by Nick Pirog
As my waffles toasted, I started a cup of water heating in the microwave. I opened the front door and scampered the ten steps to the paper. It was already half drizzling, half snowing, and I had a feeling the storm was six hours ahead of schedule.
I sat down to the waffles and a cup of steaming apple cider and read the paper. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they read the paper. I was a comics, sports, weather, front page, Dow Jones, Jumble kind of guy. Alex had been a front-to-back kind of gal. Maybe that’s why it hadn’t worked out.
I retired back to the couch and turned on football. Detroit and Minnesota. One of them was winning. I was looking forward to John Madden’s Turkey Leg awards, but it turns out he wasn’t doing the game this year. Shucks.
I picked up a different remote and hit the stereo. Some stupid Shania Twain song was playing (you know the one, “The One I Want for Life”), and I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even think. I almost—I stress almost—started crying. And I’m fairly certain if there had been a gun in the house, I would have shot myself through the heart. I turned the stereo off.
So there I was, about an hour into my thirty-third Thanksgiving and it had already proven to be the worst yet. Well, the first one after my parents’ death was awful, but this one was giving it a run for its money.
I packed a bag, turned the heat off, hit all the lights, and recorded a new phone message. When I pulled the front door open, I was hit by a wall of cold. It was officially snowing now, and everything that wasn’t made of concrete was white. I took two steps, then froze. I pressed my ear to the door. The phone rang three more times before the answering machine picked up.
“If this is Lacy, I’ll call you in a couple days. If this isn’t Lacy, stick the phone in your mouth and swallow it.”
“Hi Thomas. It’s me. Listen—”
It was Alex.
I panicked. I couldn’t find my keys. Then I couldn’t find the right key. By the time I got the door open, Alex was long gone.
I made my way to the answering machine and peered down at the blinking red light. Time for a real gut check. I took a deep breath, picked up the machine, and threw it against the wall. I’d clean it up when I got back. If I ever got back.
Two hours later, I was at 37,000 feet.
Headed for Seattle.
Chapter 2
The cross-country journey from Bangor International to Chicago O’Hare and on to SeaTac took about seven and change. But I gained three hours during the flight, so when I landed the local time was just after 3:00 in the afternoon.
The weather was typical Seattle November: overcast, gloomy, with a light drizzle. No blizzard in these parts. Old Man Winter in the Northwest had Alzheimer’s. He got lost a lot. Mostly in Canada.
I hailed a taxi for the eighteen-mile trip north to Magnolia. A bit of Magnolia lore here: in 1856, Captain George Davidson of the US Coast Survey named the southern bluff overlooking Puget Sound for the magnolia trees growing along it. Had he been a better botanist, he would have clearly recognized the red-barked trees as madrones. The madrone is a shiny, dark green-leafed evergreen species that thrives on west-facing bluffs. The trees, which can reach heights of ninety feet, usually have a twisted, windblown shape. Anyhow, the surrounding community preferred the name Magnolia to Madrone and decided to keep Magnolia to identify the affluent, well-ordered, waterfront properties.
My parents’ house—I still had a problem calling it “my house”—was built on the westernmost bluff overlooking Puget Sound. It was too steep to build anywhere near the house so there wasn’t anything within a quarter mile in either direction. The main concern was landslides, the wet soil building up over time, the vegetation slowly losing its tenacity in the soft earth. It was a miracle the house hadn’t slipped into the Sound years ago as many of its brethren had.
The house was built in 1964. It was a monolith then, a work of art. But then, so once was the Coliseum. When my parents bought it, they began a slow overhaul, gutting it from the inside out. There had been plans for a total facelift, a new kitchen, hardwood floors, upgraded plumbing. But my parents never got around to it. Then it was too late.
