3
His eyes turned to slits against the western sun; it was the last ferry of the day, and he couldn't find her or her parents among those on the deck.
Perhaps she wouldn't be coming until after the holiday—it happened before, but several years back. He didn't want to believe it because he never liked to consider the options that people had. His own life felt without option. He had created within himself the person who could most handle his life. He had worked his body, developed the grace of an athlete, he had tried to keep his face pleasant—and when the anxieties of his family or of studies became unbearable, he would go to the mirror and practice relaxing his facial features until he was sure he looked pleasant again. He did not want to seem anxious, even if he was. He wanted to give nothing away to those around him.
He ran down to the docks to see if she might be somewhere else on the ferry—perhaps she was sick and wanted to stay below. Perhaps she was taking a nap in the back seat of her family's Range Rover. Perhaps perhaps, he repeated to himself as he sloughed off inertia, and jogged down to the paved road near the marina.
The summer people were like ticks—they attached themselves to every aspect of the Haven, they drank all the beer, they ate the best the local cooks had to offer, they had all the accidents—more people would die from boating or swimming mishaps in three months than would die in six years in the other seasons of the island.
They were careless, they were bloodsucking, they were here to forget the venal world from which they came. They, he thought. They. They debarked the ferry, bicyclists, clownish men and women in golfing outfits, or overly gilded women with poodles and wolfhounds and shih tzus, followed by weary overworked doctor-husbands; the college crowd, too, had begun filling up the local bars and the beach, and all these he hated with a passion. He had spent his life watching them come and be carefree in the summer.
He had watched them spend more money some nights than his father could make in a month.
Dagon, he prayed, Dagon, hear me. Cast them down. Raise me up.
He ached for what they had. The lives they had. The freedom from this island. From the world he had mastered.
He read books on Manhattan; he learned about Jenna's family, how her great-great-grandfather had worked on railroads and then had gone on to own them, and how her great-grandfather had lost that fortune; how her grandfather had gotten into radio and television and magazines, owning several, selling them, building up a small but substantial media empire; how her mother had continued that work, married a great media magnate, divorced, married again, had Jenna and remained with Mr. M although the marriage ran hot and cold.
The story of Jenna's family was the story of all the summer people, and though they lived simply on the island for the three months, though they rode cheap bikes around the Big Salt Pond, though they dressed casually even for the one restaurant in Old Town Harbor (the Salty Dog), they were all overmoneyed as his father often said.
His father spoke of money as evil; his mother spoke of it like a lost child.
Owen felt it was something like fire—to be feared and mastered. It was what other people were given. It's what he would be granted. And these people tromping off the ferry had it. They lived it. They did not dream of getting off this island. They dreamed of things beyond what Owen could imagine.
4
Jenna didn't arrive at the harbor that day. He walked the long narrow wooden staircase from the beach up to the bluffs; and ran along the fringe of pines to the dirt path the went further up the rolling cliffs. He didn't look back down to the water until he was at their property.
At the house, he went and sat in one of the wrought-iron lawn chairs and leaned back to gaze up at the sky.
“Owen?”
He sat up, looking around. He rose from the chair, practically knocking it over, and there she was—at the third story attic window.
No, it was Mrs. M. Her auburn hair was swept back from her face, damp from the swimming pool; her robe fastened none too tight.
“Owen? It's good to see you.”
“Yeah, Mrs. M, me too. I didn't think you had got here just yet.”
“Oh, my husband still hasn't left his desk yet. I've been here since Wednesday. Good to be back. I despise the city.”
“Survive winter okay?”
“Superbly,” she said, but in a way that meant its opposite. Mrs. M was a woman full of irony; he had known it for years. Mrs. M. embodied the house: beautiful, classic, and rich.
“Do you want coffee?” she asked.
5
“I saw you waiting for her,” Mrs. M said. They were in the sun room off the kitchen, and Owen had just finished his first cup of cinnamon coffee. He got up to pour himself another, but Mrs. M interceded; she had a fresh cup, with cream, all ready for him. He sat down at the table again. She took the chair across from him. He saw her knee emerge from her robe. The hint of breast, like a reward. Mrs. M was in many ways more beautiful than her daughter; but still, his heart belonged to Jenna.
He did what he could to look at her face, but something in her eyes bothered him. He looked, instead, at her silken arms.
“You're in love with my daughter. No, that's fine. I've known it since you were both young. Do you think it will lead anywhere?”
“Lead?” He said the word innocently, but she must've seen through this. “I don't know.”
“Yes, you do. You're smart. I've watched you grow up. You're smart and handsome and wise. But, do you think she's right for you?”
“I haven't…I haven't considered…” he stammered.
“You're a remarkable young man,” Mrs. M said. “She doesn't deserve you.”
Then, she put down her own untouched coffee, and got up, drawing her robe together. “She gets in tonight. After midnight.”
“How? The ferry—”
“She has her ways,” Mrs. M said. She brushed something from the edge of her eye and combed her hands through her hair like a mermaid would. “Fancy a swim?”
“Not today,” he said.
