Cape Cod

by William Martin

  CHAPTER 23

  July 14

  The List

  “Get out of bed,” said the voice on the other end of the line.

  “George?”

  “The Somerset is out.”

  “It’s six-thirty.”

  “Bring Keith and Sarah over to Head of the Meadow. They’ll see something they’ll never forget.”

  It had happened before, most recently in 1973. The sea got to raging, moved out a few truckloads of sand, and exposed the remnants of a mighty warship. Then the tide surged back to bury her again.

  Must have been the thunderstorms that did it this time. All night the squalls gusted through. Geoff slept fitfully. Janice tossed beside him in the strobing light. But if either of them thought about a little middle-of-the night tumble to make them both sleep better, they didn’t do a thing about it.

  Now the sun slanted through the trees, and the mist rose from the wet pavement, making the morning feel as though it came from out of the past, fresh and unsullied. And Geoff took his son adventuring. In Boston he had been one of those seven-to-seven fathers—gone before the kids were up and out past their bedtime. It was one of life’s lousy ironies that most people’s work demanded the biggest piece of their time just when their kids needed them most. On Cape Cod, Geoff thought he could give his kids what they needed and keep working, too. But lately he hadn’t given them a thing.

  A promise of doughnuts did more to get Keith into the car than the chance to see the Somerset. Sarah chose to sleep in. “Can I buy two chocolates, just for myself?”

  “Sarah likes chocolate, too.”

  “Yeah, but she didn’t come.”

  “She didn’t care about an old British warship. That’s guy stuff. But we’ll get her a chocolate. Just because we love her.”

  Keith shrugged. He could be convinced. “So what kind of doughnut does Mom like?”

  “Butter crunch.”

  “Then we’ll get one of them, too. We love her, too.”

  “Yeah.” But she was making it more difficult.

  The road cut across the Little Pamet Marsh, rose out of the valley, and passed the ramshackle Rich house, an old Cape that always got Geoff to wondering what life had been like when the Truro population was a few hundred and ships like the Somerset marauded the coast.

  At Head of the Meadow Beach a small crowd had gathered, mostly surf fishermen and beachcombers like George.

  “Where’s the ship?” asked Keith. “You said it was as big as the Constitution.”

  “It was, once.” Geoff laughed. “But it was stripped, then burned so people could get the metal out of it, like nails and spikes. Then the waves pounded on it.”

  It was pretty disappointing, actually—a thirty-foot piece of keel, a few charred ribs sticking out of the sand, and the sparkling blue Atlantic ignoring it altogether.

  George was sweeping around the ribs with his metal detector. When he saw them, he shouted, “ ‘The annals of this voracious beach! who could write them unless it were a shipwrecked sailor?’ ”

  “You’ve been reading Thoreau again,” said Geoff.

  The detector beeped. George told Keith to dig. The boy hesitated a moment, as though something in the sand might bite him, then he pulled out… a pop top.

  “The British knew about boating safety,” said an old man photographing the remains. “No glass beer bottles on the boat.”

  George laughed at that, and the old man introduced himself as Thomas Digges, professor emeritus of history, Dartmouth College. He was very tall, with very white hair and a sun-dried face. “I’m something of an expert on the Somerset.”

  “So where are the cannon?” asked Keith.

  “Hauled off to Fort Independence in Boston under the command of Paul Revere, who had rowed past those very guns on his way to his famous ride.”

  “ ‘Just as the moon rose over the bay, where swinging wide at her moorings lay the Somerset, British Man-o-War; a phantom ship, with each mast and spar across the moon like a prison bar…. ’ ” George loved to show off his arcane knowledge—like Longfellow’s “Paul Revere’s Ride.”

  “So what put her on the bar?” Geoff was half listening while he watched Keith scamper down to the water’s edge.

  “Edward Rowe Snow suggests she lost her main yard halyard,” said the professor. “But he was more entertainer than maritime historian. The log at the Naval War College in Greenwich makes no such mention. Besides, what captain would have allowed something like that to deteriorate?”

