by Liza Ketchum
We crawl along the road to Freeport, huddled in Ray’s car. “Thank goodness you’re driving,” Aunt Cora says. I agree. It’s like some Halloween party where you grope through a cloud machine. Now and then, we spot wisps of green beside the road, or a set of headlights coming the other way. Ray puts on his flashers and pulls into a turnout. “Roll down your windows,” he says.
Wild, muffled barking echoes in the distance. “Seals,” Ray says. “Too bad you can’t see—it’s beautiful here on a good day. You guys all right?”
Cora nods. I can’t answer.
*
The fog lifts a little when we reach a small ferry at Tiverton. The three of us lean against the railing as the boat chugs across the channel. “We’re headed to Long Island now,” Ray says. “Ironic for me; that’s where I grew up. Long Island, New York, that is.”
“Did you ever want to go back?” Cora asks.
“Always,” Ray says. “It was tough. My parents are gone now. I have a wonderful family, a good job. Canada’s been good to me, but I miss home—and New York’s energy.” He nudges my elbow. “And Shea.”
I force a smile. “I told you—we don’t discuss the Mets.”
“Sorry. A bad time for jokes.” Ray squeezes my shoulder.
As we climb back into the car, I try to imagine crossing the border, never returning to Boston, leaving everyone behind—even the Sox. Now I realize, when Dad left the country, he gave up that fabulous moment when you stride up the concrete ramp at Fenway and see that beautiful expanse of green grass. No more singing “Sweet Caroline” with thousands of rabid fans, or jumping to your feet, your heart in your throat, as you will a fly ball to leave the park and empty the bases.
Was Pop right? Should Dad have stayed, done his duty, ‘faced the music,’ as Pop says?
But what if he’d gone and been killed? Or come back with PTSD, like the guys Dad treated in his practice? Maybe I wouldn’t even be here.
I squint into the fog and think about last night’s conversation. If they had a draft now—would I go to Iraq, fight another war no one wants?
Too many questions.
*
Long Island doesn’t live up to its name. We reach the little town of Freeport in a few minutes and pull up in a parking lot beside a restaurant. The village perches on a bluff above a ferry dock. Fishing boats are moored along a second dock. I peer at the vague outline of the shore across the channel. “Doesn’t look like the fog has ‘lifted.’”
Ray stretches. “I’m guessing the Little Blue might be on that far dock—shall we wander over?”
“I’ll go.” I zip up Dad’s Sox jacket, pat my pockets to make sure I have everything, and glance at my aunt. Her face is a mask under her wide-brimmed hat. Acting skills help in tough situations. “What’s the worst that could happen?” I ask. Ray and Aunt Cora glance at each other. “Never mind. Don’t answer.” I poke a thumb toward the restaurant. “Smells like fresh bread. Have a coffee. Get a table by the window. I’ll wave if I need help.”
I take off down the hill as if I know what I’m doing, and saunter out onto the dock. The uneven planking rattles under my feet. Boats bob and dip below me but I can’t read their names without leaning over the edge. The first few boats look like the scallop boats I saw in Digby, with tall masts, radar, and nets piled up on their decks. Three motorboats, moored on the far side of the dock, are luxurious stinkpots; pleasure boats with lounge chairs, TVs, and computer screens.
I stand there, feeling stupid, when fiddle music jangles behind me, the kind that drives Mom crazy. “It’s all just deedle-ee-dee, deedle-ee-dee,” Mom says. I can take it or leave it. Some is a little too bouncy for my taste. But this isn’t a recording, because the fiddle stops, repeats a phrase, starts up again. The tune is familiar, maybe something Dad had on a Natalie MacMaster album—or that fiddler from Chicago: Liz Carroll? Dad took me to one of her concerts. The tune lures me to the bow of the boat.
A girl is perched on the gunwale, playing a jig—at least I think it’s a jig. Isn’t that what Dad told me—heavy on the first beat? The fiddler’s short hair is dyed a bright orange, and she wears a tight tank top that shows off decent boobs. Maybe her fiddling keeps her warm. The girl’s foot bounces like crazy and her bow jumps across the strings.
When the tune ends, I clap. She cranes her neck and squints up at me. “Who’s there?”
