by Rice, Luanne
WHILE ANNIE STOOD THERE, A STRANGE THING HAPPENED: She left her body. Not like those people on TV, who died on the operating table or in a car accident and rose above the scene, watching their doctors and families with new, wise insights.
No, when Annie left her body, she flew far from the dock, into the past. She flew into her childhood, when her father would walk her to school. He would hold her hand, sing a little song to her when they got to the crosswalk:
“Stop, look, and listen, before you cross the street.
Use your eyes, use your ears, before you use
your feet . . .”
He had kept her safe, taught her how to do it on her own. Those were her favorite times with her father, when the other kids were home with her mom, when he wasn't too busy with work, fishing, or friends—and before she had gained weight and disappointed him. Annie had felt the full force of his love on those walks to school; when he had turned away, to leave her on the wide granite steps, she had felt as if the sun was setting, as if his great warmth had been removed.
Now her mother and Tara spoke in soft voices. Police officers hurried around the dock; their car radios squawked in the parking lot. People didn't pay the same attention to kids as they did to other adults, so the two men in dark suits spoke to the uniformed officers as if Annie wasn't there.
“Investigation,” she heard them say. “Internal . . . at the bank . . . the Feds . . .”
“Mommy, what are ‘the Feds'?” Annie asked, running over.
“It means the Federal government,” her mother said, putting her arms around Annie, rocking her so soothingly that Annie could almost think everything was going to be fine, that the whole Federal government was going to come to look for her father. Annie just held her mother and smelled her wonderful Mom-smell of sunscreen, lemon cologne, and salt water.
But then Tara whispered to her mom, “It means the FBI,” and her mother gasped, and Annie pulled away.
Before, everyone had been friendly, but now they were brusque and cold, and Annie understood that her father—somehow, a mistake, a nightmare—had become a suspect in something. A new car drove up, and two people got out carrying large cases. Tara said, “Forensics team,” and Annie's mother said, “This can't be happening.”
To Annie, it wasn't. Her body was air. The breeze moved through her, cooling her bones. Her bare feet, rooted on the dock's wide planking, hardly felt the summer heat. Her skin felt singed, as if it had been ripped away and her insides were leaking into the sky. Her mother reached for her, but Annie couldn't be held.
“Annie?” her mother said, arms reaching out.
Annie knew that her mother was trying to comfort her, and that she probably needed a hug back, but Annie couldn't let herself give it right now. She was Air-Girl. She had left her body entirely—just like a periwinkle crawls out of its shell.
And now, time traveler that she had become, she flew forward into the future. She closed her eyes, to block out every sight.
She thought of her life, of her father holding her hand all through it. “What's your favorite song, Annie?” he asked her sometimes. “Because we'll have them play it the day I walk you down the aisle. Forget Mendelssohn . . . whatever you want.”
But Annie veered away from her wedding day—boys didn't like her, anyway—and dreamed of her sports banquet instead. She had been to them before, for her brother and her best friend's sister, and now her throat choked up to imagine herself at the big table, flanked by her parents. They would be eating . . . prime rib, her father's favorite.
Annie would be thin. She wouldn't have eaten so much, exercised so little. She would have tried out for teams, made the cuts, taken their school all the way to the state championships. And she would be so thin and pretty . . .
The principal would call her name. Annie would push back her chair and, standing tall, so her father wouldn't criticize her posture, walk among the tables to the stage. People would be cheering. The other parents would be smiling at her father, giving him thumbs-ups for her excellence in—Annie cast about, searching her mind for the perfect sport—field hockey!
Or soccer. Or lacrosse. Or crew. Or basketball . . .
The sport was less important than the applause Annie would receive as she accepted the certificate and trophy, as the whole crowd of parents, children, and especially her father stood in an ovation, as Annie ran down from the stage, straight into her father's arms.
“Mrs. McCabe?”
The officer's voice interrupted Annie's reverie.
“Yes?” her mother said.
