baked meats

The crowd was thinning out. The servers were able to circulate with canapés. She accepted a square of pumpernickel with smoked salmon and cream cheese. Earl was nowhere to be seen. Kate and her brother Bill were huddled by the buffet table. No Kat. No Bobby either. She went over to where Catherine Addams stood near the door, thanking people for coming. She appeared to have her social veneer back in place. Makeup repaired. Demeanor subdued but calm. It was hard to believe this was the same woman as the one who had cracked at the funeral. Though this was the Catherine Merideth was familiar with from garden club meetings.

    “Did I tell you how much I appreciated your flowers?” Catherine said now.

    “Yes. I am so sorry for your loss, Catherine.” Merideth couldn’t prevent herself from glancing at the nearby flower arrangements of hothouse lilies and roses, so different from the simple bouquet she had sent.

    “I put yours in our—my—room,” said Catherine. “They were so fresh and simple and—not depressing.”

      “What Kate had to say at the memorial service was so interesting. And what you said was very moving.”

     “It was true, too. I know people on this island don’t like me. They loved Mac, they accepted his children, but they never liked me.”

      “Islanders are funny,” said Merideth. Perhaps they found you aloof or intimidating.”

      Catherine turned and looked her in the eye. “Listen. When I met Mac I was just Catie Ann Slaughter from Toad Suck Ferry, Arkansas. Well not Toad Suck Ferry, but close enough. I couldn’t measure up to his second wife in looks or his first wife in class, as Kate is only too happy to remind me, but I tried to be worthy of being his wife. To entertain, to move in the right circles, to keep the country out of the girl.”

     “Maybe that was the problem. Islanders read you as hoity toity, when really you were just afraid of making a misstep. Maybe now, without worrying about what you think your husband wants, you can be more comfortable.”

      She looked angry, then sighed. “I don’t even know who I am any more.”

     “It’s good that your brother is here.”

    “Jerry. I guess. He certainly wasn’t here that first night when I really needed him. I couldn’t even get him on the phone.” She broke off as a couple approached her. “Thank you so much. Lovely of you. Oh yes. Soon.”

      Merideth moved off to let her get back to it.

small talk

     “Did you know Malcolm well?”

     “My sister was married to him for fifteen years, and we are very close, so naturally I knew him. I wouldn’t say ‘well’—we are both very private people. But he was very welcoming to me over the years. I was sorry to hear he had died. I came over on the first boat the next morning.”

       “Where do you live?”

       “You could say I’m based in Providence. I travel a great deal for work.” He put his glass down and scratched his wrist.

        “What kind of work do you do?”

       “I’m a salesman—a very high level, world travelling salesman.”

        “What do you sell?”

        He smiled. “Pharmaceuticals.”

        She sipped her wine. Better back off. “How utterly fascinating,” she said. “What do you think of our little corner of the world?”

       “I haven’t seen very much of it, really. Maybe you could show me around,” he said with a wink.

     “Yes, I can see you are a salesman,” said Merideth tartly. “I don’t give island tours, but you are welcome to come by and see my garden sometime. Not that anything much is in bloom yet.” She took another tiny sip and put her glass down on the table next to his. “I must speak to your sister.”

     “A pleasure to meet you, Merideth. I will certainly come and tour your garden while I’m here.”

      “Are you staying a while?”

      “I will stay with my sister as long as she needs me. Until this business is wrapped up.” He scratched his wrist again.

      A peculiar way to put the death of his brother-in-law, thought Merideth, as she shook his hand and moved off indoors.

funeral arrangements

“Ah, yes, the garden club lady,” said Jerry, shaking her hand.

     “Have we met?” Merideth asked brightly.

    “I don’t believe so, and surely I would remember,” he inclined his head gallantly.

     Although Merideth considered herself a tough old bird, she was not proof against a handsome man flirting with her. A very handsome man.

      He took her arm and guided her through the crowd and out onto the porch overlooking Crescent Beach.

