What I Thought Was True

by Huntley Fitzpatrick

  “Perhaps a refill for him, Gwen? Now, dear boy, why are you here? If it is in regard to the bills, those all go to my son Henry.”

  “It’s not that,” Cass says swiftly. “I’m here to boil your lobsters.”

  My head whips around sharply.

  “We’ve been looking to expand our list of services,” he continues, calm and reasonable. “Competitive times and all that.” His eyes cut to mine and then away again.

  “Really?” Mrs. Ellington moves closer, as though he’s a magnet with an irresistible pull. “How so?”

  “Well . . . um, seems as though the yard boy usually just mows and weeds. And”—Cass takes a long slug of iced tea—“I think . . . there’s room for more. Dog walking. Grocery runs. Um . . .” He looks up briefly at the ceiling as though reading words off it. “Swimming lessons.”

  “Enterprising!” Mrs. Ellington exclaims.

  Cass tosses her another smile, and then continues. “When I saw Gwen here heading over with your, uh, dinner, I thought it might be a good time to show you my technique.”

  “You have a technique?” Mrs. Ellington clasps her hands under her chin, a happy child at a birthday party. “How accomplished! I wasn’t aware there was any such thing with regard to lobsters.”

  “Technique might not be the right word,” Cass says. “Where’s your lobster pot?” He asks this with total assurance, like every kitchen in New England has such a thing. But yes, Mrs. Ellington does, the exact same huge, spattered black-and-white enamelware one we have at home. He pulls it out of the cabinet she opened for him and takes it to the sink, totally at home, practically toeing off his shoes and kicking back on the couch.

  “You know,” I say, struggling to keep my voice level, “I can do this. You don’t need to—”

  “Sure you can, Gwen. But I’m here.”

  I think my eyes actually bug out. Him being here is exactly the problem. But this is still sort of a job interview; it’s not like I can arm-wrestle him for the lobsters.

  He fills the pot with cold water and sets it on the stove, turning the gas up high, talking rapidly all the while. “Technique implies finesse—or skill. This isn’t really that. It’s just . . .” He fiddles with the knob, concentrating on lowering the flame. “Some people get bothered by the idea of cooking something alive, you know. Plus, lobsters can make that screaming sound—I’ve heard it doesn’t really mean anything, and their nervous systems aren’t well-developed enough to feel pain—their brains are the size of a ballpoint pen tip, but . . . it can still bother some people.”

  Oh, yes, thanks for rescuing me, Cass. I’m just so squeamish.

  I don’t want to kill lobsters. But I can.

  “Indeed,” Mrs. Ellington says. “I always made a point of leaving the kitchen when Cook boiled lobsters. Or chopped the heads off fish.” She shudders reminiscently.

  Cass flashes that melting smile at her again. All charm—the kind that pulls you in as surely as a hand in yours, and can hold you back just as firmly, leaving you wondering which is real, which Cass is true. As I think this, he glances over at me, straight into my eyes this time, and I’m taken aback by the expression in his. Readable for once, not guarded the way it’s been since March.

  Direct.

  Deliberate.

  Challenging.

  I turn away, open the refrigerator, take out the bag of lobsters, pulling it close to my chest. He reaches for it and I hold on tighter. He pulls, gently, looking at me quizzically to see if I really will challenge him for possession of a bag of shellfish.

  I let go.

  “Thanks, Gwen.” His voice is casual. “So, yeah, some people put the lobsters in the freezer for a while to numb them out. But that doesn’t seem all that much more humane than the heat, does it?”

  He disentangles Grandpa Ben’s rope-mesh sack and sets the wrinkled brown paper bag that was inside it on the table. One huge claw immediately gropes out, clunking on the wooden island. Despite a stint in the Sub-Zero, Lobster A has not lost its mighty will-to-live.

  “They say,” Cass continues, dipping his hand into the bag, “that if you kill the lobster too far ahead of time, it gets all tough and then it’s no good for eating.”

  He twists Lobster A right and left to avoid its clinging claws. “Look away, Gwen.”

  I’m not used to the note of command in that laid-back voice and instantly fix my gaze out the window on the beach plum’s fuchsia blossoms, then shake myself. “I can handle this,” I repeat to Cass. Then, trying to sound brisk and casual: “It’s in my blood, remember?”

