything really was completely up to snuff), as she navigated summer foot traffic and summer bike traffic, she felt the force of Maggie pulling away so strongly it felt like they were the poles of two magnets, repelling each other. She couldn’t help imagining a time, not too far in the future, when Maggie would be gone from her and she wouldn’t even know the first thing about her daughter’s life.
And she couldn’t help thinking, Mother’s helper? What about this mother? What about this mother right here? Who’s going to help this mother?
Chapter 12
Anthony
Anthony found an ancient map in a kitchen drawer and discovered that if you followed Lakeside Drive to Center Road, which basically bisected the island, you’d get the lay of the land. He started up the Le Baron and set out. He accidentally turned off Lakeside before he should have (he was notoriously bad with directions) and found himself on Cooneymus Road.
He tried to head-write the scene, just to see if he could. Here there were oodles of honest-to-God farmland, most of it bordered by low stone walls, and houses tucked away at the edges of vast green hills with glimpses of the ocean beyond.
But there didn’t seem to be any point to writing, in his head or otherwise. There was no story here. He thought about Max’s little-boy smell, which reminded him of fresh-cut grass and baseball. He thought about the way Max followed along with his forefinger in a book when Anthony read to him, because that’s what he’d seen grown-ups do. He thought about the way Max nodded to himself before attempting some difficult task—he was learning to tie his own shoes—as if he were saying, Okay, buddy, let’s do this. Anthony’s soul felt squished, trod upon. He imagined calling his father, asking for money so he could somehow fix all of this, start over, make it up to Max. No. Never. His mother? Maybe. But how much? And how would he ever be able to pay her back?
He pulled over to the side of the road. There wasn’t much of a shoulder, but there wasn’t much traffic either. He texted Cassie a variation of the same text he’d been sending every day.
Call me please. I dont need to talk to you but let me talk to Max.
Nothing back.
He sent another: Did you get my last text. You don’t have to talk to me. Just put Max on the phone.
Still nothing.
Please, he texted.
What if Max forgot the sound of Anthony’s voice? What if he forgot what Anthony looked like? What if Max’s enduring memory of Anthony was one of the last images he’d been presented with, that of his father crying over The Runaway Bunny?
Anthony’s phone blinked ominously: low battery. He sighed. When he got back to the cottage, he’d charge his phone, then he’d call Cassie. If Cassie didn’t answer, he’d call his mother—maybe Max was there again! If not, he might work up the courage to talk about money.
The only problem with his plan was that he didn’t exactly know where he was; the wrong turn had thrown him off. And even though Block Island was only seven miles long, Anthony’s familiarity with its geography was almost nonexistent. He started the car again. Was there a tick-tick-tick noise coming from the engine? He cocked his head, listening. Maybe he’d imagined it. Anthony’s knowledge of the inner workings of cars, when written out in long form, could fit on one side of a dime.
He eased back onto the road, figuring that if he reached the water he’d probably be able to work out how to wind his way around the island and back to the cottage.
The Le Baron shuddered and shook and came to a cranky halt.
“No!” said Anthony. “No no no no no.” He turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. “No!” he said. “Don’t do this to me.” He hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. The car was smack in the middle of the road.
Anthony got out and struggled for a good long time with the hood. Even this simple task was a challenge. Mortifying. From off in the distance he heard the deep lowing of a cow. “I know, buddy,” he said. “I feel the same way.”
When he finally had the hood open, he stared at the engine, as though the car might reveal the source of its problems in word form, so that Anthony could read it. He felt himself turn red with humiliation, even though there was nobody there to watch him.
He looked again at his phone and began to google. He’d google Le Baron and tick tick tick noise. The low battery message blinked twice, then darkness fell over the screen.
The day was hot and cloudless and the sun glinted off the asphalt like an insult. In town, from the little Anthony had seen, this place was wall-to-wall people and tank tops and ice cream and noise. How could an island that seemed so overpopulated—the crush of humanity where the ferries docked, the intolerable moped traffic, bikes everywhere—also be so empty?
He waited, and waited some more. His unease deepened. At last a bright yellow Jeep, top down, came along the road and stopped behind him, pulling over to the side. The license plate read joybmbs and the driver was a woman who looked vaguely familiar to Anthony, although he didn’t know why. She had long dark hair and pale smooth skin. She was wearing giant sunglasses, which she pushed on top of her head when she said, “Need some help?” Her eyes were dark brown.
Anthony wiped the sweat from his brow. He didn’t like being in a position of need, and there was such shame clinging to his lack of car knowledge. But the truth was the truth. “Yeah,” he said, ducking his head. “I guess I do.”
The woman hopped out of the Jeep. In the back, there was a dog, tongue out, wide-mouthed, practically smiling. Anthony was not a dog person, so he couldn’t have said what kind it was. He’d wanted a dog when he was a kid. He’d wanted one so badly. But his father had said no. He wasn’t interested in the mess, the noise, the potential for distraction. His mother had bought him a consolation prize: a hamster.
