by Lisa Duffy
There were trawls to haul, and nothing was getting done sitting here, stewing in my own juices. I put the warp in the hauler and pulled up my first trap.
An hour passed before I took a water break. Then it was back to work: gaff the buoy; put the warp in the hauler; notch and throw back the punched and undersized lobsters, crabs, and whatnot; band the claws; bait the bags; and repeat. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat.
I’d been doing it so long, the movements were second nature, but the days were never the same. If it wasn’t the weather, it was the tide, or something acting up on the boat. Out here, there wasn’t time to think about anything but what you were doing, or you’d pay the price.
I’d had my share of days when I was lost in my thoughts and the wind would shift and a wave would crash over the bow, knocking the traps over the rail. Or the warp line would snake around my ankle, and I’d catch it right before I threw the trap over. My adrenaline spiking, the image of my body pitching over the rail and plunging into the cold water snapping me back to what I should have been concentrating on.
Now, I heard the hum of an engine off my bow and looked up to see a boat heading toward me, maybe fifty yards away.
I watched it before it slowed, almost to a stop, then turned right, changing its course to pass me. It was the Go Deep, the Miller brothers’ boat that ran out of Owl Head, nowhere near their territory. Finn ran with their crew back in high school. I knew he was still tight with one of the Millers. I grabbed the mike off the radio clip.
“Miller, Kelly here. You off my starboard?”
The VHF hummed, crackled. Then nothing.
I turned over the engine, threw her into gear, and throttled after the boat, the diesel engine growling. I was ten feet off Go Deep’s stern when the boat stopped. I pulled up, threw out a fender, and stood by the rail.
Keith Miller came out of the wheelhouse, a puzzled look on his face. He walked back to where I was standing.
“Didn’t hear me on the radio?” I yelled over to him.
“Don’t have it on. What’s up?”
Keith was the oldest of the Miller boys. He’d done some time in the state penitentiary years ago after his girlfriend fell off the back of his motorcycle and died. At the time, the girl’s father was a district counselor, and he’d lobbied hard for Keith to be charged with manslaughter, even though Keith had been sober and going the speed limit when she fell off the bike. Keith never even got a lawyer, just pleaded guilty and walked into jail, let go early for good behavior. He was a quiet guy, kept to himself. I’d never had a problem with Keith. It was his little brother, Wayne, I was looking for.
“Don’t see you over here much,” I pointed out.
“Going over to the island to pick up some gear. You need something?” He said it in a way that meant I better need something. And it better be important.
“I thought you were your brother,” I explained. “There are traps over there that don’t belong. On top of mine.”
He looked over to where I pointed, then looked back at me.
“You stop me for that?” he asked.
“I stopped you to tell you I’m cutting them,” I told him, the heat rising up my neck. “Tell your brother Wayne and his moron buddy you heard it straight from me.”
He stepped back when I said this, pushed his sunglasses up until they sat on top of his head. I saw his gaze flicker to the scar above my eye and rest there for a minute before he looked away. He knew I was talking about Finn.
The week after Finn and his cronies jumped me, Wayne had sported a black eye and a fat lip. I remember landing a punch or two before everything went black, but I knew I hadn’t done that kind of damage to Wayne. It got back to me that Keith had done it. When he found out the numbers; four to one, meaning four of them to one of me, he’d beat the shit out of his little brother. For being that kind of guy.
But that had been a long time ago, another lifetime ago. The Millers worked out of the next harbor over, and one of Boon’s brothers was tight with Keith, but I hadn’t had any dealings with them. For the most part, we stayed out of each other’s way.
Now, he cleared his throat and watched me. He was one of those guys who went bald before he was out of high school. I don’t think I’d ever seen him without a hat on. Today it was a brown knit cap, pulled low on his forehead. He had a goatee and a tattoo on the side of his neck of an ornate shield. The Miller crest. I knew I was walking a line talking about his brother, but I didn’t care. The noise in my head was deafening.
