“Where are you going with that?” Kate asked, incredulously.
“Outside.”
“What for?” She was beginning to worry.
Because she knew - deep inside, where a person’s darkest feelings dwell - that he shouldn’t mess with it. Whatever it was (I know what it is, dear God), it was bigger than Matthew P. Kirby, mightier than his machismo or stubbornness or whatever was motivating him so ridiculously.
“What for?” Kate repeated frantically.
“To put an end to this once and for all,” he said, thinking: And when I bag the damn thing, whether it’s a bear or a dog or a raccoon, I’m going to dump it on that old fool’s doorstep. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning, I’m going to watch him eat crow.
“Matt, don’t do it,” she pleaded. And wanted to add: Because if you do, you crazy man who I still love with my whole heart and soul - if you do, Matt . . .
I just don’t know.
I just don’t know.
The thunder boomers that had been approaching were finally overhead, bringing with them splatters of rain against the windows. The wind whipped, clattering the shutters, causing the branches of the old locust to drag across the roof with a sound like that of something trying to get in.
Jenny wailed.
“For God’s sake, Matt, don’t go,” Kate pleaded.
Matt went back to the closet for his slicker. He reemerged hooded and wrapped in Day-Glo orange.
“Don’t do it, Matt,” Kate begged again, with new urgency. “Don’t do it to prove a point. It’s not a point worth proving.”
“I expect to be right back,” Matt said, pushing past her.
“Don’t!”
He was gone.
They listened, Kate and Jenny did, listened to his steps on the wooden staircase, to his tread across the living-room floor, to the angry slam of the kitchen door.
Then they watched through the bedroom window - watched a dark figure on the end of a flashlight beam move down the lawn toward the pond: a wet orange slicker illuminated every 10 seconds or so by a flash of lightning.
Kate called to him through the screen, but her words were drowned by the thunder that came echoing in from over the woods.
It can get much worse, you know, Nickerson had said. Much worse than an undertaker. Oh, yes. Something about eternity and souls.
Frantic, she picked up the phone, but there was no dial tone. The lines were down.
Matt Kirby was never seen again.
There was a search, of course, and it went on for seven days, and it involved bloodhounds and helicopters and the National Guard and state police. It involved dragging a pond, and newspapers ads, and public-service broadcasts, and the personal involvement of the governor.
In the end, there was only a memorial service.
Ten days later, the letter arrived. It was dated Oct. 31.
The mail service is awful, Ethel Kiernan had warned. What do I mean by “awful”? I mean it’s slow, letters get delivered to the wrong address . . .
“Hello Mrs. Kirby,” the letter began.
“Not meanin' to stick my nose in other folks business, but it does seem a might obvious that you and the husband ain’t in agreement on certain things.
“With that in mind, I want you to know that I’m extendin your policy another year at no cost. I do this cause in only two times meetin you I come to believe you are a decent and honorable person and deservin of respect, etc. I’d appreciate you keepin it to yourself, seein as how if word got out, like as not there’d be some grumblin.
“The extension will cover you and your daughter, I forget her name. Seein as how he was so against the idea, however, I don’t feel I can rightfully put your husband’s name on it. I do hope he will come around. It would be easy enough to add his name.
“Sincerely,
“F. Nickerson.”
Summer Love: A Screenplay
EXT. THE ATLANTIC OCEAN - TWILIGHT
An uncommonly handsome MAN, about 30, is with a beautiful WOMAN, early 20s, on a small, 1950s-era motorboat a short distance off the Maine coast. They are kissing passionately. The sun drains from the sky as storm clouds approach. The SOUNDTRACK is The Happenings’ smash hit, See You in September.
The scene becomes increasingly erotic, as the man and woman shed their bathing suits. See You in September fades as we hear THUNDER and see the first LIGHTNING. The ocean is beginning to churn.
MAN
We should head in.
WOMAN
Are you afraid, Bergie?
MAN
It’s getting dangerous.
WOMAN
Don’t be silly. The sea is our friend. Nothing can come between us here. Kiss me.
They resume their lovemaking as the waves continue to build. Soon, the boat is in danger of being swamped. The man’s lust gives way to fear — but not the woman. She is more passionate than ever. The man breaks off.
MAN
We have to go.
He tries to start the boat’s small outboard engine, but it won’t catch.
WOMAN
Come with me.
MAN
What on earth?
WOMAN
Don’t you see? This is how it was meant to be.
The boat slips under the water. The man starts to swim toward the shore — but the woman grabs his leg. An iron grip.
WOMAN (CONT’D)
We’ll live forever.
The man struggles to free himself as the woman drags him under the waves.
