North Haven

by Sarah Moriarty

  Patricia was supposed to have come with her to Maine for this trip, but after Libby said she wasn’t sure about moving in together, Patricia told her to go alone, to have a trial separation, to take her space and see how it felt.

  It felt like home without her mother. Which she had expected to be liberating in some way, but it felt beautiful and sad and lonely. Libby shaded her eyes.

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Do you want her to come?” said Gwen.

  “She asked me the same thing.” Libby let the pinecone roll down her calves so it tumbled into Gwen’s side.

  The cedar shingles dug into Libby’s back. She crossed her legs and leaned forward, resting just her fingertips on the hot roof. The grit of the asphalt roof, the sticky flecks of pine sap and eddies of sand, made her long for a beach chair. Something else to add to her list. On the main porch the Adirondack chairs her father had liked best were warped and cracked; those would need to be replaced too. Now, they were closer to driftwood than furniture. Libby leaned against the wall again, but the shingles felt sharp and seemed to move with her. She turned around, facing the wall cross-legged, and pulled at the shingle. It came off in her hands, like an artichoke leaf.

  “Uh-oh.”

  “You broke it?” said Gwen.

  Libby started to shove the shingle back in place, but the one above fell out too.

  “Shoot!” Libby.

  “Stop trying to fix it.” The two of them moved to the far side of the porch as if being close to the wall would cause more fall apart. Gwen pulled her shirt on. Libby went to her closet and came back with a small ladder. She had recently installed smoke detectors throughout the house. Apparently, Scarlet had planned for them to all go up in flames. Libby opened the ladder on the porch next to the wall and climbed up to peek over the roof. Her breath sucked in sharp. The roof sloping down away from her toward the bay windows was pocked with missing shingles, leaving shiny black patches, like gaps for missing teeth.

  “It’s not just the walls,” Libby said from the top of the ladder. She climbed down and Gwen climbed up.

  “Oh, shit. I’m no roofer, but I’m pretty sure there aren’t supposed to be holes,” said Gwen. “Could we just stuff umbrellas through?”

  “That might be more of an art installation than a repair. I’ll call Remy and get him to come take a look. Maybe it can be patched.”

  “Lots of patches,” said Gwen, coming down the ladder. “Now I want to do an installation of houses made out of umbrellas. You are totally a conceptual artist.”

  “That’s what happens when you hang out with three-year-olds all day.”

  “I don’t think Tom needs to hear about this.” Gwen picked up the shingle from the floor of the porch and waved it at Libby.

  “The shingle that broke the camel’s back.”

  “I’m worried about him,” whispered Gwen. “Last night was nuts.” They both sat down on Gwen’s towel.

  “Be worried about us. He wants to sell this place out from under us,” said Libby.

  “It’s not just last night. He’s been off lately,” said Gwen. Gwen leaned against the porch railing behind them; Libby tapped her shoulder and shook her head, no longer trusting that anything was as sturdy as she had thought. Gwen nodded and scooted forward so she could lie down instead.

  “He keeps showing up at my place with Scarlet’s urn,” said Libby.

  “That’s just ’cause I won’t let him leave it at my place; I don’t care what her will says,” said Gwen. There had been so much nodding, so much reassuring at the end, Libby hadn’t realized what they’d agreed to.

  “I didn’t think we’d actually trade off. Who does that? But he wasn’t going to take no for an answer,” said Libby.

  “Not from you, that’s for sure,” said Gwen. Libby thought they ought to be wearing suntan lotion. But she wasn’t willing to go look for it.

  “We could figure it out, right? We could retire poor old Remy, once he fixes the roof. That would save us tons. And we could do some repairs ourselves.”

  “Don’t look at me. I make art. I don’t do anything that involves power tools, or safety goggles.” Gwen laid an arm over her face and peered out at Libby from the crook of her elbow. Libby imagined Gwen wearing a tool belt full of compact umbrellas, washi tape, X-ACTO blades, palette knives, tubes of matte medium, and vintage postcards.

  “No, we’d make Dan do all the hard stuff. He’s young. He can take it. I just don’t want Tom to think he can make any executive decisions.” Libby started absentmindedly cracking her knuckles.

