The Twelve Lives of Samuel Hawley

by Hannah Tinti

  Loo opened the back of the toilet, placed the heavy ceramic lid on the seat, then slid her hands inside the water and pulled out the licorice jars. She set them side by side on the counter. She looked for something to dry them off with, but Hawley had thrown away all the towels. She wiped the glass with some toilet paper, then brought the jars into the living room.

  Hawley was on his knees in front of the bearskin rug. “Give them here,” he said.

  She thought he would open the jars and count the money, but instead he laid them end to end across the rug then started rolling them up inside, tucking the tail and moving toward the head, so that when he was finished, the bear’s chin rested on top of the bundle.

  “How did you know that I knew,” she asked, “about the money?”

  “I put a piece of Scotch tape on the back of the lid.” Hawley tied the feet together until the money was rolled tight. “Okay, this is everything.” He stood up and scratched his beard. Then he handed Loo the card that Lily had bought after she was born, the one that had hung in all their bathrooms, all these years. A cupcake with a single candle flickering. Loo opened it. The inside was still blank.

  “Happy birthday,” her father said. Then he wrapped his arms around the bear, and passed it into Loo’s arms.

  —

  BY THE TIME they reached Dogtown it was nearly midnight. Hawley pulled up in front of Mabel Ridge’s house but he did not get out of the truck.

  “I can’t believe you’re leaving me here,” said Loo.

  “It’s just for tonight,” said Hawley.

  Loo looked at the pineapple hanging on the door. She thought of their visit, long ago, when they’d first moved to Olympus, Hawley in his new shirt, Loo in her dress and chewed-up hair. “You wanted her to take me again,” she said. “That time when you punched the radio.”

  Her father shook his head. “I didn’t know what I was going to do.”

  “What if she’d let us in?”

  Hawley and Loo sat there breathing together in their seats. The clock on the dashboard was an hour behind. They had never fixed it for daylight savings. Loo reached forward and pushed the buttons and spun the dial, moving the numbers out of the past and into the present. In that moment, it seemed like the most important thing she’d ever done.

  “I wanted you to have family besides me,” said Hawley. “A normal life.”

  “But we’ve never been normal,” said Loo. “I’ve never been normal.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  Loo pulled her bag onto her lap.

  “You have to come back. You have to promise.”

  But her father only said her name.

  Loo got out and slammed the door. The moment she did, the door to Mabel Ridge’s house opened. She walked up the path, hefting her bag on her shoulder, the motor of Hawley’s truck idling behind her.

  The old woman stepped onto the porch. She was wearing striped pajamas, with a hand-woven wool blanket wrapped around her shoulders. It took Loo only a moment to recognize the blanket from the loom. The one with the overshot pattern made of indigo. It was finished. And it made Mabel Ridge look like an Indian queen.

  “Welcome back.”

  “It’s just for one night,” said Loo.

  “That’s what he said the last time,” said Mabel Ridge. She eyed Loo’s robe. “I like the dragons.”

  “This was my mom’s.”

  “I know,” said Mabel Ridge. Then she opened her arms and she hugged Loo with all her might, folding them both inside the woolen blanket. Loo tried to pull away but the old woman’s grip only tightened, until finally the girl gave in and hugged her back.

  “All right, let’s get you settled.” Mabel Ridge reached for the bag but Loo snatched it up, and as she did, Hawley’s truck pulled away.

  Loo turned and watched the red taillights flickering along the dark road. She thought, He’s going to stop. He’s going to stop at the corner and wait for me, just like he did when we stole the Firebird. Her fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of the bag, ready to run after him. But Hawley didn’t even slow down. If anything, he just pressed harder on the gas, the exhaust pipe rattling out one last cough of smoke. The truck turned without signaling a direction, and then her father was gone for good.

