Buoy

by Maggie Seacroft

  “It’s a communications analysis course. Tomorrow night we’re looking at handwriting.”

  “Does anyone still write by hand?” he asked, looking at me, his eyebrows raised.

  “Just us throwbacks,” I said while opening the door to the Hobby Mart. “Hey, if you don’t mind me asking—“ I began to say over my shoulder while I scouted the aisles.

  “You know I’m an open book,” he said.

  “So, read me a page.” I turned and smiled at him. “Why are you getting the boot?”

  “Do you remember just why I got sent here?”

  I picked up a magnifying glass and aimed it at my driving instructor who proceeded to make a ridiculous yet charming face. “You mean why you got exiled to the island of misfit toys?”

  “Yeah,” he said and, under magnification, the dimples he unleashed were startlingly huge.

  I took my purchase to the counter. “Something about a land deal, right?”

  “Exactly. So, it turns out the deal didn’t go through because of me. The soil was bad and I couldn’t live with myself if they put a kids rec center there. Heck, my boy might have even played there.”

  “I get it,” I said and, even though Aggie had told me the story, I wanted Bugsy to tell me himself. It’s something he should be proud of doing and I knew he wouldn’t have told me unless I’d specifically asked.

  “$10.27, please,” the clerk said after making some noise with the cash register.

  I dug out a twenty from my all-purpose red and navy canvas do-everything bag.

  “And now your old man—your dad, I mean—is blaming you.” I dropped the change in my bag along with the magnifying glass.

  Bugsy opened the door for me. “Punishing me is more like it.”

  “Why doesn’t he just fire you and put you out of your misery?”

  “Because then he’d have to pay me out. Been there fifteen years and I’ve got a sweet severance package if he ever pulls the pin. Instead, I think he’s just planning to make my life miserable.”

  “And I guess that’s why you don’t quit either.”

  “Yeah. Besides, other than dealing with him and my brother at the office, I kinda like my job. Thing is, I can’t afford much in the way of rent. After paying child and spousal support, it doesn’t leave me with a heck of a lot.”

  “I see.” I nodded. “Well, I would have to run anything about the Splendored Thing past Tranmer, of course.”

  “Oh, I get it,” he said, and we were finally back at the truck in the parking lot. There was something about seeing it there, not at the marina and not with Nat walking beside me. Something about the emptiness of the Splendored Thing, something about the loss of my friend that washed over me like a wave. Something about the razorblades I felt in my throat that made me barely able to eke out my next words.

  “Bugsy?” My voice faltered, my steps felt heavy.

  “Yeah?”

  “Would you mind driving me back to the marina?” I felt suddenly wan.

  He looked at me. Somehow, he knew what I was going through. And when I climbed in the passenger side of the truck then watched him for a few minutes driving it with all the confidence and expertise of Nat, I couldn’t hide my wistfulness.

  He tried to overcome my sudden melancholy with a compliment. “You’re actually a good driver. You know, I didn’t think you would be, but…“

  I cleared my throat and blinked away the tear I felt forming.

  “Sorry. I guess you miss him a lot, huh?”

  I nodded.

  “You want another lesson sometime soon? I don’t mind.”

  “Sure,” I said and barely recognized the shakiness in my voice. When we returned to the marina, I went straight to the Fortune Cookie.

  ✽✽✽

  I was decompressing with Jack Junior, sitting on the stern of his boat, reminiscing about Nat and people watching when a couple aimed themselves down the dock toward us. I immediately recognized the woman as Lisa Claire—her petite and at the same time bulbus figure unmistakable.

  “Who’s that man with Lisa, Jack?”

  “Him? Oh, he’s-he’s Lisa’s son.”

  The man walking toward us coming down the dock with Lisa looked like a rough-around-the-edges type that was trying like the devil to smooth them out. He looked uncomfortable. Like he hadn’t picked out his own clothes. Khaki pants with a hard crease in them and a blue button-down collared shirt. Even his gait was off, like he was just breaking in new shoes.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” Jack greeted Lisa and offered his hand to her in assistance in boarding the boat.

