by Hannah Tinti
—
WHEN THEY GOT back to the house there was a large cardboard box on the porch. Hawley put down the cooler and went up the stairs. He checked the label. He took his knife out of his pocket and handed it to Loo.
The package was addressed to her. For a brief moment, she thought it was from Marshall, and her heart rose with excitement. Then she saw the look on her father’s face.
“My birthday’s not until next month.”
“Just open the box.”
Inside was a telescope. The same kind her science teacher had used for demonstrations. A Schmidt-Cassegrain, with an Equatorial mount. The telescope must have cost at least two thousand dollars. Loo suspected Principal Gunderson had helped her father pick it out.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Learn something I don’t know,” said Hawley.
And so she did.
While her father took their catch to the fish market, Loo spent the afternoon assembling her new telescope, setting it up on the roof outside her bedroom window. She knew the gift was a bribe, meant to change her sour mood, but she didn’t care. For hours her mind was distracted. She read the instructions on how to align with the Earth’s axis, dialing the setting circles to the correct month and day. Then she dug out her planisphere and the book on the solar system that Marshall had given her. In the back there was a chart listing the coordinates of the planets. She peered through the viewfinder, blinking against the sun. There were still hours to go before it would be dark enough to see anything.
Loo climbed back into her bedroom. From the closet, she took out her only dress. She’d worn it once, on graduation, and then put it right back into the plastic bag. Loo unknotted the bag now, then reached her hand up the skirt, past the zipper, and unclipped the envelope she’d pinned to the cloth there—her new hiding place, after Hawley found her stash of money in the attic. Inside the envelope was everything she didn’t want her father to see: the black lace gloves, the scrapbook of her mother’s death and the clipboard with Marshall’s petition.
She removed the clipboard, then gathered the local map and the phone book they’d been using, brought everything down to the kitchen table and started copying out names. She used every kind of pen—ballpoint, gel, fountain, fine, ultra-fine, bold, blue, black, red, purple, even green—so the signatures would all look different, each loop and turn unique. She was no longer just replacing names that had been lost. She was building an environmental movement. At the library Loo had researched what she needed to complete the petition. The description of the marine sanctuary, the maps, the criteria and, most important, the support of five thousand members of the community. As she copied each signature she thought of Marshall Hicks. Every Harry, every Jane, every Archibald and Rocco was keeping him tied to her. And after a night of hot-wiring cars, forgery was a crime that seemed small enough to fit in her pocket.
She wrote until her shoulders ached. She wrote until her hands burned. She wrote until the tendons in each finger were so stiff she had to take breaks to stretch them, splaying her palms across the table. She was copying out the address for 756 East Main Street, Apartment #5—with 3,678 signatures forged and 1,322 signatures to go—when there was a knock at the door.
The man on their porch had gray hair that swept his shoulders and thickset hazel eyes. A week’s worth of stubble scrabbled across his chin. He was wearing a brown leather jacket and jeans and cowboy boots. The toes were very pointy and made his feet seem very small.
“I’m looking for Samuel Hawley.” He was carrying a worn-out army-green duffel bag. It was just like her father’s. The one he kept locked in his closet, full of guns and ammunition. The stranger set the duffel on the porch. Loo heard the clink of metal on metal.
“He’s not here.” She took a step back.
“You the daughter?” The man looked her up and down and shook his head. “My God.”
There was something wrong with his face. All along one side of his cheek were tiny twists of scars, and patches of skin that were redder than the rest, like he’d been born with a stain of juice running down his cheek and neck. His hands had the same kind of blotches, on the wrists and knuckles.
“My name’s Jove.” He raised one of his scarred hands. “I’m an old friend of your dad’s.”
“Loo.”
Jove took her hand and pressed his other hand on top of it, so that she was caught for a moment between his palms. His fingers were rough but warm.
“You’re lovely, Loo,” he said. “But your father is one son of a bitch.” The man let out a snort like this was some kind of joke.