  Bullet Number Twelve

  HAWLEY TOOK THE BOAT AT first light. Picked up some supplies, drove out to the basin, then sat in his truck waiting in the dark, watching the fishermen load their trawlers and draggers and crabbers, gather bait and ice and slip cleats and pull up bumpers and crank motors and set out in the early gloom. After all the men had left, Hawley climbed down the ladder to the floating dock, where Jove’s sailboat was tied. He pushed off silently, then started the engine and made his way into the harbor. By the time the sun peeked over the edge of the horizon, he was in open waters.

  He’d brought his orange toolbox and the guns. His father’s rifle, two shotguns, the long-range sniper and two handguns. The long guns were under the seats, covered by a blanket, the Glock was tucked under his belt and the Colt was in the pocket of his coat. There was a bag of extra ammunition next to the lifesaver and the bailer. He was wearing a bulletproof vest. It was as heavy as the guns. He’d also brought rubber gloves and industrial garbage bags and duct tape, a net and a boat hook, breathing masks and a bottle of Vicks.

  Along the coast and near the shallows of Thacher Island, Hawley saw lobstermen checking their traps, hauling the algae-covered ropes up from the bottom of the sea. He passed a few charter boats heading to Jeffrey’s Ledge, a high-end yacht from Boston and a whale-watch cruiser powering toward Stellwagen Bank, packed with yawning tourists. Three miles out, the other ships thinned and Hawley turned on the navigation system he’d installed with Jove, fixing his point on the radar.

  It was fifteen miles to international waters, but now anyone wanting to conduct business had to go out at least fifty or more. The Coast Guard had doubled its patrols because of the EPA investigation, and it was causing a lot of trouble along the coast. Not only for the fishermen, but for anyone trading drugs or guns or anything else illegal out on the open ocean. At least that’s what Pax had said, when Hawley tracked him down for the details on Jove’s job. The buyer had been a collector from Reno. As far as Pax knew, the deal had gone through. He’d been paid in advance, and received no complaints from the buyer or seller. He’d received no word from Jove, either, before he disappeared.

  The meeting spot had been a marker set 110 miles from shore and about 40 miles southeast of the Bitter Banks. Easy money, Jove had said, but now, as the land fell away and the sea got more wild and desolate, it did not seem easy at all. There was nothing in any direction, only the line where the horizon met the sky. It was like sailing through a desert, the water always shifting, the landscape changing with each blow of the wind. Jove’s body would be long gone by now—eaten by sharks, or picked up by the current. But Hawley was hoping the marker was still there. He checked the coordinates that Pax had given him. He needed to see the place for himself. Figure out if he needed to make a new shopping list of names. Otherwise, he’d have to take Loo and keep running.

  Another ten miles and the sailboat passed a cargo ship the length of an aircraft carrier, stretching across the surface like a giant guarding the edge of the world. Hawley rode the waves from the wake and shifted the motor to neutral. The boat floated easily, rising and falling. Once the freighter was past, he tied off the tiller, then scrambled over the bow to unfurl the jib and then the mainsail, hanging his weight against the rope. The wind drew the battens tight and the canvas filled with air. Then he cut the motor.

  He’d forgotten how nice it could be, using only the power of the wind. Nothing but the sound of the waves slapping the sides of the hull and the soft echo of the halyards against the mast. It was humbling to be set against such a landscape, cutting through the miles that stretched above and below, layers of creatures of every size and shape passing beneath the sailboat’s fragile hull on their way toward eating one anoth
er.

  A large swell approached off the port side, and Hawley leaned on the tiller so the boat would face it head-on. The bow rose and then came out of the water, before landing hard with a smack into the hollow left behind after the wave had passed. Deep inside the hold Hawley heard something tumble and then set to scrambling. He drew the Colt and cocked it. The hatch opened and his daughter climbed out.

  “Hi Dad.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Hawley lowered the hammer, then returned the Colt to his pocket. He pushed the tiller starboard and set the boat into the wind. He let loose the sheets and the sails luffed, the ropes whipping like snakes as the boat drifted, then came to a stop. “How the hell did you get on board?”

