Even in the shade, his shirt is soaked with sweat and his hairline is damp.
“Do you want to walk with me? I don’t . . .” He rubs the back of his neck. “We can fix this.”
I don’t know. I don’t know if I can fix this.
“I’m going to stay here for a little bit,” I say. “Kip?” My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. “Thank you for coming.”
When he leaves, I slump back down on the concrete.
It takes me a long time to move. Hours. I leave the safety of Ford’s cabin. I find myself at the Cliffs, but my body doesn’t feel light and floaty looking at the water. It feels numb.
The walk home is boiling. When I hit Our Lady, I see sheriff lights at the marina. I freeze. The lights spin, bouncing colors against the white paint of the building. The sirens don’t sound. I can’t look over; my stomach’s on fire.
Maybe some waterman got sick from the heat, that’s all. Maybe an older waterman, I tell myself. Probably Buddy. Try to convince the tremble in my thoughts.
I wring my hands together. It doesn’t feel right.
My heart racing, I walk into the house, sit at the kitchen table, and stand up again. I pour myself a glass of water and sit back down, fidgety. The house is overwhelmingly quiet. The air feels like static. I tap my fingers against the glass.
The screen door bursts open, and I expect to see my mom, but when I turn, Lydia is flying toward me.
“Come quick! It’s Kip!”
I don’t understand. I just saw him. I just saw Kip. He has to be fine. Fine. “Kip?”
“Why didn’t you answer your phone? I swear!”
“Why?” The word is hooked to my throat.
“Your dad . . . Kip.” She’s having a hard time speaking and bends over, her hands on her knees.
“What about them?” My stomach clenches. I don’t want to know.
“Your dad went to the marina. Kip’s hurt.”
Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
I pray as I run. I run as I pray. It takes me nine Hail Marys to get to the marina.
When I was little, I would take baths—my parents fighting in the other room—and slip my head under the surface. The water muffled their voices echoing in my brain.
Everything is loud and muffled now. The cars. The blinking of the squad car. People on the boardwalk gawking. It’s all too loud.
And it’s so, so hot. My mouth is dry, but everything else in the world, it seems, is covered in liquid. My shirt sticks to my ribs, and when I pull on it, the sweat makes it cling to me more.
I stop when I hit the doorstep. A chum bucket filled with cement props the door open. Noisy fans whir in each corner of the bait shop section of the marina. There’s no happy ding of the door or a smiling little Dwyer sister with a face full of freckles.
Kip’s mom is standing behind the counter, next to a wall of hooks, in a dress the color of sunshine and with her teased, bleached hair. She looks out of place. Too bright. Too sunny for a dire day.
Mrs. Dwyer is speaking to a police officer, someone from the sheriff’s department, and he writes down everything she says. When she sees me walk in, she stops talking. The expression on her tan face is blank, like she doesn’t recognize me.
I don’t know what to say, so I stand there and wait, the last few minutes rushing in like a flood. Finally, Mrs. Dwyer makes a decision and points. I follow her direction and walk to the back of the store, into a little room where they sell ice cream and soda.
One fan, cranked high, points at me and buzzes in my ears.
Kip sits on a metal folding chair, with his dad standing behind him. They’re both looking at Dr. Lewis, the ancient island doctor.
Kip holds a towel pressed to his face, and blood spots it like the bottom of my dad’s boat, bright red and wet. Blooms of crimson. He sees me and puts the towel in his lap. He tries to stand, but winces and sits back down. A busted nose and a split bottom lip.
Such a nice mouth, and now it’s ruined.
My dad did that.
I can’t move. My feet are glued to the floor. I want to vomit. I think I might. Mr. Dwyer starts to walk toward me, but I turn and bolt.
I run out the main store and into the parking lot, lean against the building, and sink. I stay there until I hear Lydia’s voice.
“Mary!”
I pick up my head. She and Omar stand in front of me, the brilliant red of the sunset behind them. The same color as Kip’s towel.
“Why are you out here?”