I give her a small wave. “Sorry; didn’t mean to spook you. Sounds great.”
“That was ‘Rakes of Kildare’ and ‘Lark in the Morning,’ some jigs I’m learning. I’ll never play them like Natalie does.”
Natalie MacMaster and a jig: I was right about both. “You live here?” I ask.
“For now. I’m supposed to be swabbing the decks, getting ready for the next outing, but I haven’t played in a few days. My fingers were itchy.”
I squat to see her better. She’s got multiple piercings in both ears and a small tattoo on one bicep. “This your boat?”
“Nope. I’m crewing on her now.” She cocks her head like a bird. “Do I know you?”
The skin prickles at the back of my neck. “I doubt it. My first time in Canada. Why?”
“You look familiar. Come on down. You can use the rope ladder.”
My foot gropes awkwardly for the first rung and the ladder swings. “Wait,” she calls. “I’ll hold it steady.” I back down one rung at a time, relieved when I finally feel the deck under me. I stand in the stern and look around. Tangled pairs of binoculars hang from plastic hooks; maps and charts are spread out near the wheel; plasticized cards with pictures of whales, seals, and seabirds cover a low table. “Must be the whale watch boat.”
“Brilliant deduction.” The girl lifts her fiddle in a salute. “Welcome to Little Blue.”
My head suddenly feels as if it might float away. “Mind if I sit?” I plunk my butt onto a cushioned bench before she can answer.
“Wow. If you get seasick on a moored ship, better stick with dry ground, eh?”
“Sorry.” I bury my head in my hands until the dizziness passes, then slowly sit up and meet her gaze. Her eyes are a coppery color and I can’t tell her age. Fourteen? “Thing is…” I take a deep breath. This is coming out all wrong. “We’re signed up for your whale watch later. That is, my aunt signed up for it. But I called…”
I run my hands through my hair. “Sheesh,” I say. “I’m not making sense.”
“No trouble. Like to look around?”
“No thanks. My aunt’s in the restaurant. We’re supposed to go out with you at—when is it?”
“When the fog lifts. If it does. I told Quinn—”
“Quinn?” I’m an automaton now, just repeating what she’s saying.
“My brother. I told him the fog is socked in, but he’s determined to motor out. Says there are right whales feeding in the Bay and we might see one.”
“Huh.” I stand up slowly.
“Cat,” she says, and holds out her hand.
Is she telling me her name? “Brandon.”
She points to my jacket. “Not from around here.”
“Boston.” This is insane. She must think I can only say one word at a time. “I was expecting…” I stop. “Sorry. I’m acting like an idiot.”
“I’m not available,” she says. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”
I laugh out loud.
“What’s so funny?” she demands. “Some girls think I’m quite the catch.”
Some girls? Oh, I get it. Hoo boy. This must be the weirdest conversation of my entire life. “It’s just—if only it were that simple. Actually, I need to see your brother. If your brother is Quinn Blanding. Because I think—”
“You’re in luck then. Here he comes.”
Bases Loaded, Full Count, Two-out Nightmare
A tall guy strides toward us along the dock, which has grown closer. The tide must be rising. He carries a coffee mug and grocery sacks. The boat rocks as waves slap the side and I brace my legs to steady myself. The guy
shoots me a curious look as he lowers the groceries to his sister and comes down the ladder one-handed, balancing the coffee in the other. He’s tall; I look up to see into his eyes, which are a piercing blue. No trace of Dad’s brown ones there. His hair is blond and straight. He could be in an ad for the perfect Norwegian. Marty would take one look and say: Tight ass.
“Quinn Blanding,” he says. “Can I help you?”
“Hi.” My voice comes out scratchy but I stumble on. “I’m Brandon. I left a message—my aunt and I are signed up for the whale watch.”
“You’re early,” he says. “I’m not sure we’ll go out. The fog’s a witch.”
“Actually.” My breath sounds like a gasp. I should have figured this out. “My name’s Brandon McGinnis. My dad is—I mean was—Patrick McGinnis. That mean anything?”
Cat sucks in her breath. Quinn shoots her a warning look and says nothing.
I stumble on. “My dad—knew your mother. Victoria Martin. When they were both living in Halifax. In the seventies.”