  “Or admit it if he had?” said George.

  “Ourry blames it on the treachery of the back shore, but he hints at sabotage. We know he had captured some privateers. It could have been one of them… young Sam Hilyard, for example.”

  There was some surprise at that. Geoff was surprised that Sam had been there. The old historian was surprised that Geoff knew so little about his forebears.

  Geoff said, “He wrote a batch of letters to Hannah Bigelow that my wife read, and he built the house my uncle lives—lived in. But this Somerset story is news to me. You say he sank the ship?”

  “If Snow’s theory is correct, he could have done something in the rigging. Or it might have been ship’s physician William Thayer. He stayed in Truro when his mates were marched off to Boston, became the local doctor, raised a family here. You have to wonder why he would leave the verdure of his native Hertfordshire to live on what by then was nothing more than a desolate arm of sand. And I wonder why you don’t know more about your famous ancestors, sir, so you can tell your son.”

  Geoff looked at the boy playing tag with the waves. “I wonder myself.”

  ii.

  Janice ate a butter crunch doughnut and managed to be civil to George as he rattled on about the ghost ship.

  “All’s I saw was a lot of burned wood,” said Keith around a mouthful of doughnut.

  “That’s all it was,” said Janice. “They can’t even be sure if it’s the Somerset.”

  “Naval archaeologists are convinced.”

  “Archaeologists.” Janice said the word as though it were a mouthful of shit, because in real estate development, wherever archaeologists tread, delays were sure to follow.

  George brought his baggy face close to hers and, perfect mimic that he was, said “Developers” in the same tone of voice.

  She looked at Geoff. “You should spend more time with Jimmy and less with this troublemaker.”

  “That’s the nicest thing I’ve been called in a long time.” George laughed and headed for the bathroom.

  “New house rules,” she shouted. “If it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down.”

  Geoff started to laugh, but she cut him off. “Not funny. If we need a new septic system, you’re going to have to sell something or get some kind of job other than treasure hunting.” She finished her coffee and buttoned the grim taupe-colored linen suit she wore with her mood.

  Geoff scratched his stubble. “The doughnut was a peace offering.”

  “A peace offering would be more architectural drawings, or a promise that you were over the foolishness about Rake’s murder, or a commitment to stop looking for that stupid legend.”

  Now George came out of the bathroom. “Pity, Jan, that you have to sell real estate on such a gorgeous day.”

  “Somebody’s got to make some money around here.”

  “Nice feed,” said Geoff.

  “I like to play straight man,” answered George.

  “Because it’s the only time anyone calls you straight.” Janice hustled the kids out to the car. “Talk some sense to him, George.”

  “I already have. I think he’s on the right track.”

  “I think he’s a fool.”

  “See you tonight,” said Geoff.

  Maybe she would. Maybe she wouldn’t.

  It was more than an hour to her grandmother’s house in Barnstable, where she left the kids. She’d be damned if she made that drive many more times just so he could go wan
dering in search of his connections. But for the time being, she’d be damned to pay for day care.

  She drove too fast back 6A, but in Dennis she slowed down to read the marquee for the Cape Playhouse. Now Showing: Ain’t Misbehavin’. Coming Next: On Golden Pond with Mary Muldowney and Henry Shay. Two war-horses in a war-horse. Maybe they’d get to see it.

  Maybe. Her life was a steady rhythm of maybes, hitting her between the eyes like waves hitting the beach. Maybe everything would be in place and they could break ground when the estate cleared probate. Maybe Geoff would see that their security and his profession were more important than his uncle’s crazy legacy. Maybe he’d realize that if he didn’t develop the land, someone else would. And if he didn’t realize it, maybe she’d leave him.

  She pushed that last miserable maybe out of her mind and drove all the way back to Eastham, to a little cottage colony near Campground Road, where Methodists had once gathered for revival meetings. This one had a fireplace, and maybe the owner would be interested in selling to a battered wife with a buck and a quarter to spend. Then maybe Geoff would realize how tough life on a broker’s commission could be.