UNDERWATER
CUT TO:
The man is close to drowning — but not the woman, who seems strangely satisfied, even angelic. The man thrashes. He finally escapes. As he heads to the surface, we see a FLASH of what appears to be a fanciful fantail.
EXT. THE ATLANTIC OCEAN - NIGHT
CUT BACK TO:
The storm is full fury. Near exhaustion, his energy almost spent, the man paddles toward the shore.
EXT. THE BEACH - NIGHT
The man crawls out of the surf and collapses.
END CREDITS
FADE OUT.
FADE IN:
EXT. OLD HARBOR, BLOCK ISLAND - THE PRESENT DAY
A summer morning, sunny and warm, the ocean dotted with sailboats. A picture postcard. Arriving from the Rhode Island mainland, the Block Island ferry has pulled into the dock.
The SOUNDTRACK is Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville.
Passengers disembark. Cars and freight are unloaded.
On the vehicle deck, BEN HOUGHTON is behind the wheel of a beat-up old Jeep Cherokee. He is uncommonly handsome, tall, in his late thirties, a man with a ponytail, sunglasses, cut- off jeans, and tee-shirt. He sports a two- to three- days’ growth of beard.
Ben drives off the ferry, waving to several people he knows. He stops to talk to an OLD DECK HAND, a grizzled man in his sixties who has worked the docks forever.
OLD DECK HAND
As I live and breathe, Ben Houghton!
Did you order up this weather for us, cappy?
BEN
Hank! How was the winter?
OLD DECK HAND
Mild — one even you fair-weather people could’ve muddled through, I bet. You here for the summer?
BEN
Until Labor Day. Same as always.
OLD DECK HAND
You bring weather like this, you’re welcome ‘til Christmas.
Ben continues in his Jeep onto Main Street, Old Harbor, a small village with a few hotels, restaurants, and shops.
As Ben surveys familiar surroundings for signs of change in the nine months he’s been on the mainland, his eye is caught by SERENA FISHER, who is standing, alone, on a balcony of The Atlantic, a grand old wooden hotel. Serena is about 20, tall, with an exotically beautiful face, red hair, and a slender but not girlish figure. Unforgettable.
We NOTE that this is the same woman, still the same age, from the opening scene.
Ben slams on the brakes. Serena is watching
Ben intently. As Ben returns her look, Serena raises binoculars to get a better look at him. Ben’s face registers skepticism, then mild shock.
BEN
(to himself)
Serena Fisher?
CLOSE ON THE HOTEL BALCONY
It’s deserted. Serena has disappeared.
EXT. HARBORMASTER’S BUILDING - DAY
Ben drives into the parking lot of a sprawling old building built on wooden piles. The harbormaster’s office and residence are here, along with a marine supply store, a lobster pound, and Ben’s small summer photo studio.
CLOSE ON THE STUDIO DOOR
A sign reads: BEN’S ISLAND STUDIO. PORTRAITS AND LANDSCAPES. Attached to the inside of a window is a hand-lettered sign that reads: HAVE A GREAT WINTER! REOPENING JULY 1! Ben fiddles with the lock, finally letting himself in.
INT. BEN’S STUDIO - DAY
The studio is well-equipped, with a computer, printer, lights, backdrops, lightboard, and a (rarely-used) darkroom. The windows provide a magnificent view of the harbor.
Ben takes down the closed-for-winter sign, opens the windows, dusts off his desk, checks his phone to confirm that service has been restarted, and steps back outside.
EXT. HARBORMASTER’S BUILDING - DAY
Ben struggles with a large aluminum trunk containing his cameras. He is interrupted by STEVE MCAFFERTY, harbormaster and dear old friend, a happy-go-lucky sort. McAfferty is Ben’s age. He is standing in the doorway to his office, identified by a sign: HARBORMASTER.
STEVE
Need a hand?
BEN
STEVE!
STEVE
Ben, old buddy! You’re early. Your e-mail said
not to expect you for another couple of weeks.
BEN
Last-minute change. Business on the mainland is slow — the economy, you know. The only reason to stay was Steph, and I hardly ever see her these days. She’s set to start the biggest trial of her career.
STEVE
The Granatino murder case.
BEN
That’s the one.
STEVE
It’s been all over the news. Grisly shit, those
gangland killings.
BEN
She’s pretty sure she can get the bastard the chair.
STEVE
Let’s hope so.
BEN
It’s been a bitch for her to prepare. Fifteen-hour days, seven day weeks, four prosecutors, you get the picture...
Together, the two men get the trunk up the stairs and into the studio.