The cabbie pulled up alongside the expansive wrought iron fence surrounding the large estate. He wished me a happy Thanksgiving, and I tipped him an extra twenty. When I said I’d packed a bag, I failed to mention I’d packed only a small carry-on of the essentials: contact solution, shampoo, conditioner, mouthwash, and a couple other things, all of which had been red-flagged at airport security because some science wizard had decided three ounces was the magic number. Apparently, three ounces of acid, anthrax, or whatever these zealots make in their caves wasn’t going to harm anyone. But four ounces…
So basically, I had the clothes on my back—my favorite pair of jeans and a black T-shirt over a long-sleeve thermal—a rarely-used cell phone, and my wallet.
I pushed through the rusted gate and ambled up the long drive. The once neatly-manicured yard was overgrown with weeds and other debris. Dark vegetation sprung from every crack and fissure of the dilapidated drive. As for the house, the wet Pacific climate and harsh ocean air hadn’t been kind in my absence. The five thousand-square-foot Victorian was a combination of rust and sodium-lime deposits. Brown meets green. Almost as if some pesky kids had unloaded on the house with a barrage of aged avocados. Thick foliage had attacked the house from every angle, crawling up, around, and through the gray brick.
Vines spider-webbed across the front door like organic crime scene tape. I cut these away with my keys. The door had warped to the frame so I had to literally kick it in. It gave on the second try, and a wave of musty air washed over me.
I took a step inside the foyer and stopped. I hadn’t touched anything in the wake of my parents’ deaths. I’d just left. Fled. Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt where people wash their clothes, get sick from drinking the water, get bitten by snakes, get eaten by hippos, contract malaria, West Nile, or worse.
There was a small table to my immediate left. A pink vase was at its center, the remnants of a paper-thin stem silently listing over the porcelain edge. I ran my finger over the table, the years of dust coloring my finger a thick black.
I left the front door open and entered a small hallway. I took two steps, my shoes sinking into the inch-long shag. Lowering down to my haunches, I dug my fingers into the long green tendrils. The carpet was reminiscent of the second cut at Augusta, and when I was young, my father and I would take turns setting up golf holes throughout the house. We’d grab our nine irons, a putter, and a couple of those white plastic golf balls and proceed to drive my mom about insane. I stood up, the popping of my knees masking my deep exhale.
Walking forward, I traced my fingers against the eggshell brown walls which had been an eggshell white last I remembered. I came to a set of two doors: one leading to the basement, the other to a bathroom. I poked my head into the bathroom and flipped the light. The two seventy-watt bulbs were clouded with dust and barely illuminated the small room. Evidently, someone—or some financial entity—was keeping up on the bills. The floral wallpaper had begun to peel in many places, its glue well into its late thirties. I heard a soft noise and peered down at the small sink. Water slowly beaded around the head of the faucet before giving way to a single tear.
I shook my head. Those tears could have filled a swimming pool over the course of the last eight years.
I turned the faucet on. After five seconds, a loud rattle shook the foundation of the large house. The pipes screamed and the house shuddered. I held on to the door frame.
It would be slightly ironic if I’d left for eight years, come back for less than an hour, and the house slid into Puget Sound. Or would that just be a terrible coincidence? Or just unfortunate?
The rattling slowly began to subside, and after what seemed like a full minute, water spurted from the faucet. It was brown. I turned the water off.
I spent the next half hour reacquainting myse
lf with the old house. Pick your cliché. I took a ride down memory lane. Home is where you hang your hat. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. You can’t put toothpaste back in the tube. Even a blind squirrel finds an acorn every once in a while. Too many chiefs and not enough Indians.
Okay, so maybe those last few weren’t exactly relevant, but you get my drift.
I made my way into the kitchen. There were a couple cardboard boxes strewn about the linoleum. A roll of packaging tape and a black Sharpie rested on the island centering the small kitchen. Just above the stove was a round clock. I’d bought it for my parents for Christmas three years before they’d died. It was from Brookstone. Kinetic. The hour hand was halfway between the four and the five. Let’s see here, plane landed at just after three, half hour drive, hour or so poking around. Yep, I’d say that was the best thirty bucks I ever spent.
I pulled open the refrigerator, picked up the milk, and read the expiration date: 13APR02. It was green and it said, “Where ya been, Thomas?”
I’m lying, of course. The fridge was empty.