“Come on, just a nice long swim. Haven't you been practicing all winter?”
He nodded.
“I thought so. You ripple now. You don't move, you ripple. You're in better shape than he is,” Mrs. M said, and then went to get her bathing suit.
6
Come midnight, he saw the shroud of a blue and white sailboat press beneath the lights of the harbor. He sat up on the bluffs and watched as she docked; the sail came down. No one stepped off the boat at the jetty. Was it her? Was this what Mrs M had meant?
He fell asleep in the cool wet grass and awoke at dawn.
And he knew.
Jenna Montgomery had found another.
7
In the afternoon, at the Montgomery's, Owen met his rival.
“Jimmy,” the guy said, his face gleaming, tanned, teeth so much thoroughbred he could've been in Pimlico, his eyes squinty, his nose small, his hair honey-blond from too much sun, and his handshake strong and sure and arrogant. He looked rich without ever having to say it. He smelled rich. He probably tasted rich. “Good to meet you, Crites.”
“Owen.”
“You're not an Owen or a Crites,” Jimmy said. “You're a Mooncalf.”
“Mooncalf?” Jenna laughed, looking at Owen and then back at Jimmy. “That sounds ghastly.”
She wore a bikini, but had a long towel draped about her waist that ran all the way to her ankles. Her hair was wet and shining from a morning swim.
For a moment, Owen imagined how it would feel to untie the bikini top and press his face against her breasts. For a moment, the image was in his mind; then, gone.
All Owen could think was: they'd slept together on the boat. Jenna and this Jimmy character. Jimmy had done it with Jenna. Done it. A sacred act if it was love. A debased ritual, if it was lust and emptiness. Which it had to be. He tried not to imagine Jimmy drawing her legs apart, or the scent of passion that clung to them, the sweat and fever, as they joined togeth
er. Tried not to imagine the thrusts.
“Mooncalf reminds me of upstate New York, or Pennsylvania,” Jenna said with no little disgust. “Cows and chickens. Amish in carriages. Birthings and midwives. Owen can't be a Mooncalf.”
Jim snorted. “No, it's a beautiful name. Mooncalf.”
Owen remained silent, still numb from meeting the interloper.
“Well, if he's a Mooncalf then what am I?”
“Kitten,” Jimmy laughed.
“If I'm Kitten, then you're Cat.”
“All right, then I'm Cat. Now, what shall we call this island?”
“Outerbridge,” Owen said. “Call it Outerbridge.”
“That's not the game,” Jimmy grinned, and damn if his smile wasn't dazzling. Anyone would fall in love with this guy, anyone, man, woman, or dog, he was so damn attractive and warm, it made Owen want to walk away and forget about Jenna completely. “The game is everything, Mooncalf. It doesn't matter what things are. You shape them into the way you want them. That's how you gain mastery.”
“Mastery's the thing,” Owen said, faking a sort of blissful—and very nearly nonchalant—take on all of it. I'll beat you, he thought as he watched his rival, this apollonian boy with his golden hair and squinty green eyes and the way he had arrogance that was absolutely seductive. I will beat you, Owen made the oath then and there.
He glanced briefly up at the unfettered sun and prayed to God that if nothing else went his way in this life, he would beat down this Jimmy.
Then, Owen reached a hand out and gave Jimmy's shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Just not big on games I guess.”
Jenna laughed, “Owen, the game is called Paradise. You rename everything to your liking. Jimmy invented it. Isn't it…marvelous?”
She pecked the bastard on his ear.
Owen noted: the kiss went to his earlobe, and Jimmy barely had an earlobe. His ear was smooth and rounded and touched down right behind one of his several dimples.
Jimmy laughed, shrugging, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her close to him.
“Let's call the island Sea Biscuit.”
“No,” Jenna groaned. “That's terrible. Terrible. Owen, you name it.”
“Outerbridge,” Owen said.
It was noon, and they were at the jetty. The sailboat bobbed gently with the current, and Owen finally took his baseball cap off.
“There now,” Jimmy said, approvingly. “You look less like a little boy than like a man. The Mooncalf has such pretty hair for a moody guy.”
He reached over and scruffed his hand through Owen's hair. His fingers felt electric. “I know the name for this island. I know. It's called Bermuda. We're in Bermuda,” he laughed, leaning into Jenna, kissing her just behind her ear.
No, Owen thought.
You're in the realm of Dagon.
8
A restless night came to him, and then another and another. He lay on his single bed, sheets pulled back, and a fever such as he had never before felt washed over him.
Whosoever has loved the way I love Jenna Montgomery, he whispered to the stars through his bedroom window, has known sacrifice and torture and days and nights of endless wanting, thirst without satisfaction, hunger without morsel. Whosoever has wept within themselves for what they could not reach, could not touch, has felt what I feel.
Whosoever has spent his life working his body, mind, and soul to its absolute limit to be the extreme candidate for the love of a beautiful and angelic girl as I have for her, as I have given myself to the shape that she would long for…
That man would not rest were a rival to steal the prize from him.