INT. BEN’S STUDIO - DAY
STEVE sits at Ben’s desk, while Ben unpacks his cameras and lenses. His business may not be booming, but his equipment is the finest money can buy.
STEVE
I heard about your father. How is he?
BEN
It’s into his liver. All they can do for him now is morphine.
STEVE
I’m sorry, Ben.
BEN (unemotionally)
No one lives forever.
STEVE
Is he at home?
BEN
Yes, with nurses around the clock. He wanted to come out here, but the doctors nixed that. As strong- willed as he is, he couldn’t get them to give in. My sister’s in from Chicago. Me — well, I...
STEVE
I know how hard it must be.
BEN
Yeah. Hard.
(a beat)
But enough of the gloom. How have you been?
STEVE
Town council still won’t give me that assistant
I need, but other than that, I can’t complain.
I finally got my new sign. And they gave me the money to renovate the second floor. I live here now.
BEN
Cool. How long have you fought for that?
STEVE
Only six or seven years. I guess politicians
are like fine wine. They take time.
A SERIES OF SHOTS
Of Ben driving across Block Island to his family’s summer house. The Houghton residence is on the shore of magnificent Mohegan Bluffs, on the island’s south end.
EXT. SUMMER HOUSE - DAY
The house is a rambling, vine-covered, shingled building with shutters, chimneys, porches, and balconies. Old money. A driveway dividing an enormous, impossibly green lawn leads past a carriage house to the front door. Having just finished with the lawn, two salty old CARETAKERS are loading mowers onto their pickup truck.
CARETAKERS
Good morning, Mister Houghton.
BEN
Morning, boys. Lawn looks great.
FIRST CARETAKER
Thanks. Water and electricity’s all on. Wood’s stacked by the main fireplace. The market guy stocked the ‘fridge. And we got the float in the water.
SECOND CARETAKER
Boat, too. The yard repainted her over the winter. She looks pretty as a summer dream.
BEN
She always does.
FIRST CARETAKER
Well, see you next week. You need anything,
you know where to call.
INT. SUMMER HOUSE - DAY
The inside has cozy old furniture and ample windows affording stunning views of the ocean. The dominant motif is BEN’S FATHER, known to most by his nickname, Houghtie.
Houghtie’s presence is everywhere — on the mounted swordfish above the fireplace, golf trophies, photographs of him at the wheel of his motorboat, etc. In these photos, he is a distinguished looking man in his late sixties with a full head of silver hair and Brooks Brother attire.
As Ben brings his gear into the house, he pays no attention to any of this. He throws all of the windows open.
EXT. SUMMER HOUSE - DAY
Ben leaves the house by way of the oceanfront porch, crosses the lawn, and descends a set of weather-beaten stairs that lead down the bluffs to a dock.
EXT. HOUGHTON DOCK - DAY
Tied to the dock is Houghtie’s boat: a classic 1930 Chris- Craft triple-cockpit runabout named HOUGHTIE’S GLORY that has been meticulously maintained. It’s the old man’s pride and joy. A race float, flags flying, is anchored out in the water a distance.
Ben seems inclined to take the boat for a spin. The building SOUNDTRACK is The Motels’ Suddenly Last Summer.
WIDE ANGLE: Of the stairway and bluffs.
CLOSE ON: The top of the stairway. Serena Fisher is standing there.
CLOSE ON: Ben’s face.
BEN
(to himself)
It can’t be her.
CLOSE ON: Serena’s face. She’s smiling.
BEN (CONT’D)
Serena?
She doesn’t answer.
BEN (CONT’D)
(shouting) Serena!
Ben is off and running, taking the stairs two at a time, but when he gets to the top, Serena has vanished. Nothing in sight but the summer house and vast, empty lawn.
Ben stands, hands cupped to face, calling for her. But his voice competes with the rising sounds of WIND and SURF.
BEN (CONT’D)
Serena! Come back!
EXT. SUMMER HOUSE - PORCH - EVENING
Ben is on the oceanfront porch. Dinner dishes litter a wicker table. He is drinking white wine as he talks to his wife, STEPHANIE, on his phone.
BEN
This is great news. The way you’ve been talking, I didn’t expect to see you until the Fourth of July.
INT. STEPHANIE’S OFFICE - EVENING
Approaching 40, Stephanie is not unattractive, but she is no raving beauty, either. With her horn-rim glasses, business suit, and dark hair in a bun, she radiates calm and collected. She is a star assistant attorney general in Boston, where she and Ben live in the off-season.
STEPHANIE
It’s only a two-day postponement. The defense
sought it and we didn’t object — we could
Vapors: The Essential G. Wayne Miller Fiction Vol. 2 Page 15