Where had he just seen a Jeep like this?
The woman was somewhere in her thirties. When she smiled, lines shot out from the corners of her eyes. They disappeared when she stopped smiling. She peered under the hood alongside him. She smelled like vanilla, and he noticed a white smudge along her temple. He had a sudden and disconcerting urge to wipe it gently away. Get ahold of yourself, Anthony. It had just been so long since he’d touched another human being, that was all.
“Maybe you could give me a ride, if it’s not too inconvenient?” he said. “I’ll have to get someone to look at it. Maybe get it towed. I’m not sure what happened. It just—” He made an exploding sort of gesture with his hands. “It just shuddered and stopped.”
“I’m someone,” said the woman. “I’m looking at it right now. Hang on.” She nodded crisply, then went back to her Jeep, rummaged around, and returned with a tool case. “Was it making sort of a tick-tick-tick noise?”
“Yes,” said Anthony, amazed and mollified. “Tick-tick-tick is exactly the way to describe it.”
“For how long?”
“Well,” said Anthony, “I guess I don’t know.
It’s not my car. I’m borrowing it. It came with the house I’m staying in. I haven’t been driving it long. And I haven’t gone very far.” His discomfiture gained strength.
The woman proceeded to use a wrench of some sort to pry off a black piece of plastic. Her confidence and grace put Anthony in mind of the guy who worked the oyster bar at Island Creek in Boston. “Yup,” she said, pointing. “It’s your timing belt.” She rummaged around inside the engine and held up a piece of broken rubber. “Broke right in half. Must’ve been ticking for a while? You had some oil coming out of the motor, maybe? Those were all warning signs.”
Had there been oil coming out of the motor? Anthony strained to remember. “Like I said, it’s not my car. So I don’t know.”
“Hop in.” The woman gestured toward the Jeep. “I’ll run you wherever you’re going. This car isn’t going anywhere until it gets a new belt.” She closed the hood and peered at the front of the car. “What is it, anyway? A ’95?”
“I don’t know,” Anthony said. He hadn’t thought to wonder about that. He’d just thought: Old.
She tapped the hood. “Well, that’s what I’d guess. A ’95. Give or take. We’ll give Bob Herbert a call, have him tow this to his shop.” She gestured toward the passenger door, and Anthony climbed inside. The dog reclined toward him affably, its head hooking over the passenger seat. Anthony leaned away.
“That’s Pickles,” said the woman. She pushed the dog back by the chest, but the dog sprang forward again in a boomerang motion and licked her ear. She giggled and said, “Oh, Pickles!” and rubbed vigorously behind one of the dog’s ears.
For heaven’s sake, thought Anthony miserably.
“Where are you headed, anyway?” the woman asked, pushing the dog back again (successfully, this time).
“Corn Neck Road.”
“I’ll get you there on one condition.”
“What’s that?” He felt wary and on edge, a fox guarding a vast den of secrets. His head ached. It was so hot.
“I want to know why you sent back my drink,” she said. “The other day. At Poor People’s Pub.”
Chapter 13
Joy
“Corn Neck Road,” said Joy. “That’s my favorite road.” It wasn’t, actually; her favorite road was Coast Guard Road—one of the most coveted, most private roads on the island—but she wanted to be polite.
“Is it?” said the man.
“It is,” she said firmly.
After that, a silence fell, and Joy thought about how she might as well become an Uber driver and make some money for her efforts. The bill from the dairy in Vermont that supplied her with cream had just come due, plus there was the impending rent increase, and the threat of the macaron truck. The fact was that she could probably use the extra income from driving an Uber.
Joy stole small, furtive glances at her passenger. She wondered if he was going to keep his end of the bargain. He was wearing a gray T-shirt, just as he had been the other times she’d seen him. No wedding ring. Finally she said, “Well? The drink? Why’d you return it?”
“I . . .” Long pause.
“It was a really good drink.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I had to drink mine and the one I sent to you. I had a headache the next day.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
She glanced again at him and thought he might be blushing. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a grown man blush. It was kind of adorable. She wondered briefly if Leo of Dinner by Dad ever blushed; it seemed like just the sort of thing he might do, given the proper circumstances. There was that time when the four-year-old had pulled a can of beans from the bottom row of a bean-can pyramid in the grocery store and that older lady had said that awful thing to him . . .
Her passenger said, “I’m not—I’m not drinking.”
It occurred to her that this man might be a recovering alcoholic—after all, Peter said he’d had seltzer at the bar. Joy scolded herself for what might have come across as insensitivity. She’d known plenty of alcoholics in her life: Dustin’s mother, her first roommate out of college, half of her mother’s extended family. “Did you come here to dry out?”
He coughed. “In a way. Sort of.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I tried to tempt you.”
But I’m not drinking was different from I don’t drink. I’m not drinking implied a past, and maybe also a future. So Joy was intrigued.