She pulled her hand away.
“He’ll be home soon,” said Loo. “Any minute, actually,” she added.
“Guess I’ll wait for him, then,” Jove said and walked past her into the house.
There was something in the man’s ruined face that reminded her of the fishing widows that used to come knocking. A need that seemed both desperate and dangerous. He hauled the duffel bag with him into the living room. Then he released a small, joyous shout and dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around the bearskin rug.
“I can’t believe he still has this thing.” Jove tapped the bear on the snout. “The last time I saw this guy I was pulling a slug out of your father’s back.”
Loo said, “What are you talking about?”
“We were just kids screwing around,” said Jove. “Trespassing, you know, and some old coot ran us off. Took forever to dig that bullet out of his ribs. And the whole time Hawley was calling for some girl like it was the end of the world.”
“What girl?”
“Hell if I remember.”
“Lily?”
Jove stroked the bear again. “No, he didn’t know her yet.”
Loo knew which scar this was—the crater beneath Hawley’s right shoulder blade, which bloomed out like the head of a jellyfish. Hearing the details of how it had been carved into her father’s skin made her crouch down and touch the bear. She had walked over this rug her entire life. She’d never thought of where it had come from. She’d never thought to ask.
“I probably shouldn’t have told you about him getting shot.” Jove picked up his duffel bag and began to walk toward the kitchen. “I’ve always talked too much. That’s why we got along so well, because Hawley never says a damn thing.” He went to the fridge and opened it. He took out an apple, then lifted a small paring knife from the dish rack and began to cut slices, one by one, and put them into his mouth with the edge of the blade.
“Hey,” said Loo. “This isn’t your house.”
“I settle in quick.” Jove’s eyes went to the table. The phone book and Loo’s pile of pens. He snatched one of the scraps of paper she’d been practicing signatures on.
“Not bad,” he said. He held the paper up to the light. “Forging checks?”
“It’s for a petition.”
Jove picked up the clipboard. He read the statement at the top. He flipped through the papers. “So you’re some kind of environmentalist?”
“My boyfriend is.”
“Boyfriend!” said Jove. “Ha! Poor Hawley—has he beat the crap out of him yet?”
Loo took the clipboard away from him. She stuffed it into one of the cupboards, along with the phone book, map and pens.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Jove.
Loo watched him eat his apple. “How do you know my dad again?”
“We used to work together.”
“He’s never mentioned you.” Loo glanced down at the duffel bag. He’d kept it right by his side the whole time he was in the house.
Jove followed her line of sight. He bent down and unzipped the front. “Come take a look. I’ve got some great stuff in here.” He pulled the sides apart like he was opening a person, spreading the ribs with his hands.
The duffel was full of watches. The heavy kind, with powerful leather straps, that told the month and the day and marked the time zones of Paris, New York, Rome and T
okyo—waterproof, with glass thick enough to go scuba diving, gold and silver and platinum faces that were meant to be passed down from generation to generation.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Jove jammed his fingers into the pile and pulled one out by the clasp. “Just listen.”
Loo looked down at the open bag. So many numbers jumbled together, and all she could think of was Marshall’s watch, catching in her hair, and the way he’d wrapped it so tightly on his wrist as he was leaving.
“Are you some kind of traveling salesman?”
“You could say that. I deal with antiques, mostly. I’m a bit of a specialist,” said Jove. “Now the Egyptians, they didn’t think about time the way we do. They thought night and day were two separate worlds. Twelve hours of light, twelve hours of darkness. They used sundials during the day, and then kept track of the stars, starting at twilight and ending at dawn. They didn’t count seconds like we do, either. Time was more”—he waved his fingers at her—“flexible. Sometimes an hour would be sixty minutes. And sometimes an hour would be forty. Do you wear a wristwatch?”
“No,” said Loo.
Jove let out a disapproving puff of air. He reached into the bag again. “Watches used to be important. When you got your first, it was special. A reminder of the days you had left, ticking away right there on your arm.”