  “Hi, Jacky. You remember Roddy, don’t you?” Lisa’s 1950s starlet charade had resumed.

  “Oh, sure, sure. Welcome aboard, Rod. Make yourself comfortable.”

  I smiled and cleared my throat ever so slightly, wondering if I’d rate an introduction, though it wasn’t critical in my estimation.

  Lisa’s eyes flicked at me. “Oh, Alexandra, I didn’t see you there.”

  “Hmm, must be my new diet,” I said, hoping it sounded less snippy than I’d intended.

  “Oh, uh sorry, kiddo. Where are my manners? Roddy Claire, this is Alex Michaels,” Jack Junior finally said.

  Roddy extended his hand. I noticed it was smallish for a man, and his fingernails were gnawed to the quick. He was small-framed for roughly 5’9” and didn’t look trim so much as he looked deficient in iron and other vital nutritional requirements. He had dark features and deep-set eyes under heavy brows. Thin lips parted to reveal straight teeth, but I got the impression he didn’t smile much. His nose looked slightly off center, like it’d been broken a time or two, and he had lines around his eyes and on his forehead. His dark brown hair looked an unnaturally uniform color as though it’d been dyed, and the sun glinted off the product that was keeping it in place. He reminded me of when you were in middle school and the new kid was introduced—he didn’t look remotely like anyone else in the room and he certainly didn’t look like he wanted to be there.

  “How do you do?” I said. Heck, I can fake manners with the best of them.

  “Hey! Would ya look at that! That a new purse, Lee?” Jack asked far too enthusiastically.

  “Yes, honey. Roddy bought it for his mama,” she said, and I really thought I’d have to stick my head over the side of the boat to be sick.

  I raised my eyebrows and gave Lisa the once-over. She had the appearance of a proud mother to what I gathered was a pricey purse. Though I’m not a procurer myself, I was familiar with the gold emblem that dangled from the strap. Still looked like it paled in comparison with the practicality of my all-purpose red and blue tote bag with no special features but a rope drawstring. And, while we’re on the subject, though I pride myself on my miserable grasp of brand names and conspicuous consumerism, I know a Rolex when I see one, and Roddy looked to be sporting a nice one.

  Jack took the drink orders for the two and pulled out a chair for Lisa to sit at the table on the stern deck with us and Roddy took up the remaining chair beside me. I smiled politely as my eyes followed the watch curiously, when Roddy rested his hand on the arm of the chair. What do you suppose it was? Real or fake as that horrible imitation crab Lisa’d served up on poker night? My father had a real one that he left me. It sits on my desk as a reminder to make the most of each minute and, after many thoughtless hours of studying it during my fair share of daydreams, I’d learned the hallmarks of a Rolex and compared them to Roddy’s arm candy in my mental checklist of telling real from fake. If only there was a checklist for bona fide people.

  One. The second hand on Roddy’s watch was smooth, not stuttering. Check.

  Two. The little lens over the date looked as though it actually magnified it. Check.

  Three. I leaned over and pretended to tie my shoelaces—all the better to spy on the quality of the winder. It looked as ornate as it ought to. Check?

  The only other way I know to spot a real Rolex from a fake is by the heft of the watch—made with better mat
erials than a fake, they tend to weigh significantly more. But I couldn’t think of a way to ask Roddy to let me hold it. All things considered though, the watch checked out, but it seemed so incompatible with the man who wore it.

  Jack emerged from the salon of his boat with a club soda for Lisa and a beer for her spawn. “Hard to believe he’s her son, isn’t it?” he said good and loud.

  “Oh?” I asked, ready to play this game with Junior.

  “Would ya believe she had him when she was fifteen?” He loud-whispered the age with such incredulity that he sounded like he actually believed that line.

  “Oh?” I said again, not ready to burst his bubble.

  “Owns his own company and he’s just turned thirty,” Jack said in a tone that led me to believe he took that as gospel.

  “Oh?” I said again like a skipping record and smiled at Rod. Behind my aviator glasses, I rolled my eyes. If my past as a CFO had taught me two things, it was math and spotting a fraud. According to the little fairy tale Jack had been told, Lisa Claire was forty-five. Right. Maybe in dog years. Lisa was sixty-five if she was a day and her son had to be at least forty, though everything about him screamed fresh out of the package.