He walked close enough to the rail that he could have reached out and touched me. His eyes flicked over me, came back to my face.
“Kelly,” he said, his voice even, controlled. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
I leaned forward. “All I’m asking is that you deliver a message. So there’s no confusion over who did what.”
“Look. We’ve got a mutual friend, and I heard you’ve had a shit year, so I’m going to cut you some slack. You’re not thinking straight.”
“How’s that?” I asked, but it came out more like a shout than a question, and his eyes locked on mine.
He put his hand on the rail of my boat. “First of all, you’re going to back up. You might have a problem with whoever owns those traps, but that problem isn’t me, and I’ve got about this much patience left in me.” He held his thumb and forefinger out in front of me, the space between them so small, only the tiniest sliver of light seeped through.
Even through the noise in my head, I got it. I held up my hands and stepped back, gave him a nod to show I’d heard him.
“Now,” he said. “Let’s start over. I don’t give a shit whose traps those are. And I don’t give a shit if you cut ’em. I do give a shit that you’re telling me about it. A guy got shot on the island last month over who knew what and who didn’t.”
He wasn’t exaggerating. Two families who’d argued for decades over territory got into an argument out on the water about some traps that had been cut. Someone pulled a gun, and a stern man was shot in the neck. He lived, but barely.
“Either cut ’em and shut up or cut ’em and make it known. But either way, keep me out of it. You start dragging people into it, you’re going to start something you don’t want to start.”
Keith walked back to the wheelhouse and turned on the engine, a thick rattle filling the air. He throttled in reverse. When he was across from me, he gestured for me to lean in.
“Take some advice,” he said loudly over the noise of the engine. “You’ve got a good reputation out here. You know better than this. Get off the water until your head’s straight, or you’re going to get hurt.”
He was right and I knew it. But the buzzing in my head was making it hard to concentrate. I blinked, trying to make sense of what was happening.
I stuck out my hand for him to shake. “Sorry I slowed you down. That was out of line.”
After we shook, he looked in the direction of my traps. “Finn’s on the booze again. If you’re looking for him, check out the Rat. But you didn’t get that from me.”
He slapped the rail, spun the wheel starboard, and rumbled away, the Go Deep’s engines spinning the water into a blanket of white. There was an eerie silence then, only the water lapping against the hull. There was no feeling left in me, the anger I’d felt before faded and gone, leaving only a heaviness in my limbs. I couldn’t remember a time I’d felt so tired.
But there were still traps to haul, bait bags to fill, lobsters to crate, a string of traps to cut loose, free to tumble across the ocean floor.
I motored over, gaffed the purple-and-white buoy, grabbed the knife from its mounted sheath next to my leg, and held it to the warp line, the seaweed wrapped around it thick and slippery.
It took me less than a minute to cut Finn’s traps.
It was against the law to cut them. Trap molesting was a civil violation. If I got caught, there’d be a mandatory three-year loss of my fishing license.
I looked down at the knife,
and the sun lit up the steel blade in a flash of light, blinding me. Dots of silver popped like fireworks in front of my eyes.
There was no air to breathe, the pain in my chest searing.
I slid down to the deck and pressed the heel of my hand into my eye socket, trying to regain my vision.
Keith’s words played in my head, over and over, on a loop. Get off the water until your head’s straight, or you’re going to get hurt. Get off the water until your head’s straight, or you’re going to get hurt. Get off the water until your head’s straight, or you’re going to get hurt.
And then Boon’s voice chimed in. You’re not a one-man show calling the shots.
When I opened my eyes, I was on my back, flat on the deck. The sky had grown dark, a large cloud blocking the sun.
I glanced down at a flash of light and saw the knife on my chest where I’d dropped it. The blade rising and falling with my breath, the tip of the jagged teeth resting inches from my neck.
10
Jess
The breeze off the water fluttered the curtain in the bathroom window at the shop. I was supposed to be up at the counter, stocking the glass case with today’s fish. Instead, I was looking out the window at the pier below, where dozens of boats bobbed on the water. It wasn’t the view I was looking at. It was Alex, who was down on the dock, loading crates onto the stern of a boat.