I shrug.
“Did you see him? Is he here? The hospital?” She spits out questions as fast as her brain can think them.
Mine can’t keep up. “What?”
“Did you see Kip?” she asks, slowing down, sitting next to me in the gravel.
I nod.
“Is he okay?” Omar asks.
“I don’t know.” My words are slow, so slow.
“Why don’t you know?” Lydia speeds up again. “What does she mean?” she asks Omar. She stands. “We’re going in there.”
I don’t even watch them go. I just keep staring ahead. I feel sick.
I get up. I’m a rockfish, a hook in my mouth, being dragged. First, I’m pulled to my house, onto my bike. And then I’m reeled in, flying from the marina. Gasping for air.
My despair pedals my feet and brings me to the Cliffs. I climb and stand at the top, watching the water below. I stand there a long time, the waves light and free under me.
My dad hits. His fists are heavy and binding. He hits my mom. He hits me. He hit the bartender at the Tavern. He hit an inmate the last time he was in prison and had to stay longer. He’s never hit my friend before, though. Guilt runs through me. It’s my fault.
If I had been at the marina. If I hadn’t told Kip. If we weren’t working on the sub.
I sob into the wind.
I shake my head and look down at the water. No. No. That’s what he does. Makes it feel like it’s your fault. When the blame is always his. Always.
I want to feel light and free like the waves.
I scramble down the side of the Cliffs. At the water’s edge, I stick my toes in. The brackish water licks my ankles. I walk out until the surface hits my shorts. My waist.
It’s just like the bathtub. Just like it. That’s what I tell myself. It’s a few feet deep. I won’t drown.
I sink down with a huge sigh. A cry out. He hurt my friend. A boy I like. He ruined my sub. I clench my fists and press them against my chin. I don’t know if Kip is okay. I don’t know if he’ll ever talk to me again. I don’t know anything.
This is what I get. This is what I get for trying to escape. For liking a boy. For handing someone my heart.
I shake my fingers out, make my mouth a circle, and blow hard. I will not let my father pull me under.
When I’m ready, I fill my lungs and lie on the water like a bed, my arms outstretched, my body a t. I panic, once, and stick a foot firmly back down in the sand. But then I let go. I point my chest to the sky. My hair swirls around me.
And I’m floating light and free in the Bay.
I walk home soaked, but I don’t mind because it’s so hot. Even though it’s dark, the heat lingers. Clings tight to the Bay. My mother is waiting for me at the kitchen table when I open the door. “I guess you heard about your dad.”
I don’t want to talk about him. I want to drink my water and go to sleep. Tomorrow I have work at the library. And I am so, so exhausted.
“Yes.” I pour myself water at the sink. “How long this time?” I sit across from her. My body is tired. We’ve had this conversation before, and it leaves me emotionless.
“I don’t know. He’s still in jail. I won’t be able to make bail for at least a month. And then there will be a trial,” she says. “I’ll need you to check some of the crab pots this weekend
.” Mom tucks her frazzled hair behind her ear and stands, putting her dirty dish in the sink.
A month. All of July. I have a month to finish the sub without worrying if he’ll ruin it. Without worrying he’ll find out and hurt someone again.
“It was that Dwyer boy’s fault,” Mom whispers.
I pull my wet hair off my neck. “Why do you keep calling him that?” It’s annoying me, makes my skin itchy. “We’ve known him my whole life. It’s Kip.”
“Fine. Kip.” She says it like the word is disgusting. “Kip started it.” She props her arms on the counter behind her.
The water gets stuck in my throat. “I doubt that.”
“That’s what Buddy told me.”
Buddy. Buddy barely knows what day it is. I scowl. But he was probably at the marina earlier. “Why would Buddy say that?”
“Because it’s true.” She waves her hands around. “Your dad just went to gas up the boat.”
I’m quiet, thinking, trying to figure it out. But the air is so hot. “Why would Dad be in jail then?”
