True Blue (Hubbard's Point)

by Luanne Rice

  The word lobster made Michael think of Quinn. From his window he could see several of her buoys bobbing in the waves, his father swimming in the starlight.

  His mother didn't understand what was important. Till this summer, neither had Michael.

  ZEB PULLED the old rowboat out of Winnie's shed, and together he and Michael dusted off the cobwebs, bought a new pair of oars and oarlocks, and launched it from the rocks in front. Although Michael would clearly rather have been with Quinn, he was a good sport while Zeb took him out to Gull Island and across to Tomahawk Point, reenacting some of his favorite excursions as a boy.

  “It's nice here,” Michael said one afternoon, rowing across the cove.

  “A great place to grow up,” Zeb agreed. “Do you think you could live here?”

  Michael seemed to consider the question. “Yeah,” he said. “Definitely. Could you come back?”

  Zeb thought of what he had said to Rumer, how he had sworn that they could make it work. She hadn't spoken to him since. He was operating with the kind of faith that had flown men to the moon.

  “Yes,” Zeb said. “I could.”

  Zeb kept rowing even on days when Michael was busy. His back burned in the hot sun, and his muscles ached. He was trying to exercise the tension out of himself, waiting for Rumer. If he stayed out after sunset, he'd see Rumer's lights up on the hill. Once, he saw her pass by an upstairs window, graceful and mysterious as a shadow.

  Another time he could have sworn he saw her watching him with binoculars. Standing on the porch, glass pressed to her eyes, observing as he rowed across the cove. His shirt was off, and sweat was pouring down his body. He flexed; he couldn't help himself. If she was watching, he wanted to look good. His NASA training had made him fit and strong; wanting to dazzle her with his muscles, he leaned in and rowed even harder.

  When he looked up, she wasn't there anymore.

  The next day, he saw her at the post office. Riding his bike, he had to get the papers and mail, and to pick up a quart of milk. Rumer had parked her truck there, on her way to school. The kids—Quinn and Michael—were huddled together in the cab, going over some assignment—Michael had been gone when Zeb got up, off to spend an extra hour with Quinn. As Zeb pedaled harder, coming up the hill, Rumer got into her truck with the mail and waved as she backed out, calling, “They're late for school—I'm giving them a ride!”

  She had seemed singularly unimpressed with his speed, his muscles, and his prowess on a bicycle. She could not care less, Zeb thought. She had probably just been bird-watching with her telescope, hoping to spot the osprey they'd rescued, not watching him row at all. Or perhaps she'd been scanning the horizon for her father's gaff-rigged sloop.

  Finally, getting impatient and because Zeb had promised Sixtus he would watch over her—he told himself—he decided to stop by her house and see how she was doing. After carrying the oars to the boat shed, Zeb started up the hill and heard a ruckus coming from her house. Rumer was in the yard, waving her arms and yelling at a man in a charcoal-gray suit, standing across the bushes in Zeb's old yard.

  As Zeb got closer, he saw the look in Rumer's eyes: wild and furious. Her silver-wheat hair swirled around her face as she tossed her head, gesturing with her arms. The man had his arms folded in a defensive position, and Zeb suddenly noticed the work crew standing with power saws and pickaxes—-just waiting behind him. An oak tree had been felled; it lay across the small driveway.

  “Excuse me, but calm down,” the man was saying. “What right do you have to tell me what trees I can cut in my own yard?”

  “There's a squirrel's nest in that tree,” Rumer said, her arm shaking as she pointed into the broken limbs. Aclump of dry leaves lay at what had been the top of the small oak, and a grown squirrel was leaping from branch to branch, her chatters sounding like screams. “There are babies inside. They were born last week…”

  “Well, I'm sorry,” the man said. “But I have the right to landscape my property.”

  “But the babies…”

  “What's your problem? Mind your own business!”

  “Look at her,” Rumer said, watching the squirrel madly try to get to the nest.

  “Rumer?” Zeb asked, standing at the foot of her steps.