I hadn’t seen him since I’d called his father a jerk. Remembering it made my cheeks hot.
When he’d told me he was Mr. Finn’s son, I’d been speechless, mortified. He’d brushed it off, though. And hadn’t said anything about it for the rest of the ride home.
After he’d pulled away in his truck, I’d stood on the sidewalk in front of my house, my head spinning. Had I even said I was sorry for what I’d said about his father? He’d wrapped my foot, given me a ride home. And what had I done? I’d called his father a jerk. A total jerk, is what I’d said.
Now it seemed like I had two choices: hide in here and pretend the whole thing never happened or apologize. I looked in the bathroom mirror. Looking for what I didn’t know. Maybe not to see so much brown. Eyes, hair, freckles. Even my shirt was the color of dirt. The yellow fish shop logo on my chest was the only bright thing looking back at me. I stuck out my tongue. I was just some girl who ended up on Alex’s street. He wasn’t going to care if my hair was brown or green or pink.
I left the bathroom, opened the back door, and stepped out onto the dock. He was still on the pier, holding a cup in his hand, his back to me. I headed in his direction before I lost my nerve.
When I was almost next to him, he turned suddenly. Then his cup was in the air, tossed like a basketball, his T-shirt rising up his middle and uncovering a flash of brown skin. He saw me then, as the cup flew over me, the bottom of it just missing the top of my head.
“Oops!” he said, his arms still extended in the air, his eyes wide. We watched the cup bounce off the rim of the barrel and land on the wooden dock, where coffee splattered in small drops.
“Sorry. I didn’t see you,” he said as he bent and picked up the cup. He threw it in the barrel and stepped close to me, and there were those eyes. Rings of black and tan and green. He smiled, and I looked down. Looked anywhere but at those eyes.
“Did I get any on you?” he asked.
I held out my arms, looked at my legs. “No. I think I’m good,” I said.
“I’m not known for my jump shot.” He pretended to shoot an imaginary ball, then looked at me. “Hey. How’s the ankle?”
“Good. Fine.” I wiggled it. “Back to new. It’s actually why I came down here. I mean, I didn’t know if you’d remember who I was—”
“I remember. The Jessica otherwise known as Jess.” He looked behind me. “Came down? From where?”
“I work there.” I pointed to the fish shop.
He raised his eyebrows at me. “I worked in the deli one summer back in North Carolina. Filled in for a guy in the fish department one shift. It’s hard work.”
It was, but I loved it. With the door open, the breeze coming through the screen, and the smell of fried clams from next door sneaking in, it hardly seemed like a job at all. I’d worked at a summer camp as a junior counselor when I was fourteen, assigned to the six-year-olds. That was work.
“That’s not exactly easy either,” I said, gesturing to the fishing boat in front of us, the one he’d been loading crates onto.
“Oh, I don’t work on that,” he said. “I just wanted to get a look and thought I’d give them a hand for a tour.” He studied the boat. “She’s a beauty.”
I looked over at it. It looked like every other boat in the harbor.
He saw my expression and dropped to a crouch and pointed at the bottom of the boat.
“She’s got a triple-diagonal mahogany hull.” He looked up at me. “Cold-molded construction,” he said, and stood up.
“You like boats, then,” I said.
“I like boats,” he agreed, grinning.
“So, anyway,” I said, realizing I had to get back to the shop, “thanks for your help that day.”
“It wasn’t a big deal. It’s not like I have a ton going on here.” He waved his hand when he said here, and I took it to mean Alden.
“Well, still. And I wanted to say I’m sorry again . . . for what I said.”
He looked at me and waited. I felt my stomach drop.
“I called your father a . . . a name,” I rambled, feeling my cheeks turn red. “And I—the truth is—I don’t even know him.”
He looked down, studied his shoes. When he looked up, his face was blank, empty.