“We're going to clear this area right now. Why don't you go home? Someone will contact you very soon.”
“What were those officers saying about ‘the Feds'?” her mother asked, pointing.
“You'll be contacted very soon.”
“Please tell me now,” her mother said, her voice shaking. “I have three children. They're all so worried about their father. Please tell me what to tell them.”
“Soon, Mrs. McCabe. As soon as we have any real information.”
Her mother stood her ground, as if she was making up her mind about whether to insist on knowing more now, whether to demand to speak to someone higher up. Annie had seen her be bold and insistent when she needed to.
But right now, Annie saw the way her mother looked from the man to Annie . . . Staring into Annie's eyes seemed to make up her mother's mind. Their eyes met, and her mother smiled. Annie watched the fight go right out of her.
“Let's go home, honey,” her mother said.
Annie nodded, unable to speak.
Her mother gathered Annie into her arms as if she were a very small child instead of a twelve-year-old soon-to-be-recognized sports star. And Annie didn't even mind. She squished against her mother's body, not wanting even an inch of space between them, as they walked with Tara back down the dock, away from the boats and the police and into their car.
BILLY WATCHED FOR A CAR TO PULL INTO THE DRIVEWAY: his mother's, his father's, he almost didn't care whose. He wasn't too worried about his dad, even though he knew everyone else was. His dad was probably working late. He had made a promise a while back—to never mess around with that weird lady again—and Billy believed him.
But even if he wasn't messing around, he'd kind of screwed up. Billy hated to think that. Pegeen was really upset about not going to mini golf. She'd been looking forward to it all day, and she was only nine—nine-year-olds took things like this really hard.
He looked over at her, sulking at the picnic table. She was this wiry little kid, no bigger than a string bean. A beetle was climbing up the leg of the table. She was crooked over to one side, her head upside down, watching the beetle—and talking to it. That was the best part. Billy moved closer to listen.
“He promised, he really did. I was going to get the green ball today. Pirate's Cove lets you pick your own golf ball, and they come in all colors, and I usually pick bright blue, but today I felt like green. He must have forgotten. I wouldn't forget if it was me, if he was waiting for me. Beetles are pretty. Why's your shell so shiny?”
“Hey,” Billy said.
“What?” Pegeen said, not looking up.
“Who're you talking to?”
“No one.”
“Oh. You sure you're not talking to that bug?”
“I don't talk to bugs. When's Mommy getting home?”
“Soon.”
Peggy's head was still upside down. Billy could just imagine all the blood in her body rushing to her brain and knew that certain older-sibling measures were necessary here. Annie had showed him how to do it countless times, so he gently put his hand on Peggy's shoulder and eased her up.
“Hey,” he said. “Sit up straight.”
“I was just watching that beetle, not talking to it.”
“Watch it with your head up.”
“I wanted to go golfing,” she said, her eyes glittering.
“We'll still get to go. Just not today, probably.”
“That sucks.”
“Big time.”
“Is Daddy with that lady again?”
“Nah,” Billy said.
“How do you know?”
“He promised he wouldn't.”
Peggy nodded. That was good enough for her. Or maybe, like Billy, she just chose to believe the best of their dad—it was called “the benefit of the doubt.”
“You going to sit here all day?” Billy asked.
“Yeah,” Peggy said. “I'm going to sit here at this picnic table watching this beetle with the shiny shell all day.” Her mouth wiggled; he got a smile out of her.
“Then you'll miss your ups.”
“Huh?”
“I'll pitch to you. Go on, get the bat. Let's see you hit one out of the park.”
“It's the yard, Billy. Duh!”
“Yuck, yuck, I forgot—good thing I got you to remind me!”
AT HOME, ALL WAS QUIET. THE SUN WAS GOING DOWN, BUT there was still plenty of light. Billy and Peg were playing baseball in the side yard; they came running over to the car the minute she drove in. Everyone gathered together, a little tribal pod, asking a million questions.