  “Jack told Lisa that you sell boats. That true?” Roddy turned to ask me.

  “Yes,” I said in a tone perplexed by Roddy referring to his mother by her first name. “Well, I broker them. Are you in the market for one?”

  “I’m in the market for a good deal on one. Something fast. The watch is real, by the way, in case you’re wondering.”

  I nodded, taken aback for a moment by the brashness of the man. “Well, if you want to write down your contact information, I’d be happy to let you know if any screaming deals hit my desk,” I said and looked around for the pad and pencil Jack Junior uses when he tests out his crossword answers before committing to putting them in his puzzles. I didn’t care so much about Roddy’s number or email address as I did about getting a sample of his handwriting to take to my night school class. Maybe it’d reveal the reason my Spidey senses were tingling.

  “Look at her over there talking shop.” Jack Junior nudged Lisa and pointed in my direction. “Hey, Rod, if you’re looking for a boat, she’s the best. Give him a card, kiddo.”

  I shook my head, pretending not to have any on me, which may have been true. I’ve yet to master the art of self-promotion.

  “Come on, just give him a card. Hey, you know what, Rod, you can have one of mine,” Junior said. My eyes followed him as he popped out of his chair and into the salon and took a card from a stack of business cards I recognized as mine—navy background with white lettering, anchor logo. “Here ya go, Rod,” he said, handing him the card.

  “Jack, why do you have a stack of my business cards?” I was intrigued and worried at the same time, wondering how diligently Jack Junior vets the folks to whom he hands out the card that includes my cell number.

  “Oh, I took ‘em during poker night one time at your place. You know, figured I’d help you drum up some business.” He nodded to himself as he returned to his chair.

  “I see.” I gave him a raised eyebrow. “Well, I’ve got to be going,” I said. “Nice to see you again, Lisa,” I lied. “Nice to meet you, Rod,” I lied again. “Going to the last night of the fair and I’ve got to get ready. Hagen’ll be there, so I’ll put in a little more effort,” I said and sent a wink from the heart sailing toward Jack Junior.

  ✽✽✽

  It’s hard not to love a fall fair, isn’t it? Even when it’s known as Weener Fest, as in Halloweener Fest. Every year, Marysville’s biggest fall event kicks off on Halloween and lasts for two weeks. The town council is not oblivious to the implications of such a risqué name, but anything that promotes unity and community is alright with them. They do, however, draw the line occasionally. For instance, although the haunted house at the Weener Fest is sponsored by Burcham’s Petroleum, council refuses to allow them to call it the Gas Chamber. Good call.

  I had been barking out my slogans in support of the puppy rescue and dog shelter to such great success—“Buy a t-shirt! Support a puppy!”—that we’d run out of shirts to sell.

  “Do it doggy style” was the more interesting marketing line Aggie spouted as she held up identifying tags and an assortment of pet paraphernalia donated by Martin’s Pet Store.

  Weaving her way through the booths of candy floss and carnival games, I spotted Marcy Kennedy—local vet, head of the Chamber of Commerce, and the champion of the dog shelter.

  “Ladies, how are sales going?” she asked.

  “So far, about a thousand bucks and, let’s see, we got three phone numbers,” Aggie said, pulling the business cards from her rear pocket.

  “You got three phone numbers,” I clarified. “And we sold out of shirts.”

  “Great news on the shirts. Dance starts in five minutes, thought we’d come and relieve you,” Marcy said, her youngest daughter in tow.

  “Thanks, Marce. Gives us time to get ready,” Aggie said, shook her head, and then looked down at herself disgustedly.

  “What? I’m ready,” I said, feeling quizzical.

  “No, you’re not,” she protested.

  “I am so.” I looked down at my white blouse and skinny jeans and, just for the sake of making an adjustment, I tightened my ponytail. “Ok, now I’m ready.”

  “Girl, Officer Handsome’s gonna take one look at you and—“

  “Hagen. And he’s used to seeing me look like… this,” I said, for want of a better word.