I rummaged through the cabinets. There was a lot of canned stuff, lots of nonperishables, and lots of other things you see in those Thanksgiving donation barrels. I picked up a can of beets and pondered the irony of the situation.
Anyhow, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and turned it on. There were only a handful of people—and by handful, I mean less than five—who had my cell phone number. I believe the last call I’d made was to my dean at the university telling him I wouldn’t be returning to work the following semester. That call had been sometime in early June. In the months since, I’d had all of five missed calls and three voice mails. I scrolled through the five calls. They were all from Alex. Two calls were in October, two in early November, and the last just hours earlier. Being that I was once a detective—albeit a second-rate one—I deduced the messages were also from Alex.
Still got it.
As for Alex, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to hear what she had to say. As much as I loved her—and I still did—I could never take a girl back who’d dumped me. It’s a pride thing. But maybe that isn’t why she’d called. Maybe she wanted her Fried Green Tomatoes DVD back.
I picked up the black marker off the center island and wrote on my palm, “She dumped you for a fucking stockbroker.” Underneath this I scribbled “toothpaste” and “contact solution.”
I located one of the old phone books and, after a couple unsuccessful attempts, found a pizza joint still in service. I inquired if I was the only person to order a pizza on Thanksgiving. The guy informed me that there were a couple others.
At five the pizza came. I grabbed a slice and headed out to the narrow balcony off the kitchen. The sky was a deep gray from which a light drizzle steadily dripped. The sun was preparing for its descent in my right viewfinder, undressing layers of pinks and oranges behind the clouds’ satin curtain. A distant island was thinly traced into the horizon on the far left, and I remember my father telling me it was Japan. I’m still not sure if it was or wasn’t. Straight down from the balcony was a thicket of tall, windswept madrones, then black rock, then rippling Sound. It was all very melancholy if you ask me.
I rested my elbows on the railing, ate pizza, and watched the sun lower its landing gear. There was a port a half mile south and I watched as a colossal freighter made its lackluster final stretch. It rode high on the black water, inching across the gray horizon. The ship had traveled thousands of miles and here I was witnessing its last steps. Such is life. I spent the next couple minutes thinking deep philosophical thoughts brought on by a stupid boat, the SS Aristotle. I thought about where the SS Prescott was in its voyage. And what freight it would carry. How it got here and where it was going. I thought about Alex. Was she cargo? Or was she one of these rogue waves I kept hearing about?
A vibration in my pocket startled me out of my rumination. Staring at the screen, I fought the urge to flip the phone open. It pulsed four times then relaxed, then pulsed again two minutes later notifying me I had a new message. Must be some message. But then again, Alex loved Kathy Bates.
I stared at the phone for a solid minute, then reared back and hucked it at the setting sun. For a brief moment I thought it would reach the rippling black water. But it lost velocity, splattering against the rocky shore, its ashes quickly swept away by the incoming tide.
Bye, Alex.
I rubbed my right shoulder and peered over the edge of the balcony then I leaned down and squinted hard. Something was floating in the water. It would hit the black rocks then be sucked back into the channel with each ebb and flow. The white water receded into the black rocks, and I was granted a quick glimpse of arms and long black hair.
It was a woman.
Chapter 3
I should mention that in another life I’d been a homicide detective. So I’d seen my fair share of dead bodies. In fact, I’d seen most people’s fair shares of dead bodies. For the last four years of my career I’d been a Special Contract Agent to the FBI’s Violent Crime Unit. In a nutshell, I outsourced my skills, instincts, cleverness, and good looks to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Half the time I was working hand-in-hand with the FBI—Fruitdicks, Backstabbers, and Impersonators—the other half I was getting yelled at by them.
Then I went and got killed. But, as you can see, I’m not dead, thanks to some stubborn doctors, a couple of electricity-charged paddles, and eight pints of somebody else’s blood.