He pulled out a man’s wristwatch, held the face between two fingers and let the band dangle in the air. “This one is an automatic. It doesn’t have a battery—you don’t even need to wind it. The movement of the arm, just swinging back and forth—it keeps the gears going. All you have to do is put this on someone living, and it’ll come to life.”
He took hold of Loo and slid the watch around her wrist. The strap was too wide, her arm too thin. She lifted her hand and the face slid away.
“It doesn’t work if you’re standing still.”
Loo got up from the table and walked into the living room. She turned down the hall, past the bathroom, and then she came back to the kitchen. Jove was still sitting in the same chair. He snatched up her hand as she entered the room and pressed the watch to his ear. He frowned.
“Did you swing your arm?”
“Yes.”
Jove shook her wrist back and forth, then he listened again. “Goddammit.”
Loo lifted the watch to her own ear. There was no heartbeat. But outside the window came another noise. A car pulling into the driveway. The truck door slamming, and then Hawley’s boots climbing the stairs. Loo glanced from Jove to the bearskin and back. She listened as her father dumped his gear, then fit his key into the lock.
Jove put a finger to his lips. He hid in the shadow of the bookcase.
“I’m home,” said Hawley.
Across the living room Loo saw her father pause. His eyes locked on hers where she stood in the kitchen, and then slid down to the giant watch on her wrist.
Jove jumped out, laughing, but he didn’t even get the chance to say a word before Hawley was across the room and on top of him. They threw each other into the walls, two giants wrestling inside a dollhouse. Together the men tumbled into the bookcase and it all came toppling over as they struggled and the books fell, crashing across the floor. Loo hurried over and pulled the frame of the bookcase back. Underneath Hawley had Jove pinned and the knife Jove had been using to eat his apple was sunk deep into Hawley’s arm.
“It’s me, you fuck!” Jove shouted. “It’s me!”
Hawley was breathing heavily. “Jove.”
“Did you gain a hundred pounds? Get off. I can’t breathe.” Jove shoved at Hawley’s chest. Loo watched her father crawl off the man and slump against the wall. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes.
“I pull you a favor and this is the thanks I get.” Jove sat up and pressed his fingers to his nose. There was blood streaming from his left nostril. “See what you made me do?”
Hawley opened his eyes and glanced down at the knife in his arm. He sucked air through his teeth. Then he took hold of the handle and pulled it out. Blood bubbled up behind, quick and fast, spreading over his shirt. He pressed his palm against the cut and turned to his daughter.
“Get the kit.”
Loo ran into the bathroom and threw open the cupboard underneath the sink. Inside was the orange toolbox with the red cross. Loo grabbed the handle and nearly slammed into Jove in the doorway. He was pinching his nostrils and had his head tilted back.
“Got anything I can fix this with?”
“Check the medicine cabinet.”
She hurried past him and got down on the floor beside her father. “Dad,” she said. But her voice stopped there. She wished she’d smiled for him at the beach.
Hawley opened the toolbox. It was jammed full of gauze pads, tape, scissors, plastic gloves, rubbing alcohol, bottles of drugs, vials of liquid and needles. There was a set of surgical tools and a stapler. There was also a bottle of styptic powder. Her father reached for it and tipped a stream of yellow dust onto his arm.
“How long has he been here?”
“About half an hour,” said Loo. “Does it hurt?”
“This?” Hawley shrugged the wound away like it was nothing. He brushed the extra powder off his arm, then handed Loo the bottle.
“Is that guy really a friend of yours?”
“He used to be.”
Jove came back from the bathroom, his nostrils full of toilet paper, a Band-Aid across the bridge of his nose. He had a bottle of hydrogen peroxide tucked into his elbow like a bottle of wine. “Well,” he said, “I’ve never seen a bathroom quite like that before.”