  “Girl, a man who looks like that and has money…”

  “And who’s taking you to the ball, Cinderella? Or dare I ask?”

  “I’m going stag,” she said.

  “Oh, and where’s what’s his name? If that’s really his name.”

  “Russ? He said he had an errand or something.” She shrugged then ducked down and, like some professional quick-change artist, whipped off her dog rescue t-shirt in favor of a one-size-too-small plaid shirt she couldn’t even close the top buttons of.

  “Who’d you steal that from, some little kid?” I asked when she popped up and nearly popped out.

  Ags looked beyond me over my shoulder. “Your date’s here.”

  “He’s not my date,” I said, adding air quotes and hoping I wasn’t slipping into a habit.

  “Alex, ready to go?” Hagen asked, his voice raised over the sound checks in the distance, the feature band warming up.

  When I turned to look at Hagen, I couldn’t help but notice that he turned other heads as well. Twentysomethings to sixty-somethings were looking at him as if he were a sign that advertised half-price Burberry bags. He was dressed smartly in khakis and a white button-down oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His forearms boasting a tan and that big silver diving watch of his. His jet-black hair parted to the side as perfectly as always. I had, for the longest time, tried to find something wrong with him, something that made him seem human. I’d finally landed on the fact that he had a screwed-up index finger, an injury from his college days where, of course, he was the quarterback of the winning football team.

  “Sure. Yeah, let’s go,” I said. I tied my donation apron on Taryn, Marcy’s daughter. “Now smile, tell the boys how much you like a boy who loves animals, and don’t’ give out your real phone number.”

  “And show a little cleavage if you can,” Ags tossed over her shoulder as she left the booth.

  “Don’t listen to her,” I heard Marcy whisper to her daughter. “Have fun,” she shouted after us.

  By the time we reached the stage area, the feature band had already begun to play. Out in the dance area, I spotted Sefton, Peter Muncie, and the ladies from the Gee Spot gyrating to a new take on an old song. Sefton looked as though he was single-handedly trying to bring back the Twist, while Peter Muncie twirled Gladys with one arm and Ginny with the other. Geraldine danced solo to the beat of her own drum.

  “Hail, hail. The gang’s all here,” I heard a voice behind me s
ay. It was Jack Junior and, when I turned, I noticed that, like Ags, he had come to the event stag—though I can’t honestly say I was disappointed. Leaning on hay bales that served as cheap seating options, Jack was with Seacroft, Doctor Richards, Bugsy, and Johnny Fleet, and I felt myself smile with surprise when my eyes landed on lawyer Cary Tranmer. I wasn’t aware he’d be coming for a visit. The last time he’d been at the marina was in late summer.

  “Nice to see you again,” I said.

  “Pleasure’s mine, my dear,” he replied, and without skipping a beat, as the band transitioned into the next song, “Shall we?” he asked, motioning toward the dance floor such that it was—a big grassy area littered with errant bits of straw.

  Without hesitation, I took his arm and his lead and, to the tune of a classic country music tale of woe, Tranmer floated across the dance floor and I tried to keep up. In his sixties, but moving more like a man half that age, Tranmer glided and cut an elegant figure amidst a volume of rustics moving indelicately. I felt classy just being in his arms. My eyes flitted over the sea of what, by comparison, looked like amateurs—Hagen had convinced Ags to take a turn on the floor, and the guys were enjoying the company of the Gee Spotters.

  “How have you been?” he asked.

  “Good.”

  “Been keeping an eye on Junior?”

  “In as far as that’s possible.” I smiled. “Have you met his new girlfriend?”

  “Junior has a girlfriend?”

  “Yes, he does. I’m sure you’ll meet her soon.” I smiled. “How long are you planning to stay this time?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, until after Thanksgiving, I guess. I came to the dinner at the marina last time. It was good. Didn’t see you at that one.”

  “Yeah, I had a thing,” I said. My thing was called a pity party.

  I ran my next sentence over in my head a few times before putting it out into the universe, briefly contemplating the karmic consequences. “Well, to avoid any awkwardness with sleeping arrangements and such on Jack’s boat, do you want to stay on the Splendored Thing?”