  “Don’t get all worked up. Tom is just Tom. He’s in his own world with Melissa and the kids. He’s so bogged down by life, it’s amazing he can even breathe. He needs this place just as much as we do, maybe more. He needs a place where he doesn’t have to be perfect. I mean, besides his Chinese Gambling Parlor,” said Gwen.

  Libby laughed. She loved it when Gwen talked about Tom’s fictional life of debauchery and deviancy.

  “Or his Bunny Ranch.”

  “You really think it’s all talk?” said Libby. “You don’t think he’s serious?” She started to line up pinecones next to her.

  “How serious is a voice mail, really? He is exercising his man-of-the-house role. It’s machismo in action. He doesn’t realize it’s the ladies who have always been in charge.” Still lying down, Gwen passed her pinecones from the far side of the towel.

  “For better or worse. At least as the new guard, we’ll be more enlightened.” Libby’s pinecone lineup became a small pyramid.

  Gwen reached out and squeezed Libby’s foot. “Love is love, baby. Scoot.”

  Libby leaned to one side, and Gwen pulled out the towel and wrapped it around herself and stood up. “I’m ready for a swim.”

  Libby felt hot and nauseated. She blamed Tom, as if his wishes had somehow invited this threat into their lives. The simple existence of the offer was dangerous. It was an unlit match in a hayloft. The idea was sickening. She needed to purge it from herself.

  “Maybe just a quick dip,” said Libby. She would extinguish the match before it could even strike. She would drown the idea in the frigid sea.

  NINE

  TOM

  July 5

  In the gravel parking lot of Schooners they stood in front of the house car, a dusty jeep that lived at the house all year long, rusting quietly under the oak. Gwen sat in the car, facing out of the open passenger-side door, her feet hooked on the edge of the frame.

  “This is why you can’t rush me,” she said.

  “You are responsible for your own person,” said Tom. He couldn’t believe that she still pulled this kind of absurd behavior. After her practical comments about the costs involved in keeping the house, he hoped she was growing up, but turned out she was still a child who needed him to bail her out. Just like when she bounced a rent check, or three. Tom had two children, and they were more than enough (wonderful, actually, if only Gwen were more like them). He turned his back to the car and took a deep breath.

  “I’m not a toddler.” Gwen.

  He turned back to her and gestured at her bare feet with both of his hands. “You forgot your shoes.”

  Gwen wiggled her toes.

  “I’ll go in,” said Libby, “sit down, take off my shoes, and pass them off to Danny, who’ll bring them out here to Gwen. Easy.” She said this slow and saccharine. Gwen tried not to laugh. Libby shoved Danny toward the restaurant as he took a photo of Gwen’s bare feet.

  “I love this.” He grinned.

  Tom rolled his eyes and followed them into the restaurant while Melissa waited with Gwen. A harried waiter waved them at an empty table, and they sat down. Tom watched Libby slide her shoes out from under the table toward Danny.

  “The swallow is in the nest,” she whispered.

  Danny winked, bent down, and hooked her Keds onto his fingers.

  “I will take my leave of you, madam.” Danny put the hand with the shoes behind his back and made a small
flourish with his free hand.

  “I’m going to the head.” Tom got up, not wanting to hear another word. Why do they make everything a game? Libby thinks of herself as the host here, but she’s barely better than the other two. Well, at least she has a career.

  In the bathroom Tom splashed water on his face, trying to wash the heat out of his skin, out of his cells. In the mirror he looked puffy and mottled. Maybe I should stop eating salt. Maybe I should move to Costa Rica and open a turtle farm. I can be the surly owner who sits under a palm tree and bottle-feeds baby turtles or gives them lettuce. Tom didn’t know much about turtles. He could remind tourists that there is no escaping reality, that sea turtles are going extinct even when you’re on vacation. Someone has to be practical. Someone has to save the turtles while everyone else is getting a tan. This is, he was sure, what his siblings didn’t understand. Life meant being practical, moving forward no matter what. It meant keeping your grades up, introducing your “friend” as your girlfriend, it meant wearing shoes to restaurants, it meant working until midnight if that was what it took to polish the social media platform presentation. Why didn’t his boss, Linda, understand that? Apparently, staff can’t “be pushed so hard.” Why was he the only one who had to push himself?