  “There,” he says, ignoring me. “Just a quick knife to the brain and then into the very hot water. No time to feel a thing.”

  Mrs. Ellington claps her hands. “That does relieve my mind. It seems to work. No waving claws. None of that awful sound.”

  “I’m done now, Gwen. You can look.” It’s an aside. Quiet, not mocking.

  “I am looking,” I mutter, feeling suddenly adrift.

  “These guys are, what, one-and-a-half-pounders? So fourteen minutes or so.” He reaches for the egg-shaped timer on the stovetop, deftly twists it. “I can stay and take ’em out if you like.”

  I clear my throat. “You can go. I’m fine. I’ll take it from here.”

  “You are a marvel, young man!” says Mrs. Ellington. “I am delighted by Seashell Services’ new policy. Dare I hope you also clean fish?”

  “I do whatever needs doing.” Cass flicks me a quick glance, then grins at her again, that wide, slightly lopsided smile that creases the corners of his eyes. “Thanks for the iced tea. It was the best I’ve ever had. See you later, Mrs. Ellington.”

  He crumples the soggy brown lobster bag and tosses it to the trash can. It bounces off the side. Without looking at us, he scoops it up, drops it directly in, then turns down the hall.

  His “Bye Gwen” is so quiet it’s barely a whisper. But I hear it.

  “What a kind young man,” Mrs. Ellington says. “Handsome too.”

  I examine the lobsters bobbling in the water, now vivid red and motionless, and stare at the ticking timer. With ten minutes to go, I pour Mrs. Ellington more tea and start on Grandpa Ben’s sauce. She watches, bright-eyed and interested, murmuring occasional comments. “Oh yes, of course. How could I have forgotten the sour cream? Dear Ben Cruz had this down to a science.”

  I’ll have to ask Grandpa Ben how it is that Mrs. Ellington knows his secret recipe for lobster salad. Sauce finished, I dump the rosy lobsters into a colander, running cold water over them and hoping it’ll cool me down too. I feel weirdly off balance.

  “These will be perfect for lunch tomorrow,” I tell Mrs. E. over my shoulder, trying to sound breezy. “Unless you want them for dinner tonight, in which case I can make a butter sauce. Or hollandaise.”

  “Oh no!” she says. “I want Ben’s lovely sauce with chilled lobster. I will make do tonight. In fact.” She cocks her head, then calls out, “Joy!”

  Just as I’m worried she’s lost her mind for real, the door opens and a tired-looking woman in hospital scrubs comes in from the carport. “Yuh-huh, Mrs. El? I’m here.”

  “Well hello, Joy! This is Guinevere Castle, who is to keep me out of mischief during the day. Gwen, this is my night nurse. Joy, will you show her out? I find myself a bit fatigued with all the excitement of the day.”

  Joy leads the way through the porch hallway into the carport, hauling her gray hoodie off over her head and hanging it on a hook on the wall. “So you’re the babysitter.”

  That word makes me uncomfortable. “I’m here to keep Mrs. Ellington company during the day, yes.”

  Joy grunts. “You’ll be getting the same amount of money I am, without medical training. Makes no sense. That son of hers has more cash than brains, if you ask me.”

  I don’t really know what to say to that, so I stay quiet.

  “She needs a trained nurse twenty-four/seven, after a fall like that. Could easily have been a broken hip, and at her age that can be th
e beginning of the end, but the family just won’t accept it. I got no patience with them.”

  Maybe you shouldn’t work here then, I think, and then want to scratch the thought out. Here on island, how many of us have a choice, really? Joy opens the latticed screen door to the carport and I walk out, grateful our shifts won’t coincide much.

  Outside, I halt, listening. Over the soft roar and shush of the waves, I hear the lawn mower thrumming again, farther down Low Road. Even though it’s the longer way home, I turn uphill in the direction of High Road.

  How am I going to get through a whole summer of constant Cass? I’ll have to ask Marco and Tony what his schedule is . . . Right. “Tony? Marco? Your yard boy’s a little too hot for me to handle, and now he’s getting on my nerves too, so if you wouldn’t mind ordering him to wear a shirt? Grow some unsightly facial hair, pack on a few pounds, and stay clear of Mrs. E.’s? Thanks a bunch.”