  She hated these cold calls. Excuse me, but would you be interested in selling your house? Don’t you think it’s time you stepped up to something better than this? You look pretty old, and wouldn’t you like to live in a nice garden apartment without all this upkeep? My husband’s out to lunch and my kids are going to go hungry if you don’t sell your house so I can get the commission.

  She had to be realistic. Somebody had to.

  The car in the driveway was a BMW, New York plates. Somebody upwardly mobile, or maybe just a renter slumming it in a little dump near the beach.

  She had scouted half a dozen little dumps. Then she had remembered this old place. Her father’s office had listed it in the early eighties and she hadn’t been here since, but there was still something strangely familiar about the place. It wasn’t the television antenna, or the addition on the back, and she’d never seen a house before that was painted sky blue all over. But she felt that she knew the house… from somewhere.

  “Sell my house? I only bought it six months ago.” He was about thirty, oiled and tanned, wearing one of those bathing suits that looked like a red nylon jockstrap.

  “What would you take for it?” Janice was sitting in the living room, by the fireplace. There was even something familiar about that.

  His name was Vinnie. He gave her coffee. He listened politely to her spiel. But he seemed almost indecent, sitting there with his balls moving up and down every time he breathed. She didn’t look at the suit, but if she made eye contact, he gave her one of those stares straight out of a dating-bar training book.

  Speak your piece and get the hell out. “There must be some price you’d take.”

  “Not for sale.”

  Now his friend came up from the beach. Good tan, another skimpy little nutpouch suit, enough chest hair to braid a rug, and a gold coke spoon on a chain around his neck.

  “Hey, Charlie, the lady wants us to sell our house.”

  Our house. Were they gay? Both of them were wearing wedding bands, but that didn’t mean anything.

  Charlie gave her his own Romeo eyes. “Sell? Gedoudaheah. We just bought the place. Bargain city.”

  “Yeah. We’ll tear down this shithole and put up somethin’ good, with a roof deck so our wives can see the water.”

  She was glad to hear about wives. “They’ll be disappointed with the zoning restrictions. You’ll never get three stories here.”

  “Ehhh.” Charlie brought thumb and forefinger together in the universal gesture: money talks.

  Time to leave. Money talked everywhere, but on Cape Cod, it seldom spoke the pig latin of graft. These guys might be drug dealers or mafiosi. Of course, money was money. She forced herself to stay. Always exhaust all options. That was what her father had taught her when she was selling years ago.

  “If your wives are interested in modern three-story fun houses, I could show you some beauties down in Truro. Maybe when they come up from the beach—”

  “They ain’t here.” Charlie sat down next to her and lit a cigarette. “They’re home in Queens.”

  “Yeah. We come alone, for a little fishin’.”

  “Wet our lines, like they say. Heh-heh.” Charlie moved a bit so that his oiled leg bumped against her skirt. Now she had a cleaning bill.

  “Got a sister blond like you? Maybe we could all go fishin’.”

  There was a maybe to turn the stomach. “Just a husband and two kids.”

  She got up and headed for the door. She had already given them her card, for which she was extremely sorry.

  One of them made a comment about the pretty legs. Then Charlie jumped between her and the door and gave her one more of those looks, as though she didn’t know what she was missing. She might have laughed if she hadn’t been so frightened.

  “Excuse me.” She was wearing heels, and the two of them were barefoot. She decided to count three and bury a heel in Charlie’s instep. Then she could take a good kick at Vinnie’s little swimsuit and be gone. One… two…

  Charlie executed a ridiculous little bow, which caused the coke spoon and other things to dangle. Then he pushed open the door. “If we change our mind, we’ll call you.”

  “If you change your mind, you call us,” said Vinnie.

  She hit the pavement and screamed “Son of a bitch!” at the top of her lungs. She didn’t need this. She’d gone along with Geoff when he wanted to leave Boston. But this was not what she had bargained for.