Billy and Pegeen: “Have you seen Daddy? What's going on?”
Annie, back to them, “He didn't come home? He wasn't here at all?”
And Bay, pierced to the heart by her kids, by the family she and Sean had created, “Will you guys just keep playing, while I try to find out some answers? Just keep looking after each other . . . Peggy, I know . . . can you wait till tomorrow for mini golf? We'll go tomorrow . . .”
Billy and Peggy said they would keep playing, watching for their father. Annie wanted to come inside. While Bay went into the kitchen, Tara followed Annie into the den. She could hear them in there.
“Okay, darling,” Tara said in a brogue borrowed from her Irish grandmother. “We're going to play beauty parlor. I'm going to give you a pedicure now, all right? I've chosen this lovely shade for you . . . ‘Tickled Pink.' Is that to your liking now, darling?”
“Oh, Tara . . . I don't want to play.”
“Nonsense, darling. Sit still. Give me your tootsies, that's a girl. Sit back and relax, and I'll tell you about my last trip to the beautician. It was a facial-gone-bad. The steam was a tad too hot, and it left me looking like my grandmother with rosacea. Truly, not the look I'd been seeking. Ever had one of those?”
“I've never had a facial,” Annie said, the tiniest bit of laughter in her voice.
“Oh, darling. Perhaps once the toes are done, I'll administer a mask of egg whites and beer. Not that you need it, with skin like that. Did anyone tell you you've the complexion of a wild Irish rose? No? Well, just sit back and let me be the first . . .”
Tara's words and pretend accent almost made Bay smile. Her friend had such a generous way about her, enfolding those she loved with boundless kindness and humor, always knowing just what to do to help.
Hoping that Annie was okay for the moment, Bay steeled herself. She headed out of the kitchen, down the hall, up the stairs, into her bedroom. She looked around, as if she had never entered the room before, and then she closed the door behind her.
White curtains lifted in the gentle breeze blowing through open windows. The children's voices came up from the yard, but Bay hardly heard. She walked across the floor—polished wood covered by old hooked rugs, made by her own grandmother—to the bed. Everything on it was white: sheets, pillowcases, and summer-weight quilt. It was one of her favorite luxuries, an all-white bed. It always looked so clean and fresh, so ready to bestow sweet dreams.
Now, sitting on the edge, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the letter she had found on the boat. Her hands, to her surprise, were shaking. Her eyes scanned the page. Although she had written this to Danny Connolly twenty-five years ago, her own handwriting looked the same as it did today.
This copy had never been sent. She had written it as a draft, then copied it over on better stationery. She had been fifteen at the time; she had had long, long strawberry-blond hair and as much of a summer tan as she ever got, and she had ridden her bike everywhere. She had worn her bathing suit with just a T-shirt over it, without a trace of self-consciousness.
She had been so in love.
Had she known that was what it was? Even now, she wasn't sure. The first stirrings of love are mysterious to the girls feeling them. Heart beating too fast, a sense of standing on the edge of the world, hands that won't stay still . . .
Danny had been everything to her. To him, she was a summer kid, someone who bothered him while he did his job, building the new boardwalk. There were other jobs, too—painting and reroofing the parking lot guard shack, repairing the latticework at Foley's store—but the main thing was the new boardwalk.
While Sean had tried to talk her into swimming to the Wickland Light, or diving off the trestle over Eight Mile River, or joining the flotilla of boats out to Orient Point, Bay had stayed by Danny's side, handing him nails and learning how to swing a hammer.
Bay remembered thinking that he could build anything. He had worn khaki shorts and a faded beach T-shirt. She remembered his brown hair glinting in the sun. He had a Red Sox hat, but rarely wore it.
One morning, just before he started work, the baseball hat had been resting on the hood of his car, and she had stared at it, and as if he could read her mind, he had grinned and placed it on her head. His fingers had brushed her hair, just slightly, and she had felt weak and strong all at once and wished he would touch her hair again.