  “I snuck out Mabel’s window after she went to sleep and drove the Firebird into town. If you didn’t show I figured I’d just go back in the morning.” The breeze was pushing her hair into her face. No matter how she tried to hold it back, the ends kept getting in her mouth. “You know his bunk is full of porn down there.”

  He’d left Loo at her grandmother’s house. Just to be safe. And now it was all for nothing, even the old woman softening and thanking him on the phone. He’d finally done something to mend fences, and now Mabel Ridge was going to be pissed.

  “I can’t believe you took the car again.”

  “She promised to sign the title over to me if I came for Thanksgiving and Christmas. So technically it wasn’t stealing this time.”

  “We’re going back,” said Hawley.

  “But we’ve got to be close by now,” said Loo. “And I brought sandwiches.”

  “I’m still turning around.”

  “Don’t. Not yet. I’ll do whatever you say.” Loo took hold of her hair firmly with her fist. She pulled an elastic band out of her pocket and tied it back tightly, until all the strays were caught. “I want to be here with you, if you find him.” Her face was determined. And so much like her mother.

  In the past year Hawley had blinked once, twice, and his daughter had grown into a woman carrying her own secrets. He’d tried to protect her. Now he hoped only that Loo would not end up like him. Hawley took off his coat. He removed the bulletproof vest. “Put this on.”

  She slid her arms through. It was too big for her.

  “I’ll sink in this.”

  “Then you’ll wear a life jacket, too.”

  He dug one of the orange life vests from under the side bench and zipped it open, wrapping his daughter in layers of fabric and foam.

  “I look like the Michelin Man.”

  “That’s the deal,” said Hawley. “In or out?”

  “In,” said Loo, and then she climbed up onto the bow and took out her binoculars. “What are we looking for?”

  “Anything that floats.”

  Hawley turned the boat away from the wind. He took hold of the sheets and the sails filled and he pulled until they held the perfect amount of air. The wind was from the southwest. The spray from the waves speckled their faces with salt. Loo cleared the long guns and the ammunition from the deck and stored them in the cabin to keep dry. Occasionally a gust would come up and the boat would heel too far, the side dipping into the water. But as soon as Hawley leaned his weight on the opposite rail, it would steady again.

  As the hours passed they took turns steering and crawling down to the tiny head in the hold, a pump toilet that smelled of chemicals and piss. In the galley everything was miniaturized: a tiny sink, the pots and pans held in place with latches on the shelves, each cup and plate secure. Hawley opened the cupboard and found packages of ramen noodles and a giant tub of peanut butter. There were sleeves of saltines and a jar of iced-tea mix and some instant coffee. Under the sink was a tank of potable water, a boat horn, a box containing a flare gun and three bottles of whiskey.

  He brought one of the bottles up on deck.

  “Where’d you find that?”

  “In the galley.”

  The wind had slowed, so Hawley started the engine again. Loo took the bottle and turned it over, as if she were looking for the price tag.

  “We used to drink together when you were a baby,” said Hawley.

  “Whiskey?”

  “Just a drop. It kept you from crying.”

  Loo unscrewed the cap and sniffed. It was strange for Hawley to think she had no memory of the lake house. What happened had happened to both of them, but was his to carry alone. He would never forget the tug on his finger, the silence and relief when she’d finally stopped screaming. Her tiny hand wrapped tightly around his, her eyes wide and focused and watching.

  “I have to tell you something.” Loo capped the bottle and slid it underneath the bench. She seemed suddenly nervous. “It’s about Mary Titus.”

  “What about her?”

  “People think you did it,” said Loo. “The shooting at her place.”

  “Really.” Hawley tried to keep his face serious.

  “It’s my fault,” said Loo. “I gave Marshall one of your guns. For protection. And he shot up his own house.”

  Hawley pulled on the mainsheet until the sail was tight. “A real winner, your guy.”

  Loo ducked her head, embarrassed, and Hawley wished he hadn’t said anything. He’d been relieved when he heard the boy had left town. But he knew that Loo was still hurting.

  “When the police came I thought they were going to arrest you. I thought they’d traced the bullet.”