Loo waited for Hawley to pick up Jove and toss him out onto the porch. But her father ignored the man’s comments and pressed a bandage to his arm. Jove set the hydrogen peroxide down on the floor. He put on a pair of rubber gloves from the kit and inspected Hawley’s wound. To Loo’s surprise, Hawley let him do this, holding out his arm and grunting. Jove poked through the medical supplies and took out the stapler and some gauze. He poured peroxide over Hawley’s arm and they all watched it bubble and burn. He winked at Loo.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m a doctor.”
Once Hawley had been patched up, Jove helped Loo set the bookcase right and put the volumes back in place. He took his time, perusing the spines and opening the covers. “I could write better crap than this.”
Hawley wiped blood off the floor. “What the hell are you doing here, Jove.”
“Can’t a man come visit his friend?”
Hawley’s eyes went to the duffel bag.
“He’s selling watches,” said Loo.
“I thought you were retired.”
“I’m retiring my retirement.” Jove put the last book on the shelf. Then he clapped his hands, and, like magic, turned himself from an intruder into a guest. “Well, what’s for dinner?”
In the kitchen, Loo cleaned and debearded some of the mussels they’d collected that morning, while Jove washed the salad and chopped carrots and celery in a blur, tissue paper still wadded in two tiny spirals up his busted nose. Hawley leaned against the counter, touching the staples in his arm and drinking a beer. Through it all Jove kept talking, his voice booming in the small room, listing name after name that Loo had never heard of. There was something about him that was like her father—and she’d never met anyone who was like Hawley before.
“Rodriguez, he’s still inside, but Thompson got out about a year ago, I saw him in Detroit. Eaton is flying helicopters in South America. Stein moved to Memphis. Blago quit and became a farmer. Vermont, I think. Something with goats. And Frederick Nunn—remember Nunn?”
“How could I forget.”
“Well, he’s dead.”
Hawley took a sip of beer.
“Parker told me. He’s working for Miller.”
Steam began to leak out of the pot on the stove. Loo’s father checked to make sure all of the mussels had cracked open. Then he turned off the heat. “I don’t know how you keep in touch with all those guys.”
Jove used the butcher knife to slide the carrots into the salad bowl. “Christmas cards,” he said, and chopped the head off a bunch of broccoli.
Everything Hawley did slowly, Jove did fast, even the drinking. For every empty of Hawley’s there were two for Jove. By the time Loo served the mussels, the men were through a six-pack. And by the time the meal was finished, another six-pack was gone. Jove reached into his bag and pulled out a bundle of papers. He slid them across the table to Hawley.
“You know how long I’ve been looking. Well, I found her. And she’s perfect.”
“What’s her name?” Hawley asked.
“Pandora,” said Jove.
“I thought it was going to be Cassandra.”
“That was before I dated a girl named Cassandra, and she slept with another guy when I was out of town. I don’t want her thinking I named my boat after her.”
“How’s she going to know?”
“Believe me,” said Jove. “That bitch will know.”
The boat Jove was buying was a forty-foot sloop with a decent-size galley, refrigeration and a head. The design was based on old cargo sailboats that originally brought supplies up and down the Hudson. It was built with those changing currents in mind, the need for quick tacks to navigate narrow channels.
“Can’t believe it’s finally happening,” said Hawley.
“Only took me thirty years,” said Jove. “All that’s left is to finish off some old business. Don’t want to leave any outstanding debts.”
Hawley took out his pouch of tobacco and started rolling a cigarette. He tucked in the filter and licked the ends, then flipped the Zippo against his palm.
“Those things will kill you,” Jove said.
“Yes,” said Hawley.
Loo stood and started gathering the plates, but her father stopped her. “We’ll do the dishes,” he said. “Why don’t you go get some sheets for the couch.”
There’d been no invitation extended, but Hawley and Jove already seemed to be talking in a shorthand that wove around Loo’s presence. She wondered what that intimacy was built on. How the man who’d just stabbed her father was now piling dishes in their sink.
