by Cooper, Doug
Stein urges me forward. Inside, Griffin paces frantically. Astrid is sitting on the couch, cocooned in a blanket. No one speaks; we all just watch Griffin. Minutes of silence build like drops on the end of an icicle. Each one combines with the ones before, collecting … building … increasing the discomfort and anticipation as we wait for this bubble of awkwardness to burst. We can’t just sit here. We need to do something.
“Griffin, try to relax,” I say. “Nothing is definite right now.”
“Easy for you to say. My brother’s dead, and you’re telling me to relax.”
“That’s not fair. He’s a brother to all of us. Getting yourself upset isn’t doing any good.” The words don’t feel any better coming out of my mouth than they probably sound, but surprisingly Griffin listens and sits down next to Astrid. She puts her arm around him. He drops his head and buries his face in his hands.
I turn to Stein. “Did Cinch have any drugs on him?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. He gave me what he had before he jumped.”
“Gather up all the stuff in this place and take it down to a rental locker by the dock,” I say, taking charge.
Stein says, “Just stash it at my place.”
“No, I don’t want it associated with anyone. But you know the chief of police, right? We’ll all go to the station together after you get back.”
While we wait for Stein, I shower and convince Griffin to do the same. Astrid asks, “What are the chances he’s kidding around?”
“He’s done it before,” I say, “but he wouldn’t be gone this—” The sound of someone on the steps fractures my words. We all turn to the door. Griffin emerges from the bathroom but reverses course when he sees Stein enter.
A silence descends during our walk to the police station. The torch in the park stands as a memorial to the simplicity that existed only twelve hours ago.
Although today appears to be a typical August day—boaters working off their hangovers, preparing their boats for a day of sun and fun; the fishermen returning from their morning excursions and gathering in Frosty’s for a Bloody Mary and some breakfast; the store owners, prepping their storefronts to attract eager tourists; and island workers, scurrying to work to avoid being late due to another hard night of partying—we know that once we enter the police station, nothing about today will be typical.
Skip is drinking a cup of coffee in the hallway of the police station when we enter. “Oh shit, look at this crew. This ought to be good.”
Stein says, “Is the chief here?”
Skip frowns, catching something in Stein’s tone. “Yeah, he’s in his office. Something wrong?”
Griffin says, “Cinch is missing.”
“He probably hooked up or passed out somewhere. Last night was crazy.”
Griffin motions for Skip to proceed. “There’s more to it than that.”
Skip knocks then opens the door. “Chief? Some people are here to see you.”
The room smells of cedar and pipe tobacco. Chief O’Connor is sitting behind his desk facing the windows overlooking the park. Clouds of smoke rise above his head. Still not turning around, he says, “What can I do for you boys this morning?”
Several golf carts passing in front of the station draw my attention to the windows and the framed view of downtown. He must’ve watched us walk down the street. How many other mornings has he seen us walking the other way after an extended party session?
Stein says, “We were at the cove last night, and Cinch went up to jump. We heard him hit the water, but he never surfaced. At first we thought he was fooling around, but we’ve looked everywhere and no sign of him. I know we’re not supposed to be there, but we’ve done it hundreds of times and nothing’s happened before.”
Chief O’Connor removes a clipboard from his desk drawer and directs Skip to get two more chairs. “All right. Technically we’re not supposed to do anything for missing persons until forty-eight hours have passed, but since other people were present, we’ll start the process now. If Cinch turns up, we’ll throw this form away.”
While Stein relays the details, Chief O’Connor writes, never lifting his eyes or pen from the form until Stein stops talking. As the chief scans the form for any missing information, Griffin asks what the next step is. The chief explains that he’ll alert the Coast Guard to begin searching but that we shouldn’t expect any news soon. Since the wind was out of the northeast last night, the water level is high. If Cinch did go under, he could be anywhere.
After we leave the station, Stein goes to work, and Griffin and I spend the morning in the red barn formulating scenarios to explain Cinch’s disappearance. Eventually getting punchy from being cooped up and only theorizing about where he could be, we put some action to our words and check some places we think he could be holed up. We even try a few long shots by talking to girls at the Beer Barrel and the Crescent that he might’ve hooked up with, but by three o’clock we’ve exhausted our options, so we check in with Astrid at the Boat House.
News about Cinch has spread, and a steady stream of people flows in to offer support. On the surface no one has given up yet, but as day turns to night, the tension shows in everyone, and everyone attempts to deal with it the same way they deal with everything: alcohol.