     “May I get you something to drink? Coffee? Wine?”

     Merideth considered balancing a cup and saucer. Oh well, she thought. It was practically five o’clock. The sun was almost under the yardarm. “I’ll have a small glass of red wine. Thank you.”

     He disappeared indoors and she took a breath. Hopefully he was getting an alcoholic drink as well. She needed to forget about those sapphire eyes and those shoulders and get him talking.

      Young Earl walked through the door onto the porch. He looked as if he wanted to bolt back indoors when he saw her, but grudgingly nodded. “Never been out here since the new people,” he said.

    “Me neither. Beautiful view.” She wondered what he was doing here. Socializing wasn’t his thing, and he must have known she would be here. He stood awkwardly, hands by his side, until he saw Jerry coming towards her with a drink in each hand, then nodded and bumbled back indoors.

      “Thank you. Do you come here often?” she asked coyly.

     He sipped a clear, fizzy liquid with a slice of lime.  Club soda?

    “Not nearly as often as I will in future,” he teased. “I’m Jerry.”

    “Oh, you like the view? It is marvelous, isn’t it. And your sister—Catherine is your sister?—has done an excellent job of framing it with the nice new railings and hanging baskets.” He didn’t need to know that she deplored geraniums. Even pink ones. The smell! “I am Merideth.”

     “Merry Death,” he said. “How odd. The Merry part I understand.”

    “I’m probably looking like death warmed over right now,” said Merideth. “That funeral took it out of me.”

     He looked solemn. “Yes. A terrible thing.”

the zoo

      He drove in silence to the Manisses. “I’ll just leave the van here,” he said.  She was very subdued. He felt sorry for her. What must it feel like to see your children in an alternate life you had no part in. Not to mention the fact that the man with whom you made those children, who you presumably loved at one time, naked and sweaty, was now ashes.

      “Let’s go look at the animals,” he said.

      He put some coins into a machine and took out a package of food pellets. The dromedary and a llama were already hanging their heads over the fence expectantly.

     “They’re as out of place as I am,” said Kat.

    “This hotel is named after the Manisses tribe. Legend has it they were exiles from a mainland tribe. Rejects. They were enslaved by the white settlers who came here from England in 1661. Supposedly if an Indian could build a stone wall from one end of the island to the other, he would be freed. I doubt that story though.

    “Now the island has been overtaken by tourists and cottagers from Connecticut and New Jersey, and the descendants of those white settlers work for them. And the jobs they won’t do, we import people from Brazil, Eastern Europe and Thailand to do.

     “So we’re all exiles and newcomers. And if you look out over the ocean, we all seem pretty small and out of place.”

      “I get the same feeling in the desert in New Mexico. Have you ever been there?”

     “No. I can’t get that far from an ocean.”

     “There it’s all about the sky. There’s a lot of sky over the ocean, too. But it seems like more there. Or more extreme.”

      “I thought you lived in Greenwich.”

      “Ridgefield. In the woods. But I’ve had a tiny place near Santa Fe for years. Malcolm and I bought it when we were married. I spend a lot of time out there.”

      “Doing what?”

      “Painting, mostly. Kate once told me you paint, too.”

       “I do. Seascapes mainly. What do you paint?”

      “Skyscapes.”

      They both laughed.

      The animals gave up and wandered away.

after words

 “I got a much different impression of Catherine than I ever have before,” said Kate, as they drove towards town.

    “Me too,” said Merideth. “She always seemed brittle, reserved. I would not have thought she had so much feeling.”

      Kat said nothing.

     “I told you she wasn’t so bad,” said Bill.

     “Yeah but you never spent as much time with her as I did,” said Kate. “Maybe ‘cause I’m older now? Or I wonder if maybe I thought she and Jerry were the same person.”

        “Is that her brother?” asked Merideth. “They look so much alike. Are they twins?”

       “Yes,” said Kate. “And I hate him. He follows her everywhere she goes. He’s always around. Probably wanting money. Dad’s money. ”

       “What does he do?” asked Meredith.