  She seemed not to see him. Pushing through the bushes, she walked to the fallen tree. The branches stuck out every which way, scratching her face as she moved closer to the trunk. The mother squirrel, sensing another attack, leapt onto her back and clawed through her sweater. Used to such things, the vet began burrowing.

  “You can't just come into my yard,” the man said. “Don't you understand property lines? Christ, lady. I've about had it with the goddamn ‘hammer law’ and all the other nonsense you people have cooked up to keep me from doing what I'm going to do. Get the hell away from that tree…”

  Zeb watched as Rumer dug into the greenery, trying to get to the dead leaves that formed the animals’ nest. The mother squirrel scrabbled across her shoulders, screaming with grief as Rumer lifted her babies off the ground.

  Crouching down beside her, Zeb's pulse was racing. He helped Rumer extricate the bundle of leaves, trying to protect her from the mother. Rumer just concentrated, her breath coming fast. Zeb's hands closed around her fingers, trying to keep her from reaching inside.

  “They're dead, Rue,” he said quietly. “Let them be….”

  “What if they're not?” she asked, turning to face him, her blue eyes shining in the light.

  He realized that she could be right, and he had known her long enough to understand that she had to see for herself. Rumer was a vet now, not just a young girl who loved animals, but he could still feel the emotion pouring off her. Gently pulling the leaves back, she touched the still, gray babies curled up inside their nest.

  “Oh,” she said. They didn't move. Zeb's throat closed, hurting as he thought of all the animals living in the two yards—his and Rumer's. Their mothers had called the properties “the sanctuary.” It wasn't official, but everyone in the neighborhood had come to think of it that way All the nests, tangled vines, and tunnels had provided safety for multitudes of creatures.

  Zeb helped lift the velvety squirrels in their nest of leaves into Rumer's arms. He started to follow her, but the man stopped him.

  “It's crazy,” he said. “All I did was cut down my tree, and she went ballistic. She should be thanking me—I'm clearing this whole lot. The property values around here will shoot right up.”

  “Property values?”

  “Yeah. Do you know the view we could have from our windows when these trees get cut down? We'll be able to see to Block Island on one side, Firefly Beach on the other.”

  “You already can,” Zeb said quietly. “Through the trees.”

  “Well, I want unobstructed. The property values will skyrocket—I'm getting rid of all these common oaks and pines and planting arborvitae. I have a landscape architect, not just some yard crew. The real thing, and he's going to make this a showplace. Wait and see—”

  Zeb nodded. He started up the hill to Rumer's back door. Interrupted, the neighbor stopped in mid-sentence. “And you are… ?” He tilted his head as if wondering whether he had met Zeb, where he knew him from.

  “A friend of your next-door neighbor's.”

  “You look very familiar. You're an astronaut, aren't you? I saw you on TV last month; they had a special on famous Connecticut natives—”

  “Sorry,” Zeb said as he started to walk away. “But I have to see my friend.”

  “Well,” the man said, looking upset. “Well, hope you can calm her down. She's way out of line. If she tries to stop me again, I won't be happy—this is my yard… don't I have the right to do what I want? I hope she isn't going to make things difficult. I want to be a good neighbor.”

  “Can I make a suggestion?” Zeb asked, looking at the man, seeing the troubled look in his eyes. “Be careful with the animals around here. The people who live here are very attached to them. They used to call your
yard the sanctuary. Even if you don't understand yet, you will…”

  “They're just rodents,” he said. “Squirrels, rabbits— they're just nuisances, right? Except maybe to a vet.…”

  Zeb didn't even reply. He just knocked on Rumer's door and walked in. She was kneeling on the mudroom floor by the old rabbit hutches, peeling the dry oak leaves away from the nest one by one. The mother squirrel had climbed the house; she clung with all four paws to a screen in an open kitchen window, trying to get at her children.

  “Are the babies dead?” Zeb asked, crouching down.

  “Yes,” Rumer said. Her voice was hard, her cheeks wet. She moved very slowly, as if every bone in her body hurt. “Even if they weren't, the mother wouldn't have come back to them once she smelled me. It's Animal Behavior 101, but your mother was the first one to teach me that.”