“It’s okay—it’s fine.” A moment passed. The silence resumed. The Jeep bumped along. Finally her passenger spoke again. “Thanks for the ride,” he said. “I really appreciate it. I didn’t know what I was going to do, all the way out there, with a dead phone battery.”
“No problem,” said Joy. “I was heading this way anyway.” This was a lie; she’d been heading to Stevens Cove to walk Pickles, and after that she was going to head back to the shop. Maggie was helping out until eleven a.m., and Joy had told her that after that she was free to go to her mother’s helper job.
“Really?”
“Sure.” No. Corn Neck Road was about as far from Stevens Cove as you could get and still be on the island. “I’m Joy, by the way. I guess I should have mentioned that.” She turned onto West Side Road and gestured toward the back of the Jeep. “And you’ve already met Pickles.”
“Hey, Pickles,” said the man cautiously.
“You can pet her. She’s really friendly.”
“That’s okay.”
“Not a dog person?”
“No.” A pause. “I wanted one, when I was a kid. But I never had one.” His face twisted. Then he said, “I noticed your license plate. What’s it mean?”
“Oh,” she said. “I wanted it to say joy bombs. That’s the name of my bakery. Because my name is Joy. But it was too many letters, so I couldn’t have the O. I mean, I guess I could have picked another letter to leave out, but the O made the most sense.”
“Okay,” he said.
After that he said nothing, so Joy waited a beat and asked, “And you are . . . ?”
“Oh. Anthony.”
More silence enveloped them: this one seemed deeper, more complicated than the first, and Joy decided not to worry about it and instead spend some time appreciating the view. They were surrounded by farmland now, with the ocean barely a blue slash in the distance.
Joy’s thoughts trotted toward dinnertime. Dinner by Dad’s last posted recipe had been a broken artichoke heart salad with pasta puttanesca, but she didn’t know if she felt up to dealing with artichoke hearts. Maggie had a mature palate and an adventurous attitude; even so, artichokes were a lot of work. But then she thought of what Dinner by Dad always said—a good meal was almost always worth the effort it required—and she’d already bought all of the ingredients. She’d wrangle the artichokes.
Just when it seemed the silence might crack under so much pressure, the man—Anthony—spoke again. “How do you know so much about timing belts?”
Joy flicked on her turn signal, turned onto Center Road. “My dad owns an auto repair shop,” she said. “Off-island. My brothers worked in the shop, and in high school I worked the phones, but every now and then they’d let me help out back there.”
She felt him hesitate, even bristle. This was common—a man did not like to depend on a woman for car advice, she’d learned that years ago. But clearly he didn’t know a broken timing belt from a broken heart.
She forged ahead. “Anyway. Bob Herbert is the best on the island, and he can tow you to his shop. I’ll call him for you. But I don’t know if he’ll have a timing belt for a ’95 Le Baron in stock. He might have to get it off-island, order it for delivery. It could be a couple of days.” She looked back at the road. They passed a young couple on rental bikes with big wicker baskets bobbing. They wore sunglasses, no helmets, and the girl had blond hair that swung back and forth as she pedaled.
“Just my luck,” said Anthony. “Stuck in a place with no timing belts.” Joy rolled her eyes. Nobody was stuck on B
lock Island; people, in her opinion, should feel lucky to be here. But just as she’d known plenty of alcoholics in her life, she’d known plenty of people who considered Block Island second-rate. Lesser.
When Joy was a girl, growing up in a crowded three-bedroom apartment in Fall River (one bedroom for her parents, one for her four brothers to share, if you can believe it, and the smallest one for her), she’d craved space more than anything else. Everything was so crowded in Fall River—the smells from people’s cooking intermingled, cars parked so close to one another that their bumpers kissed, tempers wound around each other like snakes. It never ceased to amaze Joy that here she could look out from every edge of the island and see nothing but land, space, and water. Long ago she had promised herself that she’d never take it for granted, and she never did. “Well,” she said, “in the island’s defense, a ’95 Le Baron is not exactly common these days.”
She cut across Old Town Road. Traffic! She should have stayed on West Side the whole way.
Her passenger didn’t seem to have heard her last sentence. “What’s that line for?” he asked, looking out his window. “Is that a food truck?”
“Oh, come on,” said Joy. “Are you kidding me?” The line for the Roving Patisserie was even longer than it had been the other day, and she didn’t think they were giving out anything for free this time. These were paying customers, wallets at the ready.
“What’s it sell?” asked Anthony.
“Nothing,” said Joy quickly. “Just some silly . . . promotional thing. Nothing important.” But she slowed down, because from the back she thought she saw . . . no, it couldn’t be . . . yes, it was. Maggie and Riley, heads tipped close to each other, probably bent over some Instagram video of a kiwi growing inside a banana or something. “No way,” she breathed. Maggie was a customer of the Roving Patisserie. Not only that, she’d left Joy Bombs before Joy had given her permission.
“What?” asked Anthony.
Pickles, sensing drama, lifted her ears.
The Islanders Page 9