     “That’s a New York question!” said Kate.

     “Gigolo,” said Bill.

     “No, he’s some kind of a salesman. I don’t know what. Probably doesn’t matter. If you can sell, you can sell anything.”

     “He didn’t manage to sell himself to you!” said Bill.

     Kate shuddered. Bobby pulled up across from the Surf. “”Why don’t you all get out. I’ll find someplace to park.”

      “I’ll just go back to the hotel,” said Kat.

      “Mom!”

     “I don’t know these people. It’s become pretty clear to me that I am very far removed from this part of Malcolm’s life. And I don’t think the bad fairy showing up at the christening is all that appropriate.”

     “It would be interesting to see what Catherine made of you, though,” said Meredith.  “I’d give something to be a fly on that wall.”

     “Where are you staying?” asked Bill.

     “The Manissees.”

     “I’ll come by. Lets have dinner later.”

     “When worlds collide,” Bobby said, after they all got out.

     “Yes,” said Kat. “It’s hard on everybody. Even without a murder investigation.”

kat among the pigeons

 “Mom! What are you doing here!”

      “I was married to the man for seventeen years,” she said. “That’s longer than his current wife. I loved him too! I can be here.”

     Kate frowned at Merideth.

     “I didn’t tell her. She came on her own.”

     Bobby was already in the van, but he watched as his passengers paused. Cat was among the pigeons now, all right! Or Kat. He liked her. He had been expecting a Greenwich matron like the ones he had grown up with, but there was more to her. He wondered what she had been doing all these years besides being a divorcee and mother.

     “Oh, you might as well come along,” said Kate.

     “Everybody else and his brother is,” said Merideth. “All we’re missing is Wife No. 2.”

      “I doubt she’s coming,” said Bill. “She moved on to some Saudi prince or something.”

       “My!” said Merideth.

       “Come on,” said Kate again. “Bobby’s waiting.”

      The TV crew grabbed some B roll of them getting into the van.  Then they started walking towards Reverend Paul and the grave plot. He grabbed the urn and  headed for his car, parked at the playground across the street. As he turned the key, he heard the nail gun start up again. It was that time of year.

meanwhile. . .

What the gazebo and the travel trailer have in common," pronounced the President of the Garden Club, "Is that both are dreams that become yard ornaments."

last words

      “What was that about the ribbon?” Bill asked his sister.

      “It’s a Jewish custom,” she whispered. “I looked it up on the Internet. You’re supposed to rend your garments, but people rend a ribbon instead.”

       “We weren’t raised Jewish!”

      “I know, but Dad was. The other thing is quick burial and something about putting dirt on the coffin, but there’s no coffin. There is an urn. It’s inside the podium.”

 

      Reverend Paul looked around the assembled congregation, some of whom sat in stunned silence while others were buzzing. “Thank you, Kate,” he said. “Does anyone else want to share any memories before we close?”

       They waited.

     The widow Addams got up. “I was not planning to say anything,” she said. “I have no prepared remarks. I did not think I could get through a speech. But I have to thank Kate for saying what we are all thinking. Someone killed my husband.” She couldn’t speak for a moment. “I know many of you believe I married him for money. I did not. I married him for love, and it has only now started to sink in that I won’t see him again. Ever. In this world.” She was openly crying now. “I thought I would have many more years with him. Please, find out who did this. He was a good man, a kind man. Good to the island and to everyone who is sitting here right now. He loved you.”

       She paused for a long while to collect herself. “And he loved to entertain you. After we leave here, please come to the Surf for food and drink. Laugh and enjoy yourselves in Mac’s memory. It’s what he would like the best, not a solemn graveside ceremony.”

       Reverend Paul could see that, after all of the drama, he wouldn’t be able to hold their attention much longer. He quickly moved to the “burial” of the urn, though the marker was not yet made and the ashes were not yet inside the urn.  As he uttered the final prayers, the family left, followed by the rest of the mourners.