  “No one should be calling their assistant at three in the morning to go over account stats,” Linda had said. “Take some time off and spend it with your family. It’s important to be with them at times like this.” This had been his boss’s carefully worded kiss off. Tom understood. Linda didn’t want him there. All his devotion to that company, and she decided how he should be mourning his mother. No thought to what the clients might need. What he might need.

  He needed to get back to work. It had been a month, and he was spending his days in a Starbucks in Lexington where he could answer e-mails with no fear of running into anyone. Really, he just sat at his computer and thought about how he had failed his wife. Even if her failures were more obvious; it was his; it was him. He was trying his best to hate her, because his love felt far more toxic. And then he’d think of his mother. And then he’d be crying in the Starbucks bathroom crouched beside a stainless-steel toilet bowl. Work. That was his thing. But Linda refused to tell him how long this “break” would last. What kind of alimony could he pay with no job? What about health insurance? Melissa’s part-time editorial work wasn’t exactly going to pay the bills.

  It had been six months, almost seven, since their mother had died. Tom tried not to keep track. He wished he could wear a black armband. It seemed far more civilized than the pathetic arrangement of carnations from his assistant, who was apparently a tattletale. Melissa had understood, at least. She hadn’t asked him questions or given him sympathetic looks. She just kept the kitchen sink scrubbed clean the way he liked, had the kids do their homework in the dining room where he could watch their books get dog-eared and highlighted.

  He came out of the bathroom and, without intending to exactly, slammed the door behind him. Half the restaurant turned in his direction. Eyes down, he headed back to the table. Gwen was there, and everyone already had a drink but him.

  “I wasn’t sure what you wanted.” Melissa pointed at her wine. Tom shrugged, caught the eye of the waiter, and ordered a whiskey. Libby looked at Gwen for a beat. Normally, Tom didn’t catch this, but today he saw their eyebrows go up, saw the corners of their mouths crinkle slightly, then nothing.

  “Yes?” he asked them.

  “It’s awesome to see you cut loose a little,” said Gwen.

  “Well, we can’t all be on perpetual spring break.” He tilted his chair back on two legs and held on to the edge of the table with both hands.

  “Maybe make it a double,” said Danny quietly. Danny unrolled his silverware from his napkin and put the knife and fork on opposite sides of his plate.

  “You know what, let’s all have a whiskey,” said Melissa. She patted the table with both hands as if she had struck upon the ultimate solution.

  Libby started flipping through the wine list, a small, rigid binder. Schooners had been slowly moving up on the scale of sophistication. When five years ago they had started using tablecloths, Bob had walked into, then immediately out of, the restaurant.

  He refused to enter until Danny popped his head out of the door and said, “Dad, they’ve got gelato now!” Bob had turned on his heel and headed into the restaurant. “Well, we can’t let the children down.”

  Scarlet had turned to Tom and said, “Apparently we’re having ice cream for dinner.”

  Libby passed the wine list to Tom.

  “Let’s just get a bottle,” said Tom.

  “Or two,” said Melissa.

  Tom could feel the whiskey traveling along his limbs, drawing everything closer to the floor. It was small, but all he needed. He left the wine drinking to the rest of them. The whiskey acted like a scrim. It gave just enough separation between him and them that he could stop worrying about their stupid choices. Instead, Tom watched Danny push his hair out of his face as he explained cannabinoids to Gwen. Gwen unabashedly ate the bread off of Danny’s bread plate as he talked. Danny passed her more butter. Libby recounted to Melissa a face-off with one of her students: “He literally said, ‘but it’s my body, my body.’ What do you say to that? You’re right, your body is your own, be empowered, be protective, but also stop drawing all over it.”

  Tom held Melissa’s hand under the table. He wanted to pull her onto his side of the scrim. He wanted to take her to Costa Rica with him. They could be co-owners; they could teach the turtles to catch grapes in their mouths. But that would mean telling her he didn’t know when he would be allowed back to work. That would mean telling her what he’s been afraid of for most of their marriage. It would mean acknowledging what she has told him. It would mean confessions and therapy and tears and there was no way. He just needed to get back to work. They just needed to separate.

