by Gerry Boyle
The mom, most likely. Estusa had Brandon’s number from early on, when he’d been with the Portland Press, before he’d shown his true colors, gotten canned.
Brandon scowled, thought of replying to the texts, at least telling Estusa to go to hell. But he thought better of it, reached for the phone and turned it off. Let them text themselves into a lather, he wouldn’t see them. Wouldn’t go online at all. No news reports. No nothing.
But what?
He looked around. Crossed the cabin and looked toward the yard and the road beyond. The news crew was packing up. A car eased into view and stopped. Brandon reached binoculars off the shelf and looked. A blacked-out BMW, four guys inside. High school kids, all craned to look toward Bay Witch. They were talking, pointing. The driver, a scraggly-haired kid with dark-framed glasses, reached out the open window and held up his middle finger in Brandon’s general direction.
There was shouting. “Fuck you, cop.”
“You suck.”
“Asshole.”
The car lurched forward a couple of times, then there was a screech of tires, and it sped out of sight. Brandon lowered the glasses. Thought of making a note of the make, model, time. Then another car rolled up from the other direction, then two. A white SUV, a Tahoe. A mini-van. He raised the glasses again. Girls in the SUV, peering toward the boats. Angry faces. Guys in the mini van, more shouting but more subdued than the guys in the BMW. These cars stopped.
And then the BMW was back, skidded to a stop. The driver leaned on the horn. The other two did the same, a blaring cacophony like a Manhattan traffic jam. The kids were shouting but the horns drowned them out. And then a cruiser rolled up. Otongo. She put on the blues and the honking stopped. The BMW started to drive away but Otongo pulled in front of it, cut it off.
She got out, touching her shoulder mic, headed for the BMW. Another cruiser pulled in, blocked the van and the Tahoe. Robichaud. He got out, big and burly, and strode to the driver’s side of the SUV. Robichaud said something and Brandon could see the girl digging for her license. The driver of the BMW was out of the car, doing the same. He was tall, thin, skinny jeans and black T-shirt with something on the front. He started to gesture toward Otongo and she said something that shut him up. She took his license and headed for the cruiser. Robichaud was at the mini-van, leaning in.
A white VW came into view, stopped. Estusa and the photographer got out. The photographer raised her camera, started shooting. Estusa went to Otongo’s cruiser, said something and Otongo said something back, not looking up. Estusa went to the BMW, started talking to the driver, Estusa scribbling on a notepad.
Brandon watched for 15 minutes as the cops sorted things out. They talked to the kids, Brandon knowing the drill. They could be cited for disorderly conduct, a misdemeanor punishable by a fine of up to $500. A repeat offense could result in a jail sentence, prosecution for criminal trespass. He could hear Otongo: How would that look on your college applications?
The cops handed the licenses back, no citations. The kids got into their vehicles and headed off. The cops pulled their cruisers around so they were facing Bay Witch and flicked their lights. The cruisers pulled away and were gone, and only Estusa and the photographer were left, the woman peering at the back of her camera at her shots, Estusa looking toward the boat. Peering through the binoculars, Brandon saw him wave and smile.
He stepped back into the shadows of the cabin, laid the binoculars down. A couple of boat owners passed by the stern, pulling dock carts and glancing into Bay Witch, knowing the reason for the ruckus. Brandon sat back down on the port side settee, looked at his phone, quiet now, the laptop screen dark.
He could feel his mood spiraling downward, like something dropped overboard at sea, the waters growing darker and darker. He shook himself loose, considered whether he should just fill the tank, add some dry gas, and go. Find a cove out around Chebeague or Peaks and anchor.
The logistics of it ran through his mind. Fuel, food, water. Telling the boat owners he’d be gone for a couple of days, the usual grumbling when he wasn’t available at the fuel dock, to take reservations for guest moorings, to help people hook up to shore power, tell them where to dump their waste tanks.