     

cri de coeur

     And then young Kate was walking up to the podium. She was a budding rose, thought Merideth, to her mother’s full blown flower. And the other Catherine? The widow? Maybe one of those white, waxy looking hybrids, like a gardenia without the smell. 

       "Baruch atah Adonai,” intoned Kate.  Reverend Paul looked startled, but most of her audience seemed just plain puzzled by the Hebrew words.  The girl seemed tense but composed. She glanced at a piece of paper in her hand, and then looked out.

      “Soon after my father died—was killed—someone asked me what kind of man he was. I was not thinking clearly at the time, and I said something about his artistic gifts—and he certainly had those—and his generosity and his great love and loyalty for his family, and his temper. He had one of those too! Usually it erupted when he felt that someone was being unfair—not to him, so much, as to others. He despised prejudice—whether because of sex, race, religion, nation of origin, social class—and tried to break it down wherever he encountered it, in his business and in his daily dealings with people.

     “But it occurs to me that the most fundamental aspect of the way he thinks about things—thought about things—is that he was always searching for patterns. He finds, found, meaning in symmetry from fractals to the periodic table, from ocean currents to the whorl of petals on a wildflower, from a quartz crystal to a brick wall. He was fascinated by this stuff. This was how he built things—like computer chips and houses and businesses—from seeing how one piece made a pattern in the whole.

    “And he was like this about people too. He did not see people as isolated individuals, but as a mosaic of interlocking families and communities. Block Island fascinated him because of this. He was interested in the way the old families were related to one another, how they interlocked and interacted with the newcomers and the tourists who sustained them. How they fit into the wider world. His vision of the Island probably looked something like one of his almost diagrammatic pencil drawings, a combination of tiny shapes that, taken as a whole, shows not only a web of connections, but a schematic overview that takes on a whole different shape.

      “My point is, yes, he was my father, and I loved him and many of us will miss him, but my point is, this occasion—right here, right now!— is greater than my personal grief.

     “My father saw something wrong in the patterns here. And that something is what got him killed. Because he was the kind of man who would try to fix whatever was messing up the pattern.

     “So I ask you, in his memory, to find the break in the web. Find the flaw, the sour note, the rip tide, the anomaly, that he saw and most likely confronted. I know this is not supposed to be what you talk about at a funeral service, but if you love him or care for him, if you love your island, heal it.

    “That would be the best memorial for Malcolm Samuel Addams, born to Lenny and Ruth Addams in New Rochelle, New York, on February 14, 1947. Died on May 29^th of this year. On Block Island, of all the places he had lived, the place he loved the best and had chosen to spend the rest of his life in, in search of community and renewal and the beautiful, natural, rhythms of life here.

    "Baruch atah Adonai.” She took the black ribbon off her shoulder, tore it in half and threw it on the ground, picked up the piece of paper she had not consulted since she began speaking and went back to her seat.

     “I am so proud of my daughter,” said Kat quietly. Tears were running down her face. “And, yes, she is his daughter too.”

in memorium

All three C/Katherines burst into tears.

     Merideth looked behind her. The hammering had been so well timed, she was suspicious that the TV crew had ordered it up. But they looked as bewattled as the rest of the assembled mourners. The sound seemed to be coming from the direction of the middle-income housing project.  She handed Kat a Kleenex.

     Meredith wondered whether the TV people had miked the podium. Were they even allowed to? Was this a public event?  She watched her son slip off, presumably to find out who was nailing and tell them to knock it off.