“Because Kip”—the word as sharp as the knives in the drawers behind her—“is a minor. And your dad’s got priors.”
If I think clearly about it, my eyes closed, I know Kip didn’t start anything, that he would never hurt someone. He may have said something rude or inappropriate to my dad. I would bet money on that. But Kip wouldn’t put his hands on anyone in anger.
Last year, two baseball players got in a fight in the cafeteria, and one pinned the other on top of a table. Kip and Omar split them up before the teachers could reach them. That’s who that Dwyer boy is.
I know where the blame sits.
“Like you start fights with Dad, Mom? Like I do? It’s our fault, right?”
I don’t wait for her to respond. In my room, I lock the door and lean against it, staring at the model on my desk that Kip and I made. I wonder if he’s home. If he blames me. If he hates me.
I pull out the phone Betty got me and look at the screen. Missed calls from Lydia that I didn’t hear when I silenced it to go to the Murphy house. The afternoon bangs into me again, and my fingers shake.
I’m sorry, I text him.
But I don’t hear anything back. I stare at the ceiling for hours, trying to sleep. But the day creeps into my brain, making it difficult to rest. When I wake up in the morning, no reply lights my screen. I get ready early, before Betty picks me up. I need to talk to him. I have to see how he’s doing.
Two pickup trucks are in the marina parking lot. No police cars. Kip’s mom is behind the counter again, the one person in the store. Voices on the dock outside drift in.
“Umm, hi, Mrs. Dwyer,” I say.
She doesn’t answer me at first, just looks, assessing. She probably wants to toss me overboard, a humane catch-and-release. “Mary,” she says finally.
“Is Kip around?”
“No.” Her jaw tightens. “Dr. Lewis told him no work for a week. He wanted him to stay overnight at the hospital.” The hospital’s up at North Beach, near the library. It’s not on the island.
I watch her cotton-candy hair. “Do you know where I could find him?”
When she doesn’t answer, I squirm like I’ve never squirmed before. “I’m not really sure what happened yesterday, but I’m sorry. I feel responsible.”
She narrows her eyes. “You should.”
I tug on a strand of my hair. “Could I talk to Kip about it?”
“He’s at home.” She crosses her arms over her polka-dot dress. “After what your father did.” She says it like I did it, like I hit Kip.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
The Dwyer house is behind Our Lady and the marina, in a little corner of the Bay. It’s large and white and wooden with a big porch across the front. I knock on the door and wait. Barbara answers and stands staring at me, just like her mother did. The Dwyer ladies are terrifying.
“Babe, can I talk to Kip?” Shrimp runs to the door and licks my hand, her tail and butt moving wildly. At least she’s happy to see me.
“I don’t think he wants to see you,” she says softly.
“Why?” I squeak.
She raises her shoulders.
I peek in the house. “Can you check?”
Barbara turns on one foot, leaves the door cracked, and yells at Shrimp not to run outside. I wait and stare at the gold crab knocker, twisting my hands together and flipping Shrimp’s ear when she presses her face against me.
Babe comes back and leans against the door. “He said he’s sleeping.”
“He said it?” I should have known. I should have realized he wouldn’t want to see me. Why would he?
I’m a Murphy.
I walk back to my house with my arms wrapped tight. With watery eyes, I wait outside until Betty pulls in.
She gets out of the car when she sees me. “Do you want to stay home?”
I shake my head and press my lips together.
“Is this about your dad and your boy? Your mother told me.” She adjusts her glasses.
I nod and wipe my eyes. My mother and Betty talk?
“You look terrible.”
Thanks. “I want to go to the library. I don’t want to stay here.” I open the car door and sit.
The ride is quiet. Aunt Betty doesn’t turn on NPR. I lean my head against the window. “Is it because I’m a Murphy?” I ask her.
“Is what?”
“Do you think Kip doesn’t like me because I’m a Murphy? I’m tainted.” Everything that can go wrong, will. I should have known. It was practically written in my stars. It’s a bad smell that clings to hair, the Murphy name.
