I nod. “Okay.”
When I hang up, I bend the pencil in my hands until it snaps in half.
I don’t mention the phone call. Not that my parents ask me about anything, but I want the meeting with Betty to be a secret. Saturday, when I leave the house, no one’s home to ask me where I’m going.
My hair is braided as usual, but I wrap it around my head like a crown to keep it off my back in the heat. I’m nervous and sweating in Lydia’s hand-me-down purple shirt. I don’t go out to eat much, especially with long-lost relatives I barely know.
The Harbor Restaurant is close to my house, so I walk. On the boardwalk, I see neighbors walking dogs, taking pictures of the new bridge, and buying ice cream at the marina. Mrs. Arlyn waves and says hello.
When the restaurant comes into view, I scowl. What does my aunt want?
“Mary!”
Turning my head, I see a bunch of Our Lady kids, Omar and Lydia and some ninth graders, standing in the shade of the gazebo where they hold concerts on Friday nights. Lydia runs over to me, smiling. Until last year, she had braces that she hated. She’d smile behind her hand. Not anymore. Her smile is bright and confident. “Hey! Wanna hang out? We might see a movie.”
“I can’t,” I say. I shove my hands in the pockets of my jeans that feel too hot for the weather.
“Okay,” she says, but her voice has changed. She frowns. “Do you have plans?”
I shift on my feet. “Yes.”
Lydia waits for me to explain. I can see it in her wide eyes, but I don’t know what to tell her. I want to. I want to tell her that I’m worried about why I’m meeting my aunt, who I haven’t seen since, well . . . But I can’t.
She looks down at her feet. Black sneakers that are scuffed on the toes, but not the same way mine are. Her scuffs are intentional, like she couldn’t wait for the shoes to wear down. “I don’t really feel like we’re friends anymore,” she whispers.
“We are,” I say, but my voice bobs.
“Friends tell each other stuff.”
“I know.” Tears fill my eyes. “I know they do.” In her room is a framed picture of the two of us in diapers. I gave it to her when she turned twelve.
“It doesn’t feel like you know that.”
I’ve been shot. I’ve been hit by an arrow. Lodged in my chest, the feather quivers with my breath.
Joan was hit too. She pulled the arrow out herself and returned to battle.
Not me. I just run. I run away from my best friend of twelve years, crying the whole way to the Harbor. My stomach aches as I reach the front of the restaurant, where the hostess takes down names. I wipe my eyes one more time before I say I’m there for a Betty Vernon.
She brings me around tables of laughing people, mostly tourists, and my chest burns. I’m a terrible friend. Why couldn’t I just tell her where I was going?
The new restaurant smells like seafood and lumber. The hostess drops me off in front of a woman with shoulder-length black hair, pinned back at the sides, and large plastic glasses.
She looks me up and down. “So, you’re Mary, huh?” My mother is younger, but Betty looks rested. Betty looks sophisticated.
I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, sit down then. No need for ma’am. We’re blood after all.”
When I sit, I pull down my T-shirt and run my thumb over the card in my pocket.
“Call me Betty,” she says. “I’m not exactly welcome at your house because of my wife, but since I’m back, I thought we could see each other more.”
Her wife? No, my dad would not like that.
“You look like your mom,” she says, a slight smile on her lips.
The waitress takes our drink order, and behind my aunt, I watch the cars on the bridge. It’s so tall—Navy ships fit underneath—and during the air show, pilots fly between the Bay and the bridge. Before it was built, if you wanted to get to the other county, you had to drive an hour north.
“Your mother called me.” Betty is deliberate in her speech, gruff. I wait for more information. “Bet your dad liked that.” Her laugh is deep and gravelly like stones rolling around in her stomach.
I stay quiet.
“You’re having a hard time in school, your mom says.”
“I’m fine.” I don’t want to talk about Our Lady.
“What does that mean? Explain.” Betty folds her hands on the table and scrunches her brow, the same expression I make.
“I’m passing.”
“Just passing is no way to live a life.”