“And?” His voice is ice. “What’s this got to do with me?”
“I think—” There’s no right way to say this. “I think you’re my brother. Half brother, that is.”
His face twists as if I’ve spit at him. His silence magnifies other sounds: a distant foghorn, the purr of a diesel engine; the squeal of a gull.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Quinn says at last. He whirls to his sister. “What the hell is going on? Is this what all the weird calls are about?”
Cat crosses her arms over her chest as if she’s protecting herself. “I don’t know, Quinn.” She looks scared. “Maybe it explains—”
“Stuff it,” he says, in a way that makes me pray we’re not related.
“Look. I know this sounds weird. But I need to tell you something important—”
Blanding steps close; too close. He’s got coffee breath. “I don’t know who the hell you are, or what you want from me,” he says. “My father is Granger Blanding. Now get your ass off my boat before I throw you overboard.”
I’m about to bolt when I get this split-second image of Kadisha, the kid in Cora’s class, planting her feet and setting her fists on her bony hips. If she can do it, I can, too. I brace myself. “I’m not afraid of the water. I don’t want anything from you. In fact, I wish you didn’t exist. I’m here because my dad—Patrick McGinnis—died of a rare heart disease. It’s inherited. I’ve been trying to track you down since he died, in case you might have it too.” I take another deep breath. “I thought you’d like to know.”
His jaw quivers. “We don’t take wacko Yanks out on Little Blue. Get. Off. My. Boat.”
“Okay.” I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out Dad’s long-lost letter to Victoria. “You might want to look at this. It’s a letter my dad sent to your mom when you were a baby. When your mom kidnapped you—”
He snarls, grabs my wrist, and bats the letter from my hand.
“Quinn, don’t!” Cat scoops up the letter. “Where’d you get this?”
“Cat, I’m warning you,” Quinn says, before I can answer. He gestures to the ladder again, his face purple.
I pull the ladder toward me. “I’ll be in the restaurant with my aunt and our friend Ray. In case you’d like to hear what I have to say.”
Cat tugs at her brother’s shirt. “Ray? Quinn—that’s the guy who called…”
He spins. “Shut up. And you,” he says to me, “I don’t ever want to see you again. Understand?”
“Okay.” The way my heart hammers, you’d never believe the doc’s diagnosis. Splinters sting my palms as I scramble onto the dock. I glance down in time to see Quinn and Cat duck into the wheelhouse. The door closes behind them. No doubt about it: that was a bases loaded, two-out, full count nightmare where the other team wins. I jog toward the restaurant. Two shadowy figures, barely visible in the fog, are huddled together on the bluff. Cora and Ray? Let’s hope.
Phone call: Cat and Quinn, to mobile voicemail
Mum, please pick up. I’m with Quinn on Little Blue. We have an emergency. Where are you? You need to call one of our phones…
Wait: Quinn wants to say something.
(Pause.)
Mum, Quinn here. If I don’t hear from you in an hour, I’m calling the police and starting a search. We’re worried. We want—
(“Message time elapsed.”)
Mum, Quinn again. I ran out of time. Listen, some guy showed up here—
(“Mailbox full.”)
Call to the Bullpen
The café smells of coffee, bacon, and fresh bread. Cora has already ordered me a latte and a warm blueberry muffin. I tell them what happened as I eat one muffin, then another. Cora laughs when I describe how feisty Kadisha gave me courage.
“Does Quinn look—anything like Pat?” she asks.
“No, thank God. He’s much taller, with straight blond hair, bright blue eyes. Like a model in a Norwegian ski ad. And man, is he angry.” I gulp the latte. “I didn’t plan this very well.”
“You’ve done a great job,” Cora says, “but we need to step in now.”
“A call to the bullpen,” I say.
Ray nods. “Exactly. We can’t leave things like this.”
“Will you get in trouble?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “I doubt it. How would this guy know my story?”
“He’s really pissed.”
Ray gives me a tight smile. “Won’t be the first time I’ve dealt with an angry male.”
They walk me back to the Little Blue, one on each side of me. I feel safe—but what if we’re wrong? What proof do we have? Dad’s letter was my ace in the hole. Still, Cat recognized Ray’s name. And something about my name spooked her, too.