Daniel Connolly. Danny. His name had always been magic to her. She stared at the name now and thought about that summer so long ago—she could almost see him. Before he'd gone away at the end of the summer, he'd made her a swing out of the crescent moon—a sea-silvered arc of driftwood.
They had written to each other all through that next winter; Bay turned sixteen and began to date Sean. Danny took a trip to Europe. Their correspondence dwindled off, and he didn't come back the next summer, and as Bay's life took off, she lost touch with him.
Now, holding her letter, she wondered why Sean had taken it. What was the fax about; why had Sean contacted him? Could it even be the same Dan Connolly? Bay hadn't been aware that Sean remembered his existence—or if he did, why he would care. It had all been so long ago.
She stood and walked to the end of the bed. An antique chest rested at the foot. She used it to store blankets, but at one time, it had been her hope chest. Such an old-fashioned concept, she thought now. Her grandmother had given it to her upon graduation from high school. It had belonged to her great-grandmother, had come over on the boat from Ireland. Some of the first things Bay had packed inside had been her and Dan's letters.
After twenty-five years, marriage to Sean, and three children, she could hardly believe she still had them, but lifting the lid and pushing aside the blankets and old baby clothes, there they were: a stack of letters nearly an inch thick, held together by a frayed rubber band. Looking more carefully at the paper she'd found on the boat, she realized it was a photocopy and noticed what she had only glanced at before—notations in Sean's own handwriting: Eliza Day Boat Builders, New London CT.
Bewildered, Bay closed her eyes. She knew she had only a few minutes, before Annie or the other kids came in and wanted to know what was going on. They were frantic about their father, and Bay needed to have something to tell them.
Her palms were clammy, her heart racing too fast, her mind swirling with disbelief that today could be happening. What did any of this mean? It felt like someone else's nightmare. Holding the letter, staring at it, she wondered what her husband could have been thinking.
He had been jealous of Danny Connolly, way back in the day. Despite the differences in their ages, despite Dan treating her like a little sister, Sean was sharp enough to spot a rival. He had wondered how Bay could prefer hanging around a half-built boardwalk to waterskiing in the Sound. And Sean, with all his fire, could never understand the quiet incandescence of th
e poetic, Irish carpenter.
Bay cast her mind back to the folder in which she had found the letter. She could see the bold drawing of the van, the swirled-out doodles of “the girl.” Sean was at it again; that's all she could think of. He was obsessing about someone new.
She didn't know what else it could be; she couldn't imagine. After all these years together, she knew less than ever about how her husband's mind worked.
4
TARA HELD ANNIE'S FOOT CUPPED IN HER LEFT HAND, painted her toenails pink with the other. The girl's foot was as big as a woman's now, but holding it in her hand, Tara was transported back in time, to when Annie was a baby and Tara—her godmother—would play “this little piggy” and make her laugh and would wish to someday have a daughter of her own.
“Darling, you get the prize,” Tara said now.
Annie didn't reply. She was almost oblivious to the pedicure, attention riveted on the stairs. No sounds issued from up there. Bay was frighteningly silent, causing Tara's own anxiety level to kick up a notch.
“Don't you want to know what prize?” Tara prodded.
“What prize?” Annie asked.
“For the best beach feet. A-one beach girl beach feet. These calluses rival anything your mother and I had at your age. Close encounters with barnacles, crabbing on the rocks, scalded by hot tar—you are the real deal.”
“Thanks,” Annie said, not even slightly smiling. “What's she doing up there? Why aren't we looking for Dad?”
Tara took a deep, steady breath, concentrating as she applied a dab of shell-pink polish to Annie's baby toe—as if there was nothing more pressing in this world than getting the lacquer on right.
“Well, we are. Or, by that I mean, your mother is on top of it. She's in constant contact with the police, as you know, and I'm sure she's talking to your father's friends, asking where he might have gone. You know your father . . .” Tara said, and then stopped herself, because she was veering into dangerous territory.