I don’t say anything. She’s right.
“I guess it’s pretty hard to work on school when they’re carrying on all the time. You would think they’d have everything argued out of their systems by now.”
Does she think they only yell? There’s a lot more than yelling.
Betty leans in. “That’s why you weren’t doing well?”
I squirm in my chair and play with the straw in my drink. “I don’t know.”
“Mary, if we are going to know one another, you must be honest. That’s how I am. I won’t fraternize with someone who doesn’t speak their truth.” She nods at me.
I look down at my lap. “Yes,” I whisper. “That’s why.” It feels disloyal, telling. But it also feels really nice. A layer of armor is torn from my chest. Without the weight, I can breathe.
“I can’t undo thirteen years of bad parenting, but I’ll do my best. That’s for certain.”
I smile at her and feel immediate relief. Betty is nothing like my mom. Nothing like my dad. But I still don’t know why we’re meeting, and that is a small shard of glass stuck in the bottom of my foot.
When we say good-bye, I head to the marina. The crowd of kids under the gazebo is gone, and my heart aches. I don’t know how to make it better with Lydia. I don’t know how to fix our friendship.
The paint on the sign above the marina is flaking, and the door dings when I open it. I haven’t been here in years. Kip’s sister looks up and smiles at me. I give Barbara a little wave, and she tells me he’s out on the dock.
Kip has his back to me, talking to a man fueling his boat. The waterman laughs and gestures at me. Kip turns and smiles. “Murph! Did you come to sword fight?”
I shake my head, smiling. He’s so ridiculous.
“Excuse me,” he says to the waterman. “I gotta talk to my lady.”
“I’m not your anything,” I say. But I have to force a straight face. I look out at the water and squint my eyes, scanning for my dad. “Can we work on the sub?”
“I can’t wait! Let’s build you a death trap.”
Except we have no idea what we’re doing. Or where to start. In between gassing up boats, we watch videos on Kip’s phone. I scowl at the screen as a man pulls a hatch down on a homemade sub. A tube for breathing runs from the sub to the air. It doesn’t seem safe.
I fold my arms. The more videos we watch, the more worried I get. There are so many variables. I didn’t think this through. Do I want oxygen in the sub? Do I trust a tube to provide enough to get me across the Bay?
For a week, I split my time between Kip at the marina and Betty. On the weekend, I volunteer at the library in North Beach where she works, stacking shelves after kids yank the books off. She gives speeches. About the president. The election. The patriarchy. She says, “You can only save yourself in this life.” Everything is the opposite of what I hear at home.
When she drops me off at my house on Bleecker Street, I head to the marina as fast as I can.
On Sunday, after a week of watching videos and trying and failing to do anything with the propane tank, I tell Kip, “We should go visit that man.”
“Okay,” he says. “Dad said his name is Ford Wallace. Let’s ask for help.”
We ride our bikes to the cottages of the Scientists’ Retreat. They’re small and white with screened-in porches full of patio furniture. A few have grills and firepits. Some have gigantic telescopes, and more than one looks like a junkyard, with car en
gines and motorcycle parts in the driveways.
I point to the closest one, a number seven next to the screen door, and look at Kip. I don’t know any of the scientists individually, only as a group. “We could ask here?”
“You’re in charge.” He waves me toward the door.
I take a deep breath and knock. A man with long gray hair and wrinkled skin the color of driftwood opens the door. “Namaste, my brother and sister.” He’s shirtless and his pants billow. I hear Kip hold back a laugh.
“We’re looking for Ford Wallace. Could you tell us where to find him, sir?”
“Is everything copacetic?” he asks.
I frown. “I don’t know what that means.”
“I think it’s hippie for good.” Kip smirks, and I roll my eyes, hoping he’s not offending the man.
“Nothing bad,” I tell the man. “We just had some submarine questions.” It takes all my control not to yell at him, demanding to know which cottage belongs to Wallace.
“Cool, cool,” he answers. “Cottage twelve. Hey, do you kids like yoga? I’ve got some pamphlets in here.” He turns back into the house, the door open.