He scowled, looked down at the deck at this feet, saw the edge of something sticking out from under the settee. It was a print: dark pink flowers and green leaves. He leaned down and pulled it out.
The diary.
Six
The cover was soft, flower-print fabric over some sort of padding. Brandon flipped the book open. Written inside in purple ink was the name Danni Moulton, and Woodford, Maine, a former mill town 20 miles south of Portland.The pages were filled with a careful, looping cursive that fit precisely between the ruled lines. Each entry was addressed to Danni (Me) with a handwritten smiley face. The entries were dated. The first was 4-1-93; the last, December 11, 1994. Brandon held the diary upside down and shook it. A couple of loose folded pages fell out, and a clipping slipped from the papers. He picked it up off the deck and turned it over.
A newspaper photo of a high-school age guy with a big smile and a mullet. Someone, presumably Danni, had written below the face, I love Jackson, then crossed that out and scribbled on the face with a different pen.
He started at the beginning.
April 1. April Fool’s Day.
I guess I got fooled. Matty said he loved me and that was why he wanted to sleep with me. I think I loved him too or I could of if he hadn’t gone back to Starr even tho he said it was just to tell her they were finished. But Starr said he slept with her again and told these guys at the Qik Lube that he works with, including this dude who goes out with her cousin. Even that guy said it was a shitty thing to do, keep two girls all strung along on lies and then act like it’s a big joke. I don’t know if I’m glad Starr told me, maybe better if Matty just went away and I never knew.
Brandon’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it. A text from Estusa. Brandon put the phone down. Turned the page.
April 4: Danni got in a fight at school, a girl calling her a slut. The girl lied and Danni got three days suspension.
I don’t care. I hate Woodford HS. I hate all those assholes. I’m never going back to that dump.
April 8: Danni went back to school.
I said I felt sick so I could go to the nurse and sleep. I saw Sashay in the hall but she looked the other way.
April 19: Danni’s father, who lived in Albany, New York, bought her a car, a used Toyota Corolla with 210,000 miles. He drove to Maine and dropped the car and left. Danni’s mother said Danni had to pay her own insurance and Danni got a quote for $1,800, which was $1,657 more than she had. Her mother’s boyfriend said it would teach her responsibility to pay for it herself. Cheap bastard leeches off my mom like all the freakin’ time, don’t tell me about being responsible. The car was parked behind the garage. I hate my life, Danni wrote.
May 7: Danni had a crush on Zack and even bought him some weed but he tried to have sex with her and couldn’t. He said it was the pot but I think he just doesn’t think I’m sexy. I feel so stupid. So what else is new.
June 23: graduation. Danni’s mother couldn’t attend because she had to work mandatory overtime at the nursing home. Danni got drunk at a party afterward and ended up walking around town all by herself trying not to throw up. Which was no surprise, high school ending on a sucky note cuz the whole time pretty much sucked and when it didn’t it was about to.
The phone buzzed again. A text from a reporter at WPRT TV, probably got his number from Estusa. Brandon ignored it.
July 4: Danni met a guy named Roger St. Clair at a party before the fireworks. Everybody smoked pot and then went to the park and Roger sat with her on the blanket all night and ended up making out with her in his car afterward. He’s different. From Mass. He said he’d never met anyone like me before. I gave him my number. Is he the 1? I just know he was way sweeter than Matt or Zack, that shit.
Brandon read on.
Roger didn’t cal
l. Danni decided he was a jerk after all, she should have known. She and her friend Vanity drank wine coolers and went to Target at the mall and Vanity stuffed a scarf and a bra inside her shirt and got stopped at the door. They hauled her off to Moresby County jail and I waited and waited and than he said 25.00 bail great all I had was 10 so I had to go bum 15 off my grandfather to get her out thank god he was home. It took her 1 hour after just to let her be released. My date with Roger is Friday. I pray it goes O.K.