  I pick up my pace, and then turn into the small, beaten-down clearing in the Green Woods at the bend in the road. Maple trees arch and curl their branches over me, making the path a tunnel. The air smells earthy and tangy green. These woods have been the same for hundreds of years. When we were little, Nic, Vivie, and I used to play a game where we were the Quinnipiacs, the first people to live on Seashell. We tried to tread soundlessly in the forest, one foot in front of another, not even snapping a twig. Now a turn by a twisted branch, then another by an old stone shaped like a witch’s hat, and I’m out in the open again, by the rushing creek that runs into the ocean, cleared only by a bridge so old that the wood is silver and the nails rusty dark red. I climb to the apex of the bridge, look down at the water, clear enough to see the stones at the bottom but deep enough to be well over my head. I shuck off the T-shirt I’m wearing over my black sports bra, kick off my sneakers, climb to the highest point of the bridge, and jump.

  Chapter Six

  The water is an icy shock, stripping away any fears or feelings. I blast up toward the surface, emerge, take a deep, gasping breath of air, then plunge back down into the cold depths, push off from the pebbly bottom, flip toward the surface, turn on my back, eyes closed, lazily breathing in the difference between the icy water and the still, summer air.

  Rising in me, I know, is what I’ve been trying to avoid. For months. I open my eyes, let the memory lap at the edges of my thoughts, then close them again, and give in.

  They call it the Polar Bear Plunge, which doesn’t really make sense because it’s held in the spring—and here in Connecticut, polar bears are pretty damn scarce.

  But ocean water in March in Connecticut is the stuff of hypothermia. And the Polar Bear Plunge is Stony Bay High Athletic Department’s big spring fundraiser. There’s always a bonfire, and the cheerleaders and the PTO bring hot cider and yell encouragements as the athletes run into the icy water. Parents and people from town show up—to bet on who stays in the water longest, who will swim out farthest. This year, since Vivien was cheer captain and Nic was on the swim team, which I’d been timing for all year, I got up at seven a.m. and went with them to watch.

  The morning was blinding bright and extra cold. There’d been one of those freakish heavy coastal snowstorms the week before, and patches of snow still drifted in the tall sea oats. I wanted to stay in Vivien’s warm car with the heat on nuclear, but Nic was in swim trunks and Vivie wearing her skimpy cheer outfit with only Nic’s sweatshirt pulled over it. So I got out and stood by the bonfire in the name of supporting the football team, the field hockey team, the soccer team, the baseball team, the basketball team, and the swim team.

  Plenty of show-offs all around, stripping down and striking muscle or cheesecake poses to hoots and whistles from the well-bundled crowd. Hooper, though small, was speedy and mighty confident for a skinny, pale guy. Ugh, and he was wearing a Speedo. Gross, Hoop.

  I clasped my fingers around a foam cup of cider, blowing into it to feel the warm steam on my face, then heard a rustle of movement next to me, felt this prickle of awareness across my skin, and turned. It was Cass. He’d shucked off his parka and shirt and was now unbuttoning the top of his faded jeans, revealing navy swim trunks.

  I expected him to be out putting on a show like the others. Even Nic, hardly an exhibitionist, swirled his sweatshirt on a finger with a grin before tossing it to Vivien. But Cass was alone, quietly undressing. Right next to me.

  I assumed he didn’t realize who I was. I’d grabbed Mom’s parka on the way out the door, and with the hood tipped up I had all the sex appeal of the Goodyear Blimp.

  He hesitated, then kicked his pants and the rest of his discarded clothes into a pile farther from the fire.

  “Bet on me, Gwen?”

  I looked at him. Shivered. Shook my head.

  “You should. Nic and Spence are the flashy ones with all the strokes, but I’m all about going the distance. And endurance.”

  “I’m not the betting kind.” I took a sip of my cider, breathed in the apple-cinnamon-scented steam, added quietly, “Good luck.”

  He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, then shook his head and loped off. I tried unsuccessfully not to follow him with my eyes as he strode through the crowd, but . . . Those nice shoulders, the V of his upper body tapering down. I mean, it was purely aesthetic. Who wouldn’t look?

  The opening air horn blasted, shrill, ear-splitting. Everyone plunged into the water. Jimmy Pieretti, ever the comedian, was wearing a yellow-and-white polka-dot bikini, although I couldn’t imagine where he found one that fit. Nic got delayed by Vivie’s good-luck kiss. There was a lot of splashing and yelling and swearing.