  She was not going to subject herself to this again, no matter how sorry she felt for the battered wives of the world, no matter how desperately she wanted a sale. She had to bring Geoff to his senses, or two mortgages would.

  iii.

  Half and half, split right down the middle. Half for Geoff and his heirs, half for Emily and hers. That was what Rake’s will decreed, though Geoff guessed the old man wasn’t thrilled at leaving it to either of them.

  Maybe he could get the house onto the National Register of Historic Places—Home of the Man Who Sank the Somerset. Or maybe he could design the whole development around Rake’s house. That would bring him back from the dead.

  Something Professor Digges said had drawn Geoff to the house: Why would a man from verdant Hertfordshire choose to live on this desolate arm of sand?

  The Tom Hilyard painting, Voyage from Hertfordshire: A Journey from the Past to Secure the Future, hung in the shadows at the top of the stairs. It showed a grim-faced young shipmaster, hands clamped behind his back, riding the canted quarterdeck of a schooner. The template identified him as Sam Hilyard, and the feathered Indian at the helm as Charlie Kwennit.

  He took the picture off the wall and carried it downstairs for a better look. As he held it to the light, something slipped from behind the backing on the frame and fell on the floor.

  An envelope. Hidden. A list written in Rake’s hand:

  Carolyn Hallissey

  comeuppance in the book of history

  Hertfordshire voyage to secure the future

  Nance / Iron Axe / charcoal on the floorboards

  Tom Hilyard paints Pilgrims from life?

  “The book of history will set us free from the evil that bricks us up.”

  State senator scared shitless

  Mary Muldowney and the doorstop

  Murder on the Mayflower by Tom Hilyard

  A message from the grave? A gag?

  Then there was a pop. Nothing else. He didn’t even see the arrow come through the doorway and dig into the pile of newspaper against the wall.

  Geoff felt his stomach drop, and it was such a good idea that his whole body followed it. He shoved the list into his pocket and shouted, “For chrissakes, Arnie! What are you doin’?”

  “What are you doin’?” Arnie Burr lowered the bow.

  “Reading old newspapers.”

  “I saw a strange car.”

&nbs
p; “A blue Chevy Cavalier? Body-rot, stickers for all the beaches? Next time ask questions before you shoot.”

  “Next time, let me know when you’re plannin’ to snoop.”

  “It’s my house, too, Arnie. Fifty-fifty. And he left the Tom Hilyard to me, free and clear.”

  Arnie raised the bow and pointed the arrow at Geoff’s forehead. “Could’ve parted your hair and your brains, too… right down the middle.”

  Now Emily came through the back door. “We don’t need any Hilyards over the mantelpiece. We got deer heads, bear rugs, stuffed stripers—”

  “What’s he worried I’ll find here, Emily?” Geoff grabbed a paper from the pile behind him and read the headline. “That Nixon’s mined Haiphong Harbor, maybe?” He threw the newspaper onto the table, and so much dust rose that Arnie began to sneeze.

  “Oh, Jesus, here we go.” Emily grabbed the arrow so that he didn’t shoot anyone in the process.

  “Until—achoo!” Arnie’s sneeze hit Emily in the ear.

  “Gesundheit.” Geoff stepped back from the mist of spit.

  “Until I know what this guy is plannin’—achoo!”

  Geoff ducked. “No decision until I do a little more digging.”

  Emily pulled a cigarette from her pocket, lit it, and sucked in three or four breaths to settle herself. “It’s our dream to sell this place, Geoff. It’s a bitch of a life.”

  “As bad as fishin’ for a livin’.” Arnie grunted.

  “Yeah. With the money, we can visit our daughters in California all winter, live in a house right here all summer.”

  “Did you ever ride dirt bikes in the hills around Santa Barbara?” said Arnie. “I did it once. Never had so much fun in my life.”

  “Dirt bikes… yeah. Great, Arnie.” Geoff began to back toward the door. He hated daydreams, especially when he could make them come true.

  Emily hacked once or twice. “You can’t stand in the way of this. You’ll screw it up for everyone.”