      Reverend Paul waited until the noise stopped, and then went off script. “People do terrible things to other people. A terrible thing was done to Malcolm Addams. We are grieving him today.” He gripped the podium. “But we should also grieve for the person who did this horrific thing, who has lost his humanity. We may not be able to personally bring him to justice. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.  But this soul-eating crime will be punished, now and in the hereafter. And his life will be as a vale of tears. Let us pray for his salvation in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

    The minister was showing his fundamentalist roots, Meredith thought. She did not doubt his instructions were to keep it ecumenical and light on Jesus.  She saw Bobby lean forward and whisper something to Kate. The Katherine next to her blew her nose with no regard for her makeup. Reverend Paul went on praying for some considerable period of time. Meredith stopped listening and started wondering how someone in the audience could have signaled to someone else with a nailgun and timed the interruption so perfectly. Text on a cellphone? From where she sat, she couldn’t see anyone tapping on their phones.

nail gun salute

Martha’s cab pulled up near the TV camera, and everybody turned around.  A handsome young man got out and opened the door for the Widow Addams.  She took his arm. As they got closer, Merideth was sure she had seen him before, but couldn’t think where. Then she looked at the two faces, as alike as two peas in a pod. No wonder she thought she’d seen him somewhere. They could have been identical twins had they not been male and female.  You couldn’t have identical twins in different sexes, Merideth assured herself. Well, maybe if one of them had a sex change. Certainly siblings; probably twins. The black suits they were each wearing set off their gilt hair, hers just a trace longer than his. But her face was set in unmistakable and unfakeable sadness, while his was serene.

      Behind Danny’s cab, she saw Bobby pull up, and another brother and sister get out. Kate and Bill were both dark, with those silvery eyes, and not particularly tall. They too were very good looking. But they did not have the almost symbiotic appearance of the other siblings. She was not clinging to his arm. Bill was wearing khakis and a navy blazer, and Kate was wearing a black tunic and leggings. She had a black ribbon pinned to her shoulder.

      The two couples sat down. As Reverend Paul began an opening prayer, Merideth peeked and saw Bobby walk around the chairs to take a seat behind Kate. And then Katherine the First sat down next to her.

      “Lord, the shadow of death has fallen over us. Be with the Addams family in this time. Comfort them with your presence. Let them see the light of hope,” Reverend Paul intoned.
        As he said “Amen,” the ratatat of what could only be nail guns echoed through the cemetery.

settling

     She knew almost everyone else there. Chairs had been set up, the same white plastic ones that would see a lot of use during wedding season, which was coming right up. She couldn’t remember seeing chairs in the cemetery before, but it made sense if there was going to be speaking. They called this a memorial service rather than a funeral. More agnostic, she guessed. She sat down on a chair in the back row. The front row was empty, awaiting the family members.

     There was a podium in front.  It was banked with flower arrangements to either side. All hothouse flowers, thought the President of the Garden Club. Nothing like the tasteful arrangement of seasonal—well on the mainland if not here—peonies and hydrangeas she herself had sent.  Reverend Paul sat in a chair to the side. He knew where his bread was buttered, Merideth thought. The church roof. And there was that foundation issue. The church wasn’t built on sand, exactly, but the rocks surely needed work.

    Half the island had turned out, it seemed like.  There were even some people standing. The old folks always turned out for funerals, but in this case it was also the sensational quality of the death. “Oh my goodness!” Merideth muttered. “Its Young Earl!” He had cleaned up nicely and was wearing a suit and tie. He sat down as far away from Merideth as he could get in the back row. She watched her son make his way through the hedgerow to stand in the back. In uniform, for once. He looked good in it, she thought complacently.

     They waited for a while. The day, for once, was calm. The faint sound of a lawn mower merged with the twitter of birds and the low voices of people gossipping. Merideth glanced over at Earl. He was chatting with a hippyish young woman she recognized as a frequent clam digger in the pond.  Seemed chummy with Earl.

death by nail gun

The President of the Garden Club checked herself in the rear view mirror. The white hat with its black grosgrain ribbon looked right and went nicely with the black and white print linen dress and spectator pumps. She wondered if maybe the wisp of black veil wasn’t a little too too. Oh well. And she damn well wasn’t going to wear the sunglasses the cataract surgeon had said not to leave home without. So rude, to cover your eyes. Especially at a funeral.