  “Quit your bellyaching and focus!” Coach Reilly bawled through his bullhorn. Through the crowd, I saw Cass dive into the water, then slice through the surf, shoulders and forearms flashing in a fast crawl. Yes, there were chunks of ice. I marveled at some people’s school spirit. You couldn’t have made me take that plunge for anything less than world peace or having Emory’s medical expenses paid for life.

  I walked down closer to the water, where Vivien was jumping up and down with the other cheerleaders.

  “Shake it, shake it, Stony Bay. Swim it, swim it, all the way.”

  About twenty kids had already lurched back out of the water toward the bonfire. Nic was sticking it out, but he looked crimson with cold. Jimmy Pieretti was evidently going for “Longest Time Underwater” because I could see his enormous legs sticking out in a headstand as the crowd shouted, “Jimbo, Jiiiiiiiiiimbo!” He had to top two hundred fifty pounds, but that wasn’t enough insulation: his toes were blue.

  Coach, a bunch of parent volunteers, everyone was watching, but I still found myself counting heads, scanning the water. By the shore my whole life, I’d grown up knowing what the ocean could give, then take away in a flash.

  Where was Cass? He was popular, but no one was chanting his name the way they were for Jimmy or even Hoop, who had dashed out of the water to throw up on Coach Reilly’s shoes.

  Where was Cass? Someone could easily have drowned in this noisy, yelling crowd, without anyone noticing.

  I ran to the edge of the water, shielded my eyes from the bright sun dazzling off the waves, seeing black spots dancing in front of me. But no blond head. The race had been going on for at least five minutes, maybe more.

  “Coach. Coach! Where’s Cass Somers?” I pulled at his sleeve as he raised the bullhorn again, my voice panicky. “Can you see him? Do you have binoculars?”

  “Which one of you morons spiked the cider?” Coach bellowed. “You guys are disastrous. What the hell!”

  I yanked at his sleeve again, and he turned, face ruddy against his thick black hair. “Not now, Gwen.” He tried to sound gentle. Coach had always been good to me, maybe because my dad’s restaurant donated food and ice cream for the beginning and end-of-year rallies. “Got a public relations disaster here. If the PTO finds out about the cider, we can kiss this fund-raiser good-bye.”

  “I can’t see Cassidy Somers. He’s in the water somew
here.” I tried to haul Coach with me into the waves, which were HOLY FROSTBITE frigid. My skin felt like it was being peeled off with a thousand knives carved from ice. Coach remained motionless, a red-faced Rock of Gibraltar. So I yanked off my parka, tossed it to the sand, waded in up to my knees, my waist, my armpits.

  “Gwen! What the hell are you doing?” Vivien shouted. “Are you insane?”

  Now everyone was back on shore, except me, in my clinging jeans and soggy hoodie, and there was a splash and Cass surfaced right in front of me, eyes wide and blue, hair plastered over his forehead, darkened to shifting shades of amber and gold by the water. He gave his head a shake, tossing his hair out of his eyes.

  “I . . .” My teeth were chattering. My whole body was trembling. Cass too was shuddering so hard, I could feel his legs buck against mine. “I thought you’d drowned.”

  He didn’t say anything, just reached out and wrapped an arm around my waist, stumbling as he tried to steer me to shore.

  I was shaking and he was breathing hard and fast. I wasn’t sure who was holding up who, but he’d been in the water longer and I had the sense that I was towing him. Coach wasn’t even watching us, having headed up to the bonfire to cuss out his wayward team.

  “I th-thought you’d drowned,” I repeated when we got to land. Vivien was holding out one of the big quilts from the back of her mom’s car. Cass’s fingers swiped at it, but didn’t close. It was me who grabbed it and shook it open, reaching for his waistband to pull him close to me under the quilt. Smack against him, I could feel his heart racing.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I w-w-wasn’t drowning, but if I had been, that would h-h-have been an awesome rescue. As it was, it was plenty am-m-mazing.” His breath was white in the frigid air but felt warm on my face and now I was conscious that my hands were tight on his cold waist and I was practically thigh to thigh with Cass Somers.

  Coach came over at this point. “You aced the distance and length record, Somers. Maybe the personal stupidity one too.”