“Anyway. With my ankle, you know, hurt, I didn’t remember if I apologized. So, um, sorry.”
He didn’t speak, just looked at me like he’d rather be anyplace else in the world than talking to me. Suddenly I wished I’d just stayed in the bathroom with my brown-eyed, brown-haired self.
“I have to get back. Thanks again for the ride,” I mumbled.
I walked away from him as fast as I could. The only noise I heard was the sound of my sneakers against the gangplank. I pulled open the back door, stepped in, and shut it behind me, my heart pounding.
I passed Boon’s office on my way to the front. He was on the phone and waved at me, pointed to his watch and grimaced.
I went to the front door and flipped the sign to OPEN. There was already a line of customers waiting at the door. I went behind the counter, pushing Alex out of my mind.
It was noon when Boon came out of his office and told me to take a break for lunch. After my knives were clean and my area scrubbed, I grabbed my lunch from the freezer and went out the back door.
I walked to the slip where Hope Ann usually was. My father was out fishing, and I slipped off my sneakers, sat on the dock, and dangled my feet in the water.
Our small skiff rocked slowly in the water. I put my foot on the edge of the stern and turned my face to the sun, letting it warm my skin. My eyes were closed when I heard Boon’s voice from the deck above. I held my hand up to shade my eyes and saw Alex walking toward me, a brown bag in his hand.
When he reached me, he pointed at Boon. “That guy is waiting for you to give him a thumbs-up, or he’s going to rearrange my face.”
I looked at Boon, who was fifty yards away, above us, watching us with his arms folded across his chest.
“Can you?” Alex said, glancing over his shoulder. “He didn’t seem like he was joking.”
I put my thumb in the air, and Boon waved and went back in the shop.
“Mind if I sit?” Alex asked, pointing to the dock next to me.
I scooched over to make room, and he sat down.
“I work next door. At the sailing camp. I stopped by the shop to see if you had time for lunch, and that guy told me you were here.”
“Boon,” I said.
“Huh?”
“His name is Boon. And he was kidding about rearranging your face. He’s never serious.”
“I th
ought he was your father the way he was grilling me about why I was looking for you.”
“He’s my uncle. Well, just my dad’s friend from forever ago, so I call him uncle. If it was my father, he would have been serious.” I rolled my eyes.
“Well, that guy, I mean Boon, puts on a good act.” He glanced back again. “I almost didn’t come down here.”
I looked at him, wanted to ask, Why did you? Instead, I concentrated on my lunch, tried not to stare at his legs, only inches from my own. A slug-shaped scar ran across the top of one knee. I looked out at the water, surprised at the urge to reach out and trace the shape of that scar with my fingertip. He opened the bag on his lap and took out an apple, rolled it around in his hand like a baseball.
I thought of Carly and the way she’d go on and on about Griffin Pike, the captain of the varsity hockey team. She’d analyze the way he said Hey, boss, to her when they passed in the hallway, or whether the high five they’d shared at the pep rally was actually more than just a high five. She’d tell me even being near him made her heart race, her palms sweaty. Sometimes she’d catch my look when she said this. You don’t understand, she’d whine, desperate for me to feel the same way about someone. And she was right; I didn’t understand.
Until now.
I concentrated on breathing, tried not to notice that my limbs were suddenly heavy. Maneuvering the grape from my hand to my mouth in one motion seemed impossible. Instead, I closed my fist around it, looked at the water, and waited for him to speak.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw him fidget with the brim of his baseball hat, pushing it up and then down again. He saw me watching and stopped, put his hand under his leg, apparently aware of the habit.
“I wanted to explain about earlier,” he said finally. “You caught me off guard.”
I turned to face him. He looked as nervous as I was.
“I actually drove past your house a couple of times. I wanted to see if you wanted to hang out. Go to a movie or something. But I chickened out, and then this morning you just appeared out of nowhere, and . . .” His eyes darted nervously at me, and he stopped talking.