    There was a packet of Kleenexes in her purse—not that she expected to weep for this man she had had one conversation with. But she could weep for poor Kate and her brother, who didn’t yet know that they’d lost not only their father but their own sense of immortality. They were still too stunned by the violence and the suddenness of it all.

     Unless, of course, one of them was responsible. The brother, now, he was a bit of narcissist and angry with his father. And the girl—hard to know with girls. She seemed to love her father but had insisted on taking up with Bobby against his wishes. A rival father figure. Love could get twisted. She could have hired someone. She could be in need of money. Well, that could go for the boy, too. Or Kat. One thing she’d learned about people over all these years: one never knew.

    She’d better get going. Never pleasant, these events. And there seemed to be more and more of them all the time.  She dropped the key to the SUV CK into the glove box and got out, smoothing her skirt to make sure it wasn’t hiked up over the derriere.

     Oh, and there was a man with a TV camera over by the triangle in the road. He’d set up on a tripod, and a young blonde woman was checking her makeup. Of course, thought Merideth. The last time TV people had flocked to the island was when one of the Kennedys got married at the Catholic church. Now it was Death by Nailgun, as Islanders were calling it. Though it hadn’t been, of course.

the dead yard

  Chief Joseph looked down over the cemetery. Great Salt Pond glittered in the morning sun. Still not many boats in the harbor. Too early in the season. Even with the drug busts and beach parties, the bike wrecks and drunk and disorderlies, he was kind of looking forward to season. It was, frankly, boring in the winter with nothing but the occasional domestic or overdose—and all of those fraught because he knew everyone. For weeks he had nothing to do but paperwork.

     He had parked his car on a dirt road behind a strip of trees, so it was unlikely anyone at the funeral would notice him yet. The press had seen him drive up. They had staked the place out first thing in the morning, when the chairs were being set up. He should have known they would be there. People were already calling it “The Nailgun Murder.” It wasn’t, according to the autopsy report. Death had been caused by a bullet through the eye and one through the heart. Bullets from a gun like the Glock that had been found at Bobby’s  shack. The tests would soon show whether it was that Glock. At a guess, it would be.

     He had offered his mother a ride, but she said she preferred not to be associated with the police presence. The first wife had apparently showed up without telling her kids. Fishy, he thought. Here to make sure he was dead? Crow over the body? Well—ashes. Make sure her children got what was coming to them in the will? He wished he knew what was in that will. Hadn’t been submitted for probate yet. Lot of money there. Too much. Though he’d seen families fight over a coffee pot. Didn’t really matter how much there was, it was the love they were fighting over. His wife Katie’s family, now. Good example. Might be better to have only one kid. That way when you die there’s no question of who gets grandma’s china. Well, unless you married a younger woman like this rich guy did. And big money could lead to big problems. Like, maybe, murder.

dead-eye's

     Merideth sipped her house red and watched the other two. Kat was drinking her second martini, to no visible effect. Bobby was still nursing his first draft beer.

     “So what should we do?” Kat asked.

     “We?” Merideth thought. It had become “we” awfully quickly. “I was planning to go to the service tomorrow,” she said. “After all, the poor man was killed in my yahd! “

      “Or nearby, anyway,” said Bobby.

     “Well of course I’m going. That’s why I came out here! The man was my husband for twenty years, whatever happened after that.”

       “I imagine Kate will want me to come with her,” said Bobby.

       “She has her brother,” said Merideth.

       “Well we’ll see,” said Bobby.

      “The kids are going to faint,” said Kat. “I’ll try to stay in the background.”

      “And then what?” Merideth looked at her.

       Kat toyed with the lobster tail she hadn’t eaten but a bite or two of.  Probably rubbery, Merideth figured. Nobody in town could cook a decent lobster.

     “I don’t know. I’ll have to figure it out as I go along. I just want some kind of closure.”

       “That will be difficult to attain if we don’t figure out who killed your ex husband,” said Merideth.

the ex-wife

“I loved him, you know.” Kat set her teacup down with a click. Too much of a click.

    “You must have,” said Merideth. “You have two children who are part Malcolm.”