Dagon, he whispered soundlessly. Dagon. My god. Bring her to me.
Eventually, Owen Crites slept better imagining the world under the sea where the people who were part of the Dagon had dwelt, with their vast and imperious citadels, their large cold eyes and wet shapeless forms, and he imagined the great sacrifice he would throw to them for their entertainment.
9
“How are you going to waste your last summer?” Owen's mother asked as she switched off the faucet, plunging her hands back into the soapy water. “Now, don't blot, Owen, dry. There's a difference.”
She passed him the first dish, which he sprayed down and then wiped with the green-and-white hand towel. The kitchen in the caretaker's house was as narrow as one of the closets in the big house; but the window looked out on a small sunken garden; behind which, the pine trees stuck out like crooked teeth.
“Don't blot,” his mother repeated.
Owen began stacking the dry plates carefully.
“I need a job.”
“You work for your father.”
“Not this summer,” he replied. “Hank'll do without me.”
“Hank?” his mother said, nearly laughing. “Hank? Next you'll be calling me Trudy.” Then, her mood darkened. “Show some respect.”
His mother reached down to pull the plug on the drain. She reached back to her hairpins, pulling them out so that her gray-streaked hair fell along her shoulders. She smoothed it back, and turned to watch him dry the rest of the plates and bowls from supper. “I know what you're thinking.”
He glanced at her for the barest moment.
“You're thinking that you'll work down where she goes at night. The restaurant. The dock. You'll be there for the dances. I've seen the boys working at those places. They live here all year 'round. But in the summer, sometimes they get the rich girls. But those girls don't care about them. The boys are just part of summer to those girls. Just like the beach. Just like a walk.”
He remained silent, and kept his eyes on each bowl as he carefully wiped the towel through them.
“I grew up in her world. I know what she'd have to give up. Don't ask her to do it. Not if you care about her,” his mother said.
Then, she nearly snickered.
“What's funny?” he asked.
“I remember your father at your age, is all. I remember him so well,” she said. “He's working on the pump now. The pump and the well. Today he worked on the azaleas and the roses. Tomorrow, he'll probably check the pool. If I had only known then. Owen, you might as well go find that pirate treasure as think that a girl like that will be interested in you beyond these summerish flings.”
Owen dropped the towel on top of the cutting board, and turned to walk away.
“I know what you get up to,” his mother called to him, but he had already stepped out of the house, letting the screen door swing lazily shut. “You're nearly a man, Owen. You need to grow out of all your imaginings now.”
Her voice, behind him, was part of another layer of existence. The smell of fresh grass mingled with the slight scent of the roses which were just blooming in spirals and curves up on the bluffs. He walked to the edge of the hill, feeling the late sun stroke him like a warm hand.
At the rim of the koi pond, he knelt down and looked at his reflection in the green water. Soon, the patchwork fish came to the surface. He reached his hand into the murkiness, shivering with the chill, and found the god laying where he'd left it, behind the lava rocks.
He felt the edge of the god's face.
10
In a school notebook, Owen wrote:
Things Jenna likes.
1. She loves swing dancing.
2. She likes expensive perfume. The kind older women wear. Not like other girls.
3. She likes sandals.
4. She likes to let a boy open a door for her.
5. She likes clothes from Manhattan.
6. She likes to be complimented on how smart she is.
7. She likes someone who listens to her.
8. She likes holding hands.
Things Jenna hates:
1. She hates heavy metal rock.
2. She hates boys who look at her breasts.
3. She hates having to wait for anything. Ever.
4. She hates Julia Roberts movies. She reminds me of movie stars though.
5. She hates when
animals get hurt.
6. She hates being treated like a piece of meat.
7. She hates boys who want to go all the way because she told me three years ago that she's going to wait for the right one.
8. She hates having to do things she hates.
11
He waited a week before going back up to the Montgomery place, and even then, it was after eleven, and the house was dark and silent except for the kitchen, where Mrs. M always kept a light on.
At first, he intended to stand beneath Jenna's bedroom window and maybe toss a pebble at it to get her attention.
He noticed that the window—on the third story—was open, and he decided he'd call to her.
Then, he noticed that one of the guest room windows was open, too.
That would be Jimmy's.
The bastard.
Owen glanced along the trellis and gutters, and decided he'd try that route first. He climbed the trellis with the agility of a monkey, although it threatened to pull away if he didn't balance his weight just right. It wasn't much different from the rope climb in gym.
When he worried that he wouldn't make it to the third story roof, he remembered the breathing trick and began inhaling and exhaling carefully. That was where the balance was: in the breathing.
Then, he grabbed the rain gutter, and scaled the slant of the roof. He crawled along it, slowly, cautiously, and went to look in on Jenna while she slept.
He felt himself grow hard, imagining how he could hold her while she slept, imagining how he would smell her hair.
When he looked through the open window, he saw the other boy there, Jimmy, in bed with her, holding her, moving against her. Owen caught his breath and held it for what felt like the longest time.
Coming of Age: Three Novellas (Dark Suspense, Gothic Thriller, Supernatural Horror) Page 3