“No, man, we’re good. Thanks for the help!” Kip says, hurrying me along by the arm.
I stop and watch him walk down the stone path to number twelve. He touched me, and I know he’s done it before, but it was warm and nice. I’m not used to it.
“You coming?” he calls back to me. His freckles are as bright as his grin. “You scared?”
I am not. I was born to do this.
Cottage number twelve has the messiest yard. Three ancient lawn mowers but no real lawn. A blue boat seat not attached to a boat. An anchor. I take a deep breath and knock.
After a minute, I knock again. I look at Kip, and he shrugs. We can hear movement and something that sounds like furniture being dragged across the floor. Or a dead body.
We wait. I’m curious and impatient. I keep exhaling loudly, like the more air I push out, the more relaxed I’ll feel, but it isn’t working. I try convincing myself that we are asking for help, so be patient. That’s not working either.
“I’m coming!” we finally hear. “Just a minute.”
A little man with ruddy cheeks answers the door, breathless. “I’m sorry,” he says. “So sorry. How can I help you?” He nudges a stack of books with his bare foot to open the door wider.
“I’m Mary Murphy, and this is Kip Dwyer. We’re looking for Ford Wallace.”
He drops his arm from the door and grins with his bottom teeth. “Well, you’re in luck, young lady, because I happen to know him quite well.” His voice is happy and southern, a stronger accent than I’ve ever heard. Sticky.
I want to push down the door. “Could we speak with him?”
“Well, let me check.” He says the last word like it’s stuck to the top of his mouth. He pokes his head behind the door, so we can see only his body. “Ford Wallace, can you talk to these beautiful young folks?”
I blush, and he pops his head back. “I can! Because I’m Ford Wallace!”
He’s so weird. I can’t even look at Kip because I know if I do, I will laugh.
Wallace lets us in, and we dodge piles of paper, books, and pieces of machinery. He motions for us to sit, after removing an empty oyster can and smoothing out a fuzzy cushion.
“Well, what can I do for you sweet little teens?”
I smile and let my shoulders relax. Sometimes I’m nervous around new men, but it is immediately clear that Wallace is not Bobby Murphy.
“You were in the military?” Kip blurts, surprised. I shoot him a look.
“Why, yes. I was. Granted, I was much handsomer and younger then.” He laughs, a nice easy one that makes his gray eyes disappear. Wallace is small and fine-boned like a bird. Kip’s right—he doesn’t seem like the military type. He’s wearing an untucked button-down shirt and rolled-up khakis. He seems completely content with himself, and I’m envious.
“That’s kind of what we want to talk to you about,” I start. “Kip and I built a remote-controlled submarine.” I fill my lungs. “And we’re trying to build a real one.”
“You two?” For a moment, he watches us without talking and without expression. And then his face clouds.
The change makes me whisper. “Yes, sir.”
“How much money do you have? Do you have a backer? How about a lawyer?”
I shake my head and scowl. “I don’t have any money.” It burns to say that in front of Kip. I plunge my hand into my pocket.
Ford Wallace laughs. “I can’t do much with no money. And a lawyer. I can’t help without one. Submersibles are illegal, so you need representation if things get contentious.”
“I don’t know a lawyer.” I also don’t know what “contentious” means.
Wallace is not smiling anymore, and I wish the nice, weird man who answered the door would reappear. Kip clears his throat and stands up. “Thanks for letting us in, Mr. Wallace. We can let ourselves out.” He walks to the door.
I follow him, defeated. Tired. Tired from everything. I assumed Wallace would help, for some reason. And now I just feel exhausted.
“Wait,” Wallace says. He turns and leaves the room. And for a moment, I feel hope. I look at Kip, and he shrugs.
Wallace comes back with the largest book I’ve ever seen. He hands it to me, and I falter under the weight. Building Your Own Submersible by Ford Wallace. The cover is a photograph of Ford as a young man sitting on top of a homemade sub.