      “They should have told me that he died, that they were coming here.”

      Merideth nodded. “They should have. We are old enough to know that. But they were afraid of hurting you.”

     “Wusses,” said Kat.

     “How did you find out?” asked Bobby.

     “Google. How else? I have an automatic search that turns up references to Malcolm. I started it when he began to sell off assets. They used to be my assets too. He is a fairly well known personality—has been for years. Less so now. I wasn’t expecting a news item about his murder. It was only in the Block Island Times. I don’t know how the national press hasn’t picked it up.”

      “Memorial Day weekend. Probably not in the office,” said Merideth. “What are you going to do now?”

       “I don’t know,” said Kat. “What I want to do is have a stiff drink and talk about it. Can I take you two out to dinner?”

       “Merry?”

       “Well, thank you kindly.  Let me just put my face on. Would you like to freshen up, Kat?”

     “I’ll use your bathroom, if I may.”

     “There’s a powder room over there,” said Merideth. I’ll be right back.”

      Kat reappeared, looking perhaps a little smoother than before, thought Bobby, but not much.  She had been smooth to begin with. Her hair was blond with silver temples and streaks, apparently natural. She was wearing it in kind of a bun, so it was hard to know how long it was. She was slender, like her daughter—and her successor—but not as greyhound-tense as Malcolm’s thirdCK wife. Softer. The silver eyes she had bequeathed to her children were softer than theirs, as well. Or wearier. They had seen more unhappiness, likely. But the smile lines indicated that she hadn’t soured. She was wearing blue jeans, tight ones, not mom jeans, and a white T shirt. Light makeup. And an almost invisible gold chain with some kind of charm that dropped into her V-neck shirt between her breasts.

      “Where do you want to go?” Merideth had put on a red blazer that matched her lipstick, wrapped a jaunty print scarf around her neck and looked ready to take on the town.

     “Somewhere where we won’t run into the kids,” said Kat.

     “Better be, like, Eli’s or Dead Eye Dick’s then,” said Bobby. “Someplace expensive and grown up, not that we really expect you to pick up the tab.”

      “It was my idea,” said Kat. “And I still owe you for the tour.”

      “We’ll discuss that over dinner,” said Bobby.

Island Tour

“Hi, Bobby? This is the person you picked up earlier and drove to the Manisses. I was wondering if you had time to take me on the full island tour.”

    Bobby looked at his watch. Five o’clock. The next boat wasn’t due in for a while.  And there wouldn’t be any other island tours today. They paid better than waiting in line. “Sure. It’s $75 for the full treatment.”

   “I know. That’s fine. When can you pick me up?”

    “Five minutes?”

   “Okay. See you soon.”

   He pulled into the parking lot of the Manisses, got out and looked over at the hill. The kangaroos were hopping around. The yak was grazing.

   “Is that a camel?”

    He looked in the direction she was pointing. “Yep. It’s a kind of private zoo, though the owners let everyone look at the animals and feed them.“

    “I see a yak. Weird.”

    He looked at her. She wasn’t as old as he had thought. Her hair was prematurely gray, but she didn’t look any older than he was. Maybe younger.

     “Well you can walk down and look at the zoo any time,” he said. “Let’s hit the road. Why don’t you sit in the front of the van—you’ll be able to see better, and I won’t have to yell.”

     Over the years he had grown tired of his spiel—the Spring House and the spring, watercress blah blah, the Southeast Lighthouse moved back from the brink blah blah, the wind farm blah, and so on. He could do it in his sleep. So sometimes, to amuse himself, he made up stories to relate—how the island had once been floating and was towed out and anchored in its current position, how the original settlers were all from Fiji. People generally caught on and thought it was funny and they all had a good laugh. 

   But on this tour he was more interested in getting information than giving it. And his passenger seemed interested in getting information, too. Though the island didn’t seem to be the particular subject of her interest.

     “How did you wind up here on the island?” she asked, as he stopped near the bluff overlook.