  “From the Beretta?” Hawley asked. When she looked surprised he said, “It was the only one missing.”

  “I should have told you,” Loo said. “And I shouldn’t have trusted him.”

  Hawley pretended to think this over. But he already knew everything she’d just said. Everything but Marshall shooting his own house.

  He’d been following Loo ever since she was arrested. He’d treated it like any other job, as if his own daughter were a mark he was going to rub his finger against and smudge out. He dug through her clothes and books, looked at the bottom of her shoes to see where she’d been walking. He trailed her to work, watched her dodge the men eyeing her there, marked the sweat on her brow as she lifted platters and scrubbed dishes. He watched her go into Dogtown and come out with leaves in her hair. He’d seen her sitting on the roof and tracking stars through her telescope. And he’d uncovered the scrapbook of clippings about Lily’s death, hidden inside a dress in her closet. Saw the ways she was trying to make sense of things, just as he had, taping up his memories in the bathroom. Hawley read every article and clipping, turned every page, then put the book right back where he’d found it.

  “The police can only trace a bullet if they have the gun that fired it,” he said at last. “They re-create the shot and compare. But I modified the barrel in the Beretta as soon as you put it back in the chest. Believe me. If I wanted to shoot your boyfriend, nobody would ever know it was me.”

  He didn’t necessarily mean it as a joke. But Loo brightened, and Hawley knew he’d said just the right thing. She reached under the seat. She took out the whiskey again. This time, she opened the bottle and took a sip. Then she coughed and spit into the ocean.

  “I don’t know how you can drink this stuff.”

  “You get used to it.”

  She put the cap back on and held the bottle like a club. Like she was going to smash it against the boat, ready to christen the Pandora all over again. And then her eyes moved toward the horizon and her face changed. She focused on the water. “I see something.”

  Hawley grabbed the binoculars. It took awhile for him to find where she was pointing and then he did—something big was floating about a hundred meters north. It was hard to tell from the waves, but it looked like a body.

  The engine kicked to life and Hawley turned the throttle as far as it would go. He pointed the bow straight and Loo crawled topside, focusing and refocusing the binoculars. She was hit by spray and wiped the lens on her jacket. As they got closer Hawley could see a mass covered in seaweed; there were arms and some kind of head. It was
facedown in the water. And then he saw fur.

  It was a giant bear. The kind Hawley used to win for Loo at cheap roadside carnivals. A huge pink stuffed animal filled with shredded foam and sawdust and hung high to lure in marks. Hawley would shoot out a paper star, and the carnies would hand over the prize, and Loo would stagger under the weight, refusing to let her father carry the bear and refusing to let go, shoving the animal into the seat next to them on the roller coaster, hugging the bear as they went up in the Ferris wheel and then strapping the bear into the car to go home. When they moved, there was never enough room to take it along. Hawley always promised to win another at the next carnival to make it up to her, and when he did, they left that bear behind, too. Now this waterlogged body seemed like a manifestation of all those abandoned animals, floating a hundred and ten miles out in international waters, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean with a rope around its neck.

  Hawley took hold of the stuffed animal and pulled it into the boat. The fur was a horrible fleshy color, the cheap, synthetic coat soaked through. Strips of shiny green kelp and brownish gunk caught around the arms and legs. The bear was missing one of its eyes, but the other remained—a clear plastic bubble with a small black disc that moved like a real eye, the iris slowly turning.

  “Looks like our bearskin rug went out and got drunk,” said Loo.

  Hawley nodded. Just hours earlier he’d been rolling all their savings into that fur, wishing he could wrap it around himself and Loo and hide away from the world.

  “How the hell did this get out here?”

  Hawley pointed to the rope. It was tied tightly around the animal’s neck and hung over the side of the sailboat into the water. He started pulling it up. He pulled and pulled and pulled, the rope getting thicker with algae the farther he went, until his hands were covered with green-and-black slime and he saw a ghostly shape rising through the shadows—an old wire lobster trap, filled with garbage.

  “It must have washed out in a storm,” said Loo.