  The check lay on the table, and Tom picked it up instinctively. Sometimes he would experiment, giving his siblings a minute to swoop in. There was never any swooping. But then again, the minute he had started earning enough, he’d always picked up the check. He reached into his back pocket. His front pocket. He patted his chest pocket. The back pocket again. He excused himself and went out to the car. Tom emptied the glove box, the well in the driver’s door, the pocket behind the seat. Nothing. He had forgotten his wallet. He could see it on his dresser, waiting for him to finish his bath, to comb his hair and run his belt through the loops. He kept checking, but he knew it wasn’t there. How could I have done that? How? Tom went back into Schooners and sat down. He whispered to Melissa that his wallet was back at the house.

  “Shit, I didn’t bring mine.” She cringed. Melissa turned to the others. “Who brought their wallet?”

  They had the look of kindergarteners asked to read a clock, on the spot and clueless. Blink. Blink. Then they all began digging through pockets and bags. Then shaking their heads.

  “Maybe we can come back tomorrow with the credit card, or call it in when we get home?” said Libby.

  “I’m ready to wash dishes,” said Danny, pushing up his sleeves.

  “Dine and dash,” said Gwen.

  “They know where we live, Gwen.” Tom. He knew she was kidding but just couldn’t—

  “I’m sorry to bother you.” A man, not much older than Tom, was standing at the head of the table.

  “I couldn’t help overhearing, and I would love to treat you all to dinner.” He had curly blond hair cut close and a square chin that brought to mind regattas and lacrosse, like maybe he had just come from an alumni event at Colgate. Tom looked at him, stared for a few moments. Then quickly shifted his gaze to the tablecloth. No. No no no.

  “That is so thoughtful, but we couldn’t,” said Libby. “I’m sure they’ll let us come back with it later.”

  “You’re the Willoughbys, right? I insist. I knew your parents. Jeremy Aldridge.” He held out his hand to Libby. She shook it and introduced each of
them around the table. Tom didn’t look up. Why? Why is he here? Why is he talking to us?

  “Do you live on the island?” Gwen asked. Tom picked up the bill off the table and drew it into his lap.

  “Every summer my entire life.”

  “Oh, so Ned is your dad? You’ve got that great place on the other side of Tiptoe Mountain,” said Libby. Tom didn’t want to know any of this. Not his name, not his house.

  “Is Evan your brother?” Gwen asked. She shifted up in her seat.

  “Cousin. Ned is my uncle.” Jeremy Aldridge rested his fingertips on the edge of the table.

  “So you’re just a freeloader.” Gwen.

  “Exactly, which is why you should let me get you dinner.” Here Jeremy Aldridge scanned the table. Tom held the check tight in his hand, until his fingers ached. Wet footprints on the porch, in the dining room. No.

  “No, thank you, we’ve got this.” Tom looked only at the man’s chin as he said this. I don’t want to know the color of your eyes. He pushed back his chair with a screech. As he walked out the door, the check still in his hand, he heard the man say to his siblings, “I’m sorry to hear about your mom.”

  Out the door and over to the small bridge above the cove, Tom leaned out, letting the wall dig into his stomach. The last time I saw that man was the last time I loved my parents. He threw the check into the water. He spat after it. He walked back to the jeep and got in. With both hands on the steering wheel, his arms were straight as if he were about to take a sharp curve. He turned on the AC until it was icy. It was all he could do not to drive away, drive and drive and drive.

  Melissa knocked on the glass. Tom unrolled his window.

  “It’s okay to forget your wallet.”

  “Let’s go. Get in.” He motioned to the front seat.

  “Gwen already called shotgun.”

  “Of course.” Tom rolled his eyes.

  Melissa got into the back, squeezed in the middle between Libby and Danny as they hopped in on either side. Gwen slid into the front seat like an oily queen. Her feet were up on the dash before they even pulled out of the parking lot. She was still wearing Libby’s shoes.