     “Let’s walk out,” he said. “Don’t touch the bushes on either side of the path, they’re mostly poison ivy.”

    “So I see,” she said, in an I’m-not-an-idiot tone of voice.

    They walked single file to the overlook, a dangerous plunge to the beach below with a view of the deserted bluffs and coves to one side and the Southeast Light to the other.

     “I can see why you like it here,” she said.

    He looked at the windmills turning slowly. They looked huge, even though they were three miles offshore.

     “It’s very different now than when I got here. Thirty-some years ago now. I took a summer job as a bus boy when I was in school. Lived upstairs from the restaurant. Surfed all day, if there were any waves. Worked all night. The island was different then. Very short season. We were longing for tourists. More business, more tips. And it was isolated. No unlimited long distance, no cell phones, no Facebook. Just a bunch of misfits.”

     “And then?”

      They walked back to the van, and he held the door open for her. She got in, and he closed it. An old-world courtesy he performed mechanically.

     “And then?” she repeated when he sat down behind the wheel.

     “And then, and then, I graduated and went to Hawaii to surf bigger waves and work in different restaurants. And then I ate a lot of psychedelic mushrooms, and saw friends get ground into coral reefs and I became afraid of the water. And I washed up back here, where I knew the beaches and the breaks and the people and the climate and the rhythms. And I have never wanted to leave.”

     They drove past the rock at the entrance to Black Rock road. “Black Rock, the surfing beach, is down that way,” he said.

      “Why do they call it Black Rock? The rock isn’t black.”

     The rock, in fact, was gaudy colors of pink and aqua, with a couple of stuffed animals on top.

      “That’s not Black Rock, that’s the painted rock. Islanders decorate it when they get married or graduate or whatever. Black Rock is a rock in the water at the beach.”

    “Do you still surf?”

    “Once in a while. If the waves are perfect. But when it’s warm I’m mostly too busy driving.” He looked at her. “And what about you? Why did you come to the island?”

     “I’d heard about it for a long time. I used to know people here. I was curious. You hear the advertisements on NPR in Connecticut all the time. I just thought, why not sail away on the Block Island ferry?”

     He did not press her. Just waited.

     “And I’m glad I did. I’m learning a lot about what they see in the place.”

      They rode in silence for a while, broken only by Bobby’s occasional narrative.

     As they started down the hill towards Champlain’s marina, a moped zoomed up the hill going in the other direction. In the rear view mirror, Bobby saw Kate twist around to wave.

     “Oh my God,” said his passenger. “Those are my kids!”

     Bobby looked at her. “What is your name?”

     “Katherine Addams,” she whispered.

    “I thought so,” he said. “That makes three.”

    “People call me Kat.”

    “Well it’s out of the bag now.”  He circled at the bottom of the hill and drove slowly up. The moped was out of sight. “I want to introduce you to a friend of mine,” he said. “We need to have a chat.”

     “I guess we do,” she said.

the open sea

    He went wide around the North Light. There was a rip there that had taken more than one fisherman to his death. As they passed it, the wind hit them and the bow of the boat started banging against the chop. Bill’s eyes brightened and he opened up the throttle until the boat was hydroplaning over the waves. Kate put on one of the life preservers that had been issued with the rental boat. Bill saw her and laughed.

   “Scared, Kay?” he shouted. “I won’t sink us.”

   “Cold,” she shouted back. He certainly seemed to know how to drive the thing, but she was nervous. “I wasn’t dressed for this. Let’s go back.” He looked disappointed.

   He loved speed, the adrenaline rush it gave him. And danger. That was one of the things he liked about acting, especially on stage. The knowledge that something could go wrong at any time sharpened his focus. He could live in the moment, adrenaline buoying him.  He didn’t think about the past or the future, or himself and his life. He just had to surf the wave.

    Reluctantly he made a tight arc and headed back to the Cut. He shouldn’t have left Great Salt Pond anyway in a boat he didn’t know. He was no mechanic.