Betty makes a weird noise in her throat and watches me out of the side of her glasses. “Why do you think that?”
I tell her everything. I tell her about Kip. And his face. And how he won’t talk to me. My stomach hurts when I say it all.
Betty frowns. “I don’t know much about teenage boys, but he might be embarrassed.”
I wipe my nose and smooth my hair the closer we get to the library. “Why would he be embarrassed?”
“Well, he likes you. And your dad beat him up? He’s probably feeling a lot of emotions over that. And boys are taught some problematic lessons about what it means to be a man. Give him some time. Let his bruises heal. Let his ego do the same. If he’s smart, he’ll come around.”
I don’t have time. I have a month to get this done. To build and pilot the sub before my father gets back and ruins everything. Before Ford leaves for Japan. We were so close, and now the porthole and hatch are damaged. Now Kip hates me.
I am distracted all day. My brain is cloudy. Foggy like the dawn. I count down the hours until I can get to the cottage to work on the sub. Kip was supposed to help. Now I’m not so sure. I check my phone every few minutes. Nothing.
Five old women want to print emails. One man needs help with a job application. At lunch, I eat only my pretzels. I leave my sandwich in its bag. The jam leaks out, a dark purple ooze. The thin skin next to Kip’s eye might be that color right now. I sigh and wipe salt off my lip.
Betty tells me about the July theme for the children’s section: Dissent Is Patriotic. She made a poster, a bright red fist blazing defiantly. Her cheeks flush with excitement while she talks about it.
At the end of the day, when Betty drops me off at Ford’s, I get serious in the car. “Thanks, Aunt Betty.”
“No problem, kid. I like driving.”
“No, I mean for everything. Driving and giving me a job. A phone. You’ve been really good to me, and I don’t deserve it.” I look down at my hands.
“You deserve kindness, just like everyone else in this world. You’re just not used to it, and that’s a crying shame. I should have done this earlier.” She hands me my backpack. “You are worthy, Mary.”
“Worthy of what?” My heart feels like it’s been split open. I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not. Feeling so much. All I’ve done is feel lately.
“Everythi
ng, honey. Happiness. Love. You deserve it all. Your parents forgot to tell you that.” I remember now. Staying with Aunt Betty in third grade at the hotel across from the fire station. We ordered pizza, and I picked the peppers off. She said she would order without peppers the next time.
No one’s ever told me I deserve happiness before.
In the cottage, Ford and I work on the inside equipment. I searched online and found a medical absorbent that will clean my exhaled carbon dioxide. It’s called Sodasorb. It looks like kitty litter and when it absorbs my air, it changes color. We attach a small fan to a bucket of it. When the marine batteries are hooked up, the sub will power the fan.
While my face is down, Ford says, “Do you want to talk about yesterday?”
I shake my head. “It was my dad. But he’s in jail now.”
Ford sighs. He might already know. The island is small. No one else’s father is getting arrested all the time. Only mine.
“I had an angry father,” he says. “That’s why I joined the Navy. I could never really be myself around him. I felt like two different people. I suppose I still do.”
I don’t say anything, only readjust the fan. I think the sweet Ford is the real version. Maybe I’m the same way. I’m not sure.
“He hurt Kip. That’s why he’s not here today.” My throat burns.
“Oh,” Ford says, rubbing his jaw. “That I was unaware of.”
“He probably hates me.”
“Oh, Miss Mary, we are not our parents, and your Mr. Kip is very aware of that.”
For the next week, Ford asks me if Kip is coming, and each time, I tell him no. I wish he would listen the first time. Lydia and Omar haven’t seen him either. I miss him. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me.
On the seventh day without Kip, Ford says, “We need those marine batteries.” He watches me. Lets his meaning settle.
I’m making weight adjustments on the CAD program. A version of the propane tank chugs across the screen. “I know.”
“I could go down to the marina, or someone else could . . .” Ford speaks slowly.
I glare at him. “I know what you’re doing.”
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