by Gerry Boyle
“Oh, you guys don’t have to do that,” Lily said, her voice weak and small. “I’m sure you have a million things to—”
“No, it’s a beautiful day,” Mia said. “Why should we sit here on the dock. Right, Brand?”
“Right,” Brandon said. “We’ll just go out to Great Diamond, anchor, soak up some sun.”
“Did you bring shorts?” Mia said.
“No, I was cold,” Lily said. “I’ve been cold ever since . . .”
Mia walked over to her, leaned down and put her hands on Lily’s shoulders. “We’ve been there. We’ll get you through this.”
While they ate their salads, Brandon took a chicken sandwich up to the helm. Bay Witch was fueled and ready. He ran the blowers, started the engines. They rumbled and skipped, then settled into their slow rhythmic blubbing. He switched on the electronics, heard the radio traffic: lobstermen chatting, a pilot calling a tanker, tanker calling back. He climbed down the ladder, went over the stern, and slipped off the dock line. Trotting forward, he did the same at the bow, then went back aboard and up to the helm. The boat had started to drift off of the dock and he put the engines in gear and eased it out of the berth, past the floats and into the channel.
It was a busy day on the harbor: lobster boats returning to port, sailboats running with the northwest wind toward the bay, tugs pushing an oil barge toward the bridge, cruisers headed into the Portland wharves, two Marine Patrol officers on an inflatable making rounds like cops on the beat.
Mia and Lily sat on chairs on the foredeck, Brandon seeing the tops of their heads from the helm. He couldn’t hear them but he could tell by the motion that they were talking, which was good for both of them, Brandon thought. “Talk it out,” he said to himself, his voice lost in the rumble of the engines. “Don’t internalize,” he said, quoting the first shrink he’d seen after the shooting. “Get it all out in the fresh air to dry out.”
He thought of that as he headed for the north side of the harbor entrance, past the Iron Works crane, the big dry dock. And then they were in more open water, the wind picking up. Mia and Lily came back along the deck on the port side, then in the aft deck, and up the ladder to the helm.
“We got cold,” Mia said, and she sat down on the settee, Lily sitting beside her. She looked out through the plastic windows as Brandon pointed out Little Diamond, Great Diamond, Peaks Island beyond them. He glanced at her, saw wind-flushed cheeks, but less of the remnant of sobbing fits. When he handed her a pair of binoculars, told her to follow the red buoys up the east side of Great Diamond, Lily almost smiled. And then her expression slipped back to somber.
Mia caught it, looked at Brandon, then said to Lily: “Hey, we’re almost there.”
They motored along the shore, then swung east, making the narrow cut below Cow Island. Brandon told Lily about the island being a sort of getaway for famous writers like Longfellow and Harriet Beecher Stowe, then about the military buying the island and building a fort during the Spanish American War.
“Brandon, how do you know all this stuff?” Lily said.
“His head is chock full,” Mia said. “I try not to respond because it encourages him.”
Lily smiled but dolefully, the eyes still sad. Brandon eased back on the throttles and they turned in their seats as the cove came into view. There were three cruisers anchored by the restaurant, a Whaler on the float. Brandon swung Bay Witch around into the wind, then gave the throttles a nudge and eased off again. Mia took the helm while Brandon went forward and released the anchor, the chain rattling through the chock. The boat fell back and then there was a tug as the anchor caught. Back at the helm, Mia cut the motors. Water slapped the hull.
“I think it’s time for a glass of wine,” Mia said.
They sat at the stern, sheltered from the sea breeze. Mia and Lily had Chardonnay in sturdy tumblers. Brandon sipped Poland Spring from the bottle. He talked more about the island, the army barracks turned into condos. That got him onto the British shelling Portland in 1775, lighting the city on fire. He looked at Lily, gazing back out at the bay, not listening.
Brandon shot a look at Mia. She said to Lily, “You okay?”