It didn’t. Roger texted her to say he was sick. And so it went, one disappointment after another. Danni was pregnant but then she wasn’t after all. Gonna marry Roger, but then she wasn’t. She went to night school to get her CNA but didn’t finish because her mother’s minivan broke down on the way to the final exam, and screw it anyway, wiping up people’s crap and spit.
Brandon’s phone buzzed, another text. Mia.
I’m staying here, you coming over?
tired, been a long day.
you sure you’re alright by yourself?
I’m fine. Just need to decompress. It’s been a lot.
you sure?
yeah.
really?
yeah, really.
call me then.
I will.
love you.
love you too.
Brandon got up from the settee, went to the starboard side windows and looked out. A TV van was parked outside the gate, a blonde woman doing a stand-up with the marina and boats in the background. He pulled the curtain shut, went to the writing table and opened his laptop, then Facebook. Searched for Danni Moulton, Woodford, Maine.
First hit: A photo of a heavyset blonde woman in her 40s. The picture was a selfie taken in a bathroom mirror, a flare of light showing beside her head like a muzzle flash. Danni was wearing a tank top and a sad smile, like she’d been burned way too many times.
Her profile said she’d gone to Woodford H.S., was in a relationship. She liked watching NASCAR with her cat, Dale (Earnhart). It didn’t say whether her relationship was with the cat or with a person.
Flipping the diary open, he read more: No ring. No baby. I’m afraid he’s going back to Rachel. I hate my life. I do. I do, I do, I do.
The boat rocked. Brandon closed the laptop, got up and quickly moved to the stern. It was Kat, in jeans and T-shirt, bulge of her carry gun under the shirt on her right hip. Brandon came up through the hatchway and out. Kat smiled.
“Am I supposed to wait to be piped aboard or something? I can never keep this nautical stuff straight.”
“If I’d known you were coming, I would have had the crew lined up in their dress whites,” Brandon said.
Kat stepped over the transom, onto the boat.
“Well, at least you swabbed the poopdeck,” Kat said, eyeing the gleaming varnished wood.
“Nothing else to do,” Brandon said.
Kat moved close, clasped his shoulder.
“How are you?”
“Fine.”
“Considering?”
“Yeah,” Brandon said. “Considering.”
“Everybody’s thinking about you.”
“Thanks. Want coffee?”
“Sure,” Kat said. “Didn’t come all the way to SoPo for idle chit chat.”
They moved inside, Brandon holding the hatchway door open behind him.
“Cozy,” Kat said. “Mia home?”
“Went to the apartment. Things got a little crazy around here earlier. She’d had enough.”
He lit the kettle again, retrieved the coffee and French press.
“Heard the family and friends paid you a visit.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“How was that?”
“They were upset. It was upsetting,” Brandon said.
“Hang in there.”
“No choice.”
They stood in the cabin, watched the kettle as it rattled on the burner.
“Hope you’re not watching the news.”
“No.”
“Or reading the papers.”
Brandon shrugged.
“That’s nothing compared to Facebook.”
“You’re supposed to stay away from all that,” Kat said.
“After the screaming mother, the rest of it’s no big deal.”
“Sure it is. It’s a very big deal. You know it and I know it, so don’t go locking everything up inside.”
Brandon got out two mugs, didn’t answer. He stared at the kettle as it started to hiss. Kat smiled.
“Like I said.”
They stood and waited, Kat hunched below the bulkhead above her head. In the cruiser they would ride in silence for hours but there was something awkward about these couple of minutes. Finally, the kettle steamed and Brandon poured, waited for the press to drip. It finally did and he handed Kat a mug. She sniffed the mug, creased her eyes. Sipped. Smiled. “Way to a cop’s heart,” she said.
They chinked mugs like they sometimes touched paper cups in the cruiser, Kat saying, “Here’s to the good guys,” Brandon replying, “Good guys. What good guys?”
Standing there, they blew and sipped, just like in the cruiser. Brandon thought that it seemed like months ago that he’d put on his uniform, loaded up the cruiser, hit the streets.
“I’ve got a little news,” Kat said.
“I’ve been cleared for duty?”