Cat and Quinn are still in the wheelhouse when we reach the end of the dock, huddled over something on the table. The tide has risen so we could almost step directly into the boat, but Ray holds up a hand. “Let’s be polite.” He clears his throat. “Hello? Captain Blanding?”
Quinn tries to hold Cat back but she pushes past him and opens the door. “Are you the guy who called the house?”
“Yes; Ray Graham. And this is Cora McGinnis and Brandon McGinnis—the sister and son of my friend Patrick.” The ferry churns past and waves knock against the Little Blue. “We need to talk to you,” Ray says. “Should we come aboard—or would you rather meet somewhere else?”
Quinn steps up behind his sister. His cheeks are chalky and he still looks furious. I remember my reaction when I first read that letter from Probate. Lucky I didn’t break every window in our apartment. Why should it be any different for him?
“Hey,” I say. “Sorry I didn’t really explain—”
“What the hell do you people want? Do you know why our mom disappeared? I’m about to call the police.”
“Disappeared?” Ray asks.
“Yeah,” Quinn says. “Not that you care.”
Ray takes a deep breath and holds out his hands. “Please,” he says. “I do care. Brandon has something important to tell you about your health. Can we talk?”
Cat tugs her brother’s sleeve like a little kid. “Quinn,” she says. “It can’t hurt to hear what they have to say. It might explain—”
She lowers her voice. We can’t hear her, but Quinn’s shoulders slump. “Not on my boat,” he tells us. “Customers may show up, even with the fog. I’ll leave a note here. There’s a picnic table on the bluff near the restaurant. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Got it,” Ray says.
We turn to go when sharp footsteps click-clack along the planking. A woman’s voice calls, “Quinn! Cat! Where are you?”
A tall woman in high heels and a navy business suit hurries toward us, long dark hair tossing, her face twisted as if she’s been crying or is about to scream. When she catches sight of us, she stops and stares. Ray raises a hand.
“Victoria Martin,” he says quietly. “It’s been a while.”
She scowls and squin
ts, opens her mouth to say something—and then sees me. Her face goes white. “Pat?” She claps a hand over her mouth and stumbles. Her spike heel catches in the crack between the planks and she loses her balance.
“Watchit!” I lunge for her. Too late. She lurches sideways and falls over the edge of the dock, screaming; her body twisted, legs splayed, skirt hiked up.
I’m on automatic pilot. I kick off my sandals, strip out of jacket and jeans as Aunt Cora screams, “Brandon, no!”
I jump from the end of the dock. Icy water: total shock. I gulp for breath. Can’t see much in the fog. Victoria screams. I swim toward the sound of her voice.
“Mom!” Quinn shouts. “Hold on—we’ll come after you.”
I keep my eyes on Victoria. She’s flailing. She grabs for the stern of the boat but the ferry’s wake pushes her past the wooden pilings. Shouts and screams sound in the distance. I tread water, spot her again and swim after her. She strokes in my direction, but the current works against her. She ducks her head and I panic until she comes up with one shoe, then another, tosses them into the black water. Smart move.
The diesel engine sputters, catches, and rumbles behind me: a beautiful sound. I glance over my shoulder. Quinn jumps onto a bench and aims a throw bag at his mom. A yellow rope uncoils above me. His long toss is amazingly accurate: the bag lands just beyond Victoria. He should have been a pitcher. I keep swimming. Feet and hands completely numb.
Victoria flounders for the bag and misses. I swim toward her, carried on the current even as she fights against it. She lunges for me but I expect that. I duck my head and come up underneath her. Grab her across the chest and under her armpit in an iron grip—just like Coach taught us. Catch the rope with my other hand.
“Relax!” I yell. “Now breathe. I’ve got you and the rope.” Relax? Come on. Still, that’s what Coach taught us to say. Little Blue chugs closer. “The boat’s coming.” Victoria’s eyes roll up. Her dead weight pulls us under. Cold black water closes over our heads. Crap. I don’t want to die. Not now. I clutch her suit jacket, push her to the surface. Grip her with one arm, hold the rope with the other. She gasps and coughs. Good sign. She’s still breathing.