After a person I don’t even know stops over to offer their condolences, I suggest we leave. Griffin says, “If one more person comes over and offers to buy me a drink, tells me not to give up, or relays some story about Cinch, I’ll puke. I need to get off this island. I need to see our parents.”
After the long day, I slide into bed with Astrid. I’m still replaying the events in my head. “We should’ve—”
“Shhhh, don’t. It won’t do any good. There’s nothing we can do now.”
I curl up behind her and bury my face in the back of her neck. I’m not sure when she falls asleep, but I can’t.
On most mornings I fight reality by hitting the snooze to buy a few more moments of peace. Today I preempt the alarm by twenty-three minutes. No reason to let the alarm wake Astrid and Griffin. I kiss the spot on the back of her neck where I took shelter during the night.
The living room smells of stale beer. I open the door, but the humid air oozing in offers no relief. The depleted keg floats in the water at a derisive slant. I place it on the porch to return it to Bob. Since we didn’t deliver Tuesday, today will be busy. But it doesn’t matter. What else is there to do?
Bob, like everyone, has heard about Cinch. He urges me to take the morning off, but I convince him I need to work. The weight of the kegs will distract me from thinking about Cinch.
Most of the morning passes in silence. Bob is probably searching for the right thing to say, some cliché that will sum up the whole situation and lessen my pain, as he has so many times during the summer when I seemed troubled. But this time there’s nothing he can say or do. There’s nothing anyone can say or do. Time is the only thing that will heal this, and even that will only lessen the grief. There’s nowhere left to run; nowhere left to hide. I’m surrounded by death, just as I was in the classroom months ago. Everywhere I look are reminders of how things were and will never be again.
The last people exit the ferry from the mainland. Griffin and I remain in the car, staring straight ahead. He says, “Thanks for the ride. You got my parents’ number if you hear anything.”
“You should tell them right away.”
“That’s easier said than done,” he says. “They think I’m coming home to tell them my vacation is over.”
My “I’m on vacation” mantra from earlier in the summer rings hollow at this point. I truly wish this were a vacation, that all of us were leaving together and returning to real lives on the mainland.
Griffin walks down the hill to the shelter house where the foot passengers wait to board. I want to stop him, but I know it will only postpone things. I recall the marvel with which I watched my first ferry arrival only in May. Novelty and excitement overflowed when I started thi
s new life. Now I’m drowning in a worse reality than the one I was trying to escape.
Wednesday’s search concludes with no news. Now two full days of searching have passed without finding anything. The policy, Chief O’Connor has explained, is to search for three days. If nothing is found, a decision will be made about whether to continue or not. One of the problems regarding the search for Cinch is that since he was wearing only shorts when he jumped, there’s not much to find except his body. If he did hit his head, he would’ve swallowed a lot of water and probably sunk to the bottom. If one of the divers doesn’t find him, he probably won’t turn up until he washes ashore.
Although the day is uneventful, I’m exhausted when I get off work at eight. My mouth is parched, my jaw tight. Even my nose, which has been running continuously for the past two days, is dry.
Uncomfortable in the living room, I go to the bedroom. I need to stay busy. I gather all the clothes scattered on the floor and pile them in the corner. I collect the mounting pile of mail and pay stubs on the dresser and move it to the bed to sift through it all. Mixed in with the pile is a full green baggie. I shake my head. How many other packages have we misplaced this summer?
I stare at the contents and think of all it represents. Fuck it. Why not? The rest of the stuff is safely locked away. What else is there to do? Astrid and Stein are working and Griffin is gone. I’ll dispose of this, have a few drinks, then come home and get a good night’s sleep. If I feel bad later, I’ll make a different decision next time.
My hands trembling, I dump the contents onto the mirror. My nose begins to run as the familiar smell rises. Saliva pools in my mouth. I remove a twenty from my pocket and repeat the steps I know so well: smashing, crushing, dividing the small rocks into four lines of fine powder. The person in the mirror stares back at me. My eyes flip back and forth between the cocaine and my reflection. I think about how many times Cinch, Griffin, and I were in this same position. What does it ever get anyone? What are we all searching for? What is everyone running from?
The four lines captivate my attention. I should just dump it on the floor. What does it matter? What does any of it matter? It’s not like anything will change. It won’t erase the past; it won’t determine my future.
Ssshhhump.
Ssshhhump.
The tension dissipates in my jaw. I rotate my head, sending a shiver down my back, causing my shoulders to shake. My eyes are no longer tired and itchy; my chest and shoulders are no longer tight; my hands no longer ache.