  “I remember,” Zeb said. He could almost hear his mother's voice telling them to be careful, exploring in the bushes, climbing the trees—as kids they had been so curious about nature, and she had been afraid they would inadvertently drive animals from their nests.

  “Are they in there?”

  Rumer nodded.

  “Let me see,” Zeb said, pulling back the leaves.

  There were four tiny squirrels, perfectly formed, the size of field mice. Their silver fur glistened in the kitchen light, their tails just beginning to fluff. Rumer held them in her hands, weeping. After a few minutes, Zeb took them from her. He carried the squirrels and the leaves from their nest outside and laid them on the rock ledge for the mother to see. She went wild, jumping down from the window. Screeching, she ran from one of her dead babies to another ceaselessly, over and over. Zeb left her to her grief and went inside.

  Rumer was still on the floor. Leaning down, Zeb put his arms around her and helped her up. He remembered a time, twenty-five years ago, when while doing their paper route they had found a cat hit by a car. Rumer had jumped off her bike to hold the dead cat in her arms, and Zeb had crouched down to hold them both in his.

  “Why did it have to happen?” she wept now. “If he had just said something, I could have climbed up and saved them.”

  “He probably didn't even think about it,” Zeb said, picturing the oblivious look in the neighbor's eyes.

  “I never cry at work,” Rumer said. “Well, hardly ever… but just seeing that tree cut down, the nest broken. Hubbard's Point squirrels; they're probably descended from the ones your mother taught me about. And they're so small… they never had a chance.”

  “I know,” Zeb said.

  He held her while she cried and cried. “Do you think I'm an idiot?” she asked. “Caring this much about these things?”

  “No, I don't. You're Rumer.”

  “What does that mean?” she whispered.

  Zeb held out his hands. He led her through the house into the living room. A summer breeze blew through the open windows, smelling of salt and flowers. He had been in this room a thousand times, first as Rumer's friend, later while falling in love with her, still later as Zee's husband and Michael's father. Family pictures were everywhere, but as he looked into Rumer's blue eyes, the photos disappeared.

  “Rumer,” he said, cupping her face with his hands.

  “Tell me what that means,” she said.

  “It means love,” he said, his throat tightening. “Love for everyone and everything.”

  “But look at me,” she said. “I'm all alone… I can't be with anyone.”

  “Neither can I,” Zeb said.

  He had never been able to be with anyone but her. How long had he known she was the one for him? Forever, it seemed. At least since he was a young boy… all through their teenage years. But something had taken him over, a lust for her sister that wouldn't go away, and he had blown it all.

  “Zeb, what is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said, then changed his mind and reached for her hand. She let him hold it; they were both trembling.

  “Tell me, Zeb.”

  Zeb couldn't contain his shaking. He got up and walked over to the barometer hanging on the north wall. Tapping it, he saw the mercury fall slightly in the glass. He wondered where Sixtus was on his journey, hoped he wouldn't hit any rough weather. Rumer had followed him; he felt the heat of her body standing beside him.

  “Please, Zeb,” she said. “Tell me what's wrong.”

  Zeb wanted to pull her close, hold her for the rest of the night. Didn't she know how long he'd kept his feelings inside? They'd been over it before, how hard it had been to go from friends to something more. Both shy, they had found the transition difficult. But they had been finding their way all those years ago.

  They had conducted their courtship in an old-fashioned Hubbard's Point way, leaving notes for each other in the Foley's drawer. Before their first kiss, he'd been afraid she'd fall on the ground and start laughing. Rumer was just like a little sister. Then she was just like a best friend. You didn't have sexual fantasies about sisters or friends; it was incredibly rude.

  Elizabeth was a different story. She was enough years older to make her completely off limits—yet at the same time, another girl-next-door. She was the dangerous Larkin sister—for years, Zeb had watched her undressing in front of her window. When she'd shave her legs in the bathroom, she'd make sure to position herself in full view of his room. She'd step out of the shower, taking a long time to dry herself off. Over the years, she'd driven Zeb crazy.