“No. The parents hired Jim Kelly.”
“I know. He’s been on Facebook already,” Brandon said.
“He’ll be looking for big bucks, suing everybody in sight.”
“Gotta pay for that yacht somehow.”
“They also hired a social media consultant.”
Brandon looked at her.
“Like for their Instagram page?”
“Like they already have a hashtag. Kids lives matter.”
“Jesus. How’d you hear about that?”
“The university uses the same outfit for an ad campaign or some marketing thing. One of their admins is friends with the admin in Maddie’s department.”
“Christ,” Brandon said. “It’s not like I shot an unarmed kid. Or shot him in the back. Or panicked and shot him because he was reaching for his wallet. I had no choice.”
He looked at her. “Right?” he said.
“I know,” Kat said. “Don’t have to tell me. But they’re launching a Twitter campaign.”
Brandon drank some coffee.
“Probably go viral,” he said.
“You’ve got to stay strong,” Kat said.
“I’m fine.”
“Stop saying that.”
Brandon didn’t answer.
“And don’t shut down on me, either.”
“You said that already, too. I think you’re getting dementia.”
“You need to find something to do,” Kat said.
“I know. I was going to take the boat out but I figured they’d say I was partying on my cabin cruiser while they buried their son.”
Kat thought. “That’s exactly what they’d say.”
“Estusa was outside Mia’s place already. I don’t want to drag her into this anymore than I already have.”
“How?”
“By going anywhere near her.”
“Because of the last time.”
“Right.”
Kat sipped, stepped to the starboard side, flipped the curtains open and closed.
“Anybody out there?” Brandon said.
“Not at the moment.”
“There will be. So here I sit.”
“Anywhere you can go?”
Brandon shrugged, drank coffee, lowered the mug.
“I could go on a road trip but I don’t want to look like I’m running,” he said.
“Might be good to get away from all this.”
“Hard to hide from a Tweet,” Brandon said.
The boat rocked with a passing wake and Kat shifted on her feet. She put the mug down on the counter by the sink. “I gotta go get ready,” she said.
“Good luck. Stay
safe.”
“You too. Mentally, I mean.”
“I’m—”
He caught himself, smiled.
“You know something about this hashtag thing?” Brandon said.
Kat waited.
“I’m young too.”
“Only in years,” Kat said, and headed for the hatchway, lowering her head. “I’ll be checking in.”
Kat got off the boat, walked up the ramp to the yard. Brandon watched from the stern, then went back below, sat at the desk. Flicked his phone on, opened Twitter. He searched for it and there it was:
Thatcher Rawlings, December 1, 1999-September 8, 2016. Dead at the hands of the Portland, Maine Police Department. #kidslivesmatter
The tweet was from @tiffrawlings. In less than five minutes, it had gotten 132 likes and had been retweeted 39 times. Brandon clicked the phone dark. Sat and stared, looking toward the starboard windows but seeing only as far as the inside of his head.
Minutes passed. A half-hour. His phone rattled like it was trying to rid itself of something. Texts. When the phone wasn’t buzzing, the only sound was the scolding cry of gulls and the lap of water against the wooden hull.
Brandon felt himself hardening, frozen into a dark place. The night whirled around in his head, followed by the day. Thatcher. The shots. The blood. Tiff Rawlings, her snarling, lips-curled snarl, the visceral hatred. And then memories of his own mother, wild child Nikki Blake lost at sea when he was three. The images were so fragmentary and elusive that he didn’t know if he had imagined them, dragged them from old snapshots, turned them into facsimiles of actual memories.
He only thought of her when he was sinking, and then he would wonder if that was because she had sunk herself, executed on a sailboat for a pile of drug smuggler’s cash. Now they sank together, mother and son, the only thing that seemed to link them. Bad luck? Bad judgment? Some of both?
“Damn,” he said, and shook himself loose. He got up from the settee and paced the cabin, shouted, “Why didn’t you just drop the goddamn gun?”