I’ll leave the other two for later. Probably should stay close so I don’t have a long walk for my return visit. What would I base my decisions on if I didn’t party? I only hang around people who do drugs, and I only go to bars that are close to home or that have private stalls. I never quit this stuff. I was just taking a break.
I don’t even know what to believe anymore. Lying to mask my true motives has become so involuntary that I can no longer tell the difference between truth and falsehood. When lies come so easily, who am I really deceiving?
I stare back at the two white, powdery, parallel lines. I blow them across the mirror. I inhale and blow harder. The dust sprinkles to the floor. I rub the powder into the carpet with my feet. I’m done with this stuff. I don’t ever want to see it again. I hold up the mirror. The pathetic face stares back at me. I smash the mirror on the dresser and fling it against the wall.
I’ve got to get out of here.
The band playing in the Round House provides cover so I don’t have to talk to people—just sit and drink. Haley makes sure I don’t even have to order, and a shot is always in front of me. Soon I won’t feel or remember anything.
The light by the middle cash register flashes, indicating a phone call. Haley goes into the back to answer it. When she returns, she slides a note across the bar. I sip my drink, attempting to delay any real consequences with casual gestures. I can’t receive bad news this way.
I go in the back to return the call. Griffin answers on the first ring. “Any news?” he asks.
“No. They called off the search for today and will begin again in the morning. How’d things go with your parents?”
“They wish I would’ve called them right away.”
“What good would that’ve done?” I ask. “We still don’t know any more than we did a few days ago.”
“If there’s still no news, we’re coming over Friday morning so my parents can talk to Chief O’Connor and we can pack up Cinch’s stuff.”
“Do you really think it’s come to that?”
“Where else could he be?”
Griffin saying that makes me face the inevitable: Cinch is gone forever. Somewhere deep inside of me I was holding on to the slim hope that Cinch could still be alive. That somehow he had snuck off the island and was waiting at his parents’ house when Griffin arrived, and it all was a sick joke. Hearing the resignation in Griffin’s voice destroys any fleeting traces of optimism.
There’s no way I can go back to the bar after the call. I can’t be around anyone. The only thing to do here to be alone is to walk.
The sun has disappeared behind the trees, and a brisk wind charges off the lake toward shore. Boats speckle the docks. I turn left onto Bay View Avenue and walk out of town. At Peach Point I continue onto West Shore and head south, still without a destination. Two parked golf carts at the boat ramp impel me onward. I follow West Shore until it bends to the left, giving way to Trenton Avenue. I’m at the cove.
The water beckons as it did the first night we came here, but I don’t feel free or energized tonight when I step onto the cliff. My legs weaken at the sight of the watery coffin. I step back from the edge. The leap that once represented trust and belonging is now an abyss of pain and loss, and most of all of foolishness.
A gust of wind shakes the trees behind me. Through the darkness the faint outline of the fire ring on the beach sneers back at me. The waves crash below, mocking me. I drop to my knees. A burst of warmth explodes in my stomach and then rushes up through my throat into my mouth.
A gush of liquid splatters onto the edge of the cliff. It runs back over my hands and sticks to my knees.
“Why did we have to be so stupid?” I whisper.
I stare at the water below, wiping my hands on my shorts. My tone changes to pleading. “Why did we have to keep pushing? Please give him back. You made your point. You don’t need him any more. Let his family have him.”
I sit in silence, alternating my gaze between the sky and the water, expecting an answer or some sign that my message has been received. Instead the only reply is the scornful repetition of the waves against the rocks. Not even the stars offer hope; they just stare back at me, silent and cold.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE VISIT TO THE COVE PURGED JUST ENOUGH OF THE EMOTIONAL WAVE I HAD BEEN HOLDING BACK THE PAST FEW DAYS TO ALLOW SIX HOURS OF UNINTERRUPTED REST. But the same haunting emptiness still chases me out of the red barn early. At least I got some sleep. I have to burn off this anxiety. I do three laps around the island on my bike before I meet Bob at the winery to help deliver beer.
He says, “The wind finally switched directions last night. It was due north when I went to bed, out of the west when I got up, and by the time I got on the boat, it had dropped down out of the southwest. Fishermen should be happy. Fish scatter when the water level shoots up.”
I climb up into the cab, grateful for the small talk. Anything to get me out of my own head. I keep it going. “How’s the load today?”
“Pretty average, nothing to bust a nut over.” He glances in the mirror. “We’ve got company.”
Chief O’Connor exits his car and approaches the cab. He says, “Griffin