  But nothing like Rumer. Rumer Larkin had gotten into his head, into his heart. She was part of him, the way salt is part of the sea. He knew her so well; he knew her by heart—he thought. While he could imagine kissing Elizabeth—ravishing her, in fact—he had been intimidated by the mechanics of touching Rumer. He had needed help to get from draping his old pal in seaweed to kissing her passionately.

  That's where the drawer had come in. The old Foley's drawer, where every corny couple had at one time or another left love notes. As kids, they had loved to perch on the wooden chairs, howling with laughter at the sappiest letters. Later, when they were young teenagers, they had read more quietly, imagining how they'd manage to compose their own love letters someday.

  Zeb had done it: His first effort had been a school-type essay, written for Rumer, about the best friend constellation. It had been about a boy and a girl (him and Rumer) who lived by the sea. After years of crabbing and fishing, casting their nets into the moonlit sea, one day they lost each other in a big storm. Thinking they were apart forever, the boy gave up hope. He went into his sea cave to die. The seas rose, the waves bigger than he'd ever seen, and suddenly he found himself surrounded by water. But there, glinting under the waves, were a few strands of starlight. They were the girl's net, and she pulled him back in, to safety, to her arms… they flew into the sky, and they live there even today, shining down from the stars above the rooftop.

  She had loved it: He remembered how it felt to have her throw her arms around his neck. They clung together for a few moments; he nuzzled her neck, smelled her lemon shampoo. She tilted her head back; he kissed her lips in a long, slow kiss that took their whole lives to get to. They were sixteen.

  Five years later, it was time for another leap. They were in their senior years of college—Zeb at Columbia, Rumer at Trinity. Their feelings had been building, taking them to a new place, wanting to make love to each other. Even now Zeb believed that Rumer had wanted it as much as he did. Both late bloomers, serious about work and about the committment, they waited until they could wait no more.

  But Rumer held back. He visited her at Trinity once, and she was afraid her roommate would walk in. Another time, at Columbia, they were in his room with candles burning and jazz playing; Elizabeth called for Rumer, with some problem that only a sister could solve.

  And finally, that first day of spring, waiting for her at the Indian Grave, she had never shown.

  Rumer had stayed home, and Zeb had been there waiting.

  Waiting in his tent for the love of his life, who
didn't even have an excuse. She had checked the drawer and hadn't seen his note, she said. Why couldn't she at least have been honest and told him that she still loved him, still wanted him, but just wasn't ready?

  If their courtship had gone more smoothly, would any of the rest have happened? He told himself he wouldn't have jumped at Elizabeth—even though she had jumped at him first. He told himself that if Rumer felt betrayed, it was only comparable to the crushing feeling he'd experienced when she'd let him down.

  The years had passed—married to Elizabeth, the only times he had seen Rumer was when she'd come to California to visit Michael. One big happy family; at the sight of his beloved aunt Rumer, the baby would squawk like a chicken. Zeb had been polite, affectionate, but distant—letting all that old water flow under the bridge. All he knew was that last September, when he'd felt that explosion in space, his emotions had gone straight back to Rumer.

  Next door, the new owner was standing below the window. He was talking to his landscaper, pointing out trees and bushes to cut down. “Those pines have to go,” he said. “And that row of bamboo.”

  The chain saw started up.

  Rumer went to the window and looked out. Zeb caught her from behind, pulling her with his arms around her waist. “Don't,” he said. “The tree was struck by lightning…it's unhealthy. See the charred side? It's his anyway, Rumer. He has the right to do whatever he wants.”

  “But I love that tree,” she said. “You and I used to climb it.”

  “Mom told us to be careful of the robins’ nest…”

  “Should I tell him?” Rumer asked. “Do you think I could stop him?”

  “No,” he said. “He thinks he's increasing the value of everyone's property, cleaning up the place.”

  “Is that what he said?”

  Zeb nodded. Looking out the window, he saw the excitement in the neighbor's eyes. He had just bought a new house; he was making it his. This was the man's right, his absolute right. But it twisted Zeb's guts, and he could feel Rumer shivering beside him.