“Does this mean you’ll help?” I ask.
“Oh no,” Wallace says. “It’s so I have a clear conscience, my dear. Good luck.”
Good luck. We both know I’m destined for failure.
“Okay, Murph. Let’s go,” Kip says. He takes the book from me, and I walk out the door behind him. The screen door bangs against the cabin.
Outside, Kip and I walk through the path from the Cliffs. I don’t want to speak.
“So, he was different than I expected,” Kip eventually says.
I nod. The sun is almost gone, and the air is so heavy, I can almost drink it.
“I mean, his voice, you know? What kind of accent is that?” Kip keeps cursing as his feet hit the sand. “Could you spend a minute with him in a submarine? With that voice, Murph?”
I can’t even answer him. I am lost. Floundering.
Kip stops. “What?”
I kick the sand with my shoe and look at the shore. “Nothing.” I walk ahead of him.
“Don’t let him bother you. We’ll make one. We don’t need his help.”
“Do you think so?” I pause and don’t face him. “I was stupid and thought he would help.”
“Who cares what that guy said? You stick to things, and I will do whatever you want.”
“I do?”
Kip grabs my hand with his free one and locks our fingers together. His palm is warm, and I believe him. I smile down at our hands. God, I like him holding mine. I think it’s my favorite feeling in the world.
“Worst-case scenario, I make you a submarine sandwich.”
I drop his hand and laugh. “Oh Lord, you are so ridiculous.”
For a minute, I feel light. But when I get home, I put the book on my desk and stare at it. Ford Wallace doesn’t want to help me. And why would he?
“Psst, Murph.”
I roll over and groan.
“Murph!”
Sighing, I open my eyes.
“Murphy! You up there?”
I hear the whisper, which is really more of a yell, and realize that someone is waking me up in the middle of the night.
I push back the sheet and sit up. The sky is still black when I pull open the curtains.
“Hey, it’s Kip!” He waves at me, the top of his head at the bottom of the window.
“I see that. What time is it?” I feel groggy. And grumpy. Grumpy about being woken up and grumpier about Ford Wallace.
He holds up his phone, the light so bright in the dark, I squint. “1:
27. Come out here, please. I gotta show you something.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
His face is tiny squares of a window screen, one freckle per box. “I was dying for some Joan facts. Where else would I get them?”
“Google.” But I’m trying not to smile.
He beams at me, and his blond hair looks fluorescent under the one streetlight on Bleecker. We haven’t been alone since Sunday, when Ford Wallace rejected me. “Okay, it’s really about the sub. Let’s go! I’ve gotta go to work at six.”
I peek at the driveway. Dad’s truck isn’t parked out front, so I step quietly down the hall. When I get to the screen door, I try to not let it bang against the frame.
Kip’s waiting for me in the grass. It’s hot and sticky and humid. Up and down the street, I watch for lights.
“You look pretty, Murph. Never seen you with your hair down.”
I look at my bare feet. At night, I take my hair out of my braids because it hurts to have them tight while I sleep. But during the day, I like them. They make me feel in control.
Kip reaches over and grabs a strand. My heart scrambles, and I gasp. I probably shouldn’t be standing in the grass in the dead of night with a boy who touches my hair. Sister Brigid will know. I swat his hand away, but he grins anyway.
“Stop.”
“I will do whatever you say.” Kip winks and takes a seat in the grass, patting a spot next to him.
I join him, the grass soft against my feet and legs. “You need to stop that winking business.”
“I only wink at you.”
“I doubt that.”
“I swear!” He puts his hand on mine. “I actually need to tell you something else.” He takes a deep breath. “Your eyes are pretty. Like silver almonds.”
I panic, jumping up. After midnight with the boy I . . . well, I don’t know. The boy I like. That seems dangerous. Handing him my heart, the one beating wildly against my ribs, seems dangerous. And impractical.
“That’s what you needed to tell me? Okay, thank you. I will see you in school on Monday.”
“Murph. I broke into the Navy base.”
Mary Underwater Page 4