“Sure,” Lily said. “I’m fine,” and she pulled the scrunchie out of her hair, yanked her hair tight, and tied it back up. She looked away, as though she didn’t want them to see, but they saw her shoulders shake and then heave, and then she turned back and started to sob.
Mia moved to her, put her arm around her shoulders.
“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s okay.”
“He’s dead and I did it,” Lily said, between sobs. “What if he wasn’t going to kill us? What if he was just going to let us go?”
“That wasn’t going to happen, Lily,” Brandon said. “No way.”
“But what if it could have?” she said.
“It’s all right,” Mia said.
“He would have worn a mask if he was going to let you go,” Brandon said. “He let you see him because he knew you weren’t going to be able to tell anyone. You weren’t going to the police.”
“But—”
“There was very little chance of you getting out of that alive,” Brandon said. “Almost none.”
“We could have run away or something,” Lily said, wiping her eyes, her nose.
Mia reached under the cabinet, found a box of tissues, and pulled one out and handed it to her.
“We could have given him the money and then—”
“And then he would have shot both of you,” Brandon said. “Winston first.”
“Brandon’s right,” Mia said. “People like that, they don’t even think twice about it.”
“When it happened to you,” Lily said. “When that guy had you—”
“He was going to kill me probably anyway,” Mia said. “And then when everything fell apart, he definitely was going to take me with him.”
“But Brandon—”
She searched for the words.
“—got him first?”
Mia nodded.
“But how did you deal with that, Brandon?” Lily said. “Killing someone.”
“I didn’t choose the situation,” Brandon said. “You didn’t, either. Given all of the possible outcomes, this was the best one.”
“But that sounds so, I don’t know, cold or something. I mean, this was a human being. He had a family, maybe. I don’t know. Maybe kids someplace. Probably had some awful childhood, a father who—”
“Not your problem, Lily,” Brandon said.
“I know, but—”
“No buts,” Brandon said.
“What you did took a lot of courage, it really did,” Mia said.
“What does Winston think?” Brandon said.
“He says I saved his life,” Lily said softly.
“Yours and his,” Mia said.
She gave Lily a hug and held out her glass. Lily reluctantly clinked.
“I’m proud of you,” Mia said.
“Thank you, guys,” Lily said. “For being here.”
They were quiet for a minute. Gulls cried overhead, squabbled over something on the float. One emerged with the morsel and flew off, chased by the others. One of us has something, the others try to take it away, Brandon thought.
“I still wonder why he picked Winston,” he said. “Of all people.”
Lily shook her head and shrugged.
“I wish to hell he hadn’t,” she said.
After lunch on the stern, Mia took the boat out of the cove and turned southeast, running through the passage between Long and Peaks islands. Brandon sat with Lily on the settee on the starboard side, pointed out seals popping up and watching the boat pass. “Oh, they’re so cute,” Lily said. “They’re like little puppies.”
Boats were motoring through the passage, a pretty Hinckley sloop, a couple of teenage boys on a Grady-White. They waved and Lily waved back, seemed to be regaining her strength. Mia looked at Brandon and nodded toward Lily, looking at the Victorian cottages on the
north side of Peaks. “Winston would so love this,” she said.
Brandon nodded to Mia, said, “Lily, want to take the helm?”
“Drive the boat?” she said. “If you’re sure I won’t crash into a rock or something.”
They ran out to the buoy east of Peaks and swung southwest. Lily went to the helm and took the wheel, peering seriously out at the sea. It was rougher here, out on the bay, and Bay Witch rode the swells, the motor rumbling, louder as the bow fell and the stern rose. Mia showed Lily the compass, told her to keep it at about 210 southwest. Lily stared at the compass intently, jiggling the wheel.
“You can still look out,” Mia said, and she looked to Brandon and winked.
They had Lily throttle back south of the island, turn west to thread their way through Peaks and Cushings, north of House, and then west toward Portland Harbor. Mia told Lily about the buoys, “red right returning, green right going.” Lily repeated it over and over, then clutched the wheel tightly as they navigated the passage. When a ferry appeared, crossing their bow, headed into Peaks, Lily said, “Oh my gosh, you take it,” and Mia did. Lily sat with Brandon and smiled.
“How did I do?” she said.
“Just fine,” Brandon said.
Lily looked at him, smiled, and said, “Thank you for this,” and gave his arm a pat that ended with a squeeze.
Mia brought the boat into the marina, feathering the engines to back into the slip. Brandon hopped off and tied up, gave her a thumbs-up. Every time was smoother, and now Brandon trusted her to take Bay Witch most places he would. During the day, not at night. Nighttime on the water, like on land, could be dangerous.
Lily came to the stern while Mia was still up on the helm. She stepped off onto the dock and stood.
“So how are things with you, Brandon?” Lily said. “I feel like we spent the whole day talking about me.”
“Understandable,” Brandon said.
“Thanks for being there for us.”
“Anytime. Except I hope there isn’t another one.”
“God forbid,” Lily said. “To go through this twice. But you could, couldn’t you, with what you do.”
“Occupational hazard—even though some cops go a whole career without even firing their gun.”
They stood for a moment, could see Mia up top, putting things away.
“What’s happening with the baby?” Lily said.
“Nothing good. The mom’s dead, no sign of the kid. Stopped at the building last night, and the Sudanese family is thinking of moving out. Say the place is haunted. The baby’s ghost.”
“Africans are superstitious,” Lily said. “Even Winston. He takes all that stuff very seriously. Duppies, they call them.”
“I’ve heard of that.”
“Yeah, they’re afraid of them. A dead person’s shadow or something. If a duppy touches you, or even breathes on you, you get sick.”
“But I thought duppies were Jamaican,” Brandon said.
“It must be in Barbados, too,” Lily said. “Winston talks about them, and he’s never even been to Jamaica.”
“Really?”
“No. I guess they don’t even like each other. Jamaicans think Barbadians are uppity. Or maybe it’s the other way around.”
“So he won’t go there?”
“I don’t know about that. But I think when he decided to leave Barbados, he didn’t want to just go to another island.”
“Where did he go?”
“Canada. A lot of Barbadians in Canada.”
“Jamaicans, too,” Brandon said. “Big posses. You know, criminal gangs. In Toronto they run the drug trade.”
“You do know a lot of random stuff, Brandon Blake,” Lily said.
They stood, heard Mia coming down the ladder.
“So, this duppy thing,” Lily said. “If that’s true, would that mean the baby is dead, too?”
“I suppose so,” Brandon said. “Can’t be a shadow of someone if they’re still alive.”
Brandon had to be at the PD at 5 p.m. to start his shift. Lily was asleep in the forward cabin, finally able to wind down. Mia had gone to unlock the gas dock for the Aldens in their motorsailer and now she was on the foredeck, a legal pad on her lap, laptop beside her.
“I’m going,” he said, coming around the side deck, leaning over to kiss her forehead.
“She’s better, don’t you think?” Mia whispered.
“Seems okay. Is she staying tonight?”
“Winston, too, I think. Is that okay?”
“Sure. But they’re going to have to go home sometime.”
“I think there’s still blood.”
“Crime-scene people are done by now,” Brandon said. “So they should have it cleaned up and get on with their lives.”
“Getting back on the horse?” Mia said.
“Something like that.”
“It took us a while, remember?”
“I do,” Brandon said.
Mia’s nightmares. Whimpering beside him until he’d finally reach over to wake her, save her once again. For Brandon, the dreams lasted a couple of weeks. Mia still had them, but only once or twice a month. Her fear of small, closed spaces lingered.
He kissed her again. She squeezed his hand, held it a little longer than usual.
“You stopping to see Nessa?”
“Yes.”
“Give her my love,” Mia said.
“I will.”
“Are we okay?” Mia said.
“I am. Are you?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t sound sure,” Brandon said.
“It just brings it all back,” Mia said.
“Yeah, it does.”
“That, plus everything else.”
“I know,” Brandon said.
“Well, be careful, baby.”
“Always.” Brandon said.
Nessa was at Maple Grove, a rehab center in South Portland. It was out by the mall, at the end of a drive that cut through woods that were mostly scrub oak. There was no grove; no maples either.
Brandon parked and walked in, waved to the nursing station on the way by. “Good day?” he said.
“Not so good,” said the nurse’s aide, a young woman named Shardi, big and cheerful and chatty, with a tattoo of barbed wire around her upper right bicep. Brandon nodded, kept walking.
Nessa was in the chair by the window, dressed in black slacks, a red sweater, matching red driving moccasins. It was outfit number four, put together by Mia. There were seven others hanging in the closet.
The television was on, a cooking show. A jovial woman cracking eggs and jokes. She plopped some stuff into a food processor, hit the button, said of the pale green goop, “Now doesn’t that look yummy?”
Nessa was staring out the window, which faced a garden with concrete frogs and turtles, like a witch had turned them to stone.
“Nessa,” Brandon said. “How are you doing?”
She turned to him, surprised. Her hair was pulled back, her makeup done. Shardi was good that way.
She took his hand, held it to her face, the sagging side, from the stroke that took her ability to speak.
“I love you, too,” Brandon said.
He pulled the other chair over and sat, arranging his gear.
“On the way to work,” Brandon said. “Just wanted to see how you’re doing.”
Nessa shrugged, her thin shoulders jabbing at the sweater like sticks.
“Shardi said you’re a little sad today. How come?”
Another shrug, a half-smile, with the side of her mouth that worked.
“Can’t waste time being sad,” Brandon said. “Every day’s precious, right? You always said that.”
A halfhearted nod, Brandon remembering that Nessa said it in the morning, by lunch was drunk, by suppertime passed out. Her precious days were short.
“Mia’s good. She’s writing, and still working at the library. She says hi.”
Nessa tried to say something but it came out as gibberis
h, always the same sound since the stroke.
Brandon looked for her keypad, a little clipboard thing with a keyboard and screen. It was under a stack of books on the bedside table.
“You’re supposed to keep this with you,” he said, retrieving the keypad and handing it to her. Nessa held it on her lap, typed with her good hand, the left. Brandon waited as she hunted and pecked, then held the screen up.
SHE’S A SWEET GIRL. DON’T LOSE HER.
“I won’t. Don’t worry.”
More typing, Nessa concentrating, eyes screwed up tight. It was an expression he hadn’t seen much growing up with her, Nessa floating along for years in a Chardonnay haze. She held up the screen.
POLICEMEN GET DIVORCED A LOT.
“I’m not married, Nessa.”
More typing.
SHE’LL BE A GOOD MOTHER.
“Maybe someday.”
I WASN’T A GOOD MOTHER. OR A GOOD GRANDMOTHER.
“You were fine. Is that what you’re sad about?”
I LET YOU ALL DOWN.
“You did the best you could, Nessa. But it was a long time ago. Let’s not get all bogged down in the past.”
YOUR MOTHER WAS A LOVELY GIRL.
“Yes, she was. Pretty like you.”
YOU HAVE HER EYES.
“So you’ve told me. I’m glad.”
I LOOK AT YOU AND SEE HER.
“I know you do.”
He patted her arm, the sweater draped over the hard bone. “I’ve got to go. Can’t be late for roll call.”
A last message on the board.
YOU WOULD HAVE ARRESTED ME.
“Enough of this crazy talk,” Brandon said, getting up, grinning. “Gimme that thing.”
He took the tablet, put it back on the table. Leaned over her and kissed her forehead. “I love you. Take care. I’ll see you in a day or two.”
She reached for his hand, gave it a weak, trembling squeeze. Brandon peeled her fingers away and walked out of the room.
He passed Shardi at the desk. He said, “You were right. Not a good day.”
“I know,” and then she was up, coming around the counter to waylay him. She got close to him, looked around as though checking to see if someone was listening.