I bought a quiet house in Maine—wheelchair accessible, of course—and opted for early retirement. I kept myself peripherally related to the world of law enforcement by teaching an intro-level criminology class at the local university. But I’d lost my passion for this as well. I’d lived my life by the age-old axiom: “Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.” But all I wanted to do was sit on my couch. Without the job, I wasn’t really sure who I was. I was defined by the job. I think this may have contributed to Alex leaving me for a day trader, but then again, I might just be Monday morning relationshipping.
But now, here I was, and the last thing I wanted to see was exactly what was staring me in the face this very second. A dead woman washed up on a piece of remote coastline that just happened to make up my backyard.
For Pete’s sake.
There were two routes to the water. Route A was a straight shot down four hundred vertical feet. If you did it right, you could get to the water in about five minutes, but one missed step and you were shark bait. Route B had you walking a half mile south to a scenic overlook. One of those places where they have binocular posts bolted to the ground. Most afternoons a decent crowd of tourists could be seen patiently awaiting their turn to drop fifty cents into one of the binoculars for their chance to catch a glimpse of a whale tail or a bald eagle through the foggy lenses. Enough people had made the trek from the viewing platform to the rocks below that a trail had formed, which eventually led to the crescent-shaped cove directly beneath my house.
I decided on route A. I braced myself against two trees and started down. If I could go back and do it all over again, I would have done a few things differently. One, I wouldn’t have turned off that football game. Two, I’d have thrown a sinker instead of a fastball. And three, I would have taken route B.
As I continued down the treacherous path to the water, I contemplated a couple possible scenarios. People died on the water frequently. In the two years I lived in Maine, there were nine separate occurrences when someone died in the water. Or at the hands of it. Things were a bit different here on the Sound where there weren’t quite as many recreational boaters. The main concern here was fishing boats and ferries, with your occasional scuba diver. Now the Sound isn’t exactly the Bering Sea, but it is connected to the Bering Sea, and the water temperature was still in the mid-forties. This means if you did happen to fall off a boat—or were pushed for that matter—you had about seven minutes to get your ass out of the water. So logic told us the woman died by accident or in
some other benign fashion. But, logic is overrated.
Granted, I’d only seen the body for a split second, and I was gazing down from 400 vertical feet above, and the sun was setting in my eyes, and my contact prescription was three years old, and I’d once mistaken a 300-pound elk for a mailbox. But my instincts told me this was no accident.
This conjecture was based solely on the fact that the woman appeared to be naked. In the summer months on the Penobscot, it was swim trunks, a polo, and docksides for the men. Women were a bit more loosely clad: a skirt and a blouse with the optional bikini underneath, maybe even a thin sweater or jacket. But this was Puget Sound in November. If it wasn’t raining, then it was cold, the average high for the month around fifty. Typically, the attire for both men and women was a windbreaker, jeans, boots, and gloves, with optional thermal underwear.
But then again, maybe this woman was a light dresser. Maybe she was menopausal and she’d just had a hot flash. Maybe she’d ripped her clothes off as she thrashed about in the cold water. Or maybe she’d been going at it with Él Capîtan and slipped and fell off the edge. Who knows?
Anyhow, the trees gave way to the black rock and I slowly began lowering myself down the steep bluff. It was far from a sheer drop-off, the grade about the same as the steps in a football stadium. Except instead of steps there was jagged quartzite, and instead of falling into the arms of a drunken fan, you fell into the teeth of an angry shark.
As I mentioned before, the area directly behind my house was shaped like a crescent. It was a stretch of rock separated by two bluffs which my mother had referred to as Prescott Cove. I should also point out that whereas along other parts of the shore the water lapped nonchalantly against the banks, the water in Prescott Cove was white and angry. Which, if you’d known my father, might have been another reason it got its name.
I stopped to get my bearings at a relatively flat section of rock twenty vertical feet above the crashing surf. It was high tide and the small, powerful waves came in six-second intervals. The waves would sweep in high on the faces of the opposing bluffs a milky white, two separate forces destined for a head-on collision. And then they would become one, sending a violent surge of white water high into the air. Droplets of spray found me, as well as the stark revelation that my present undertaking was a bad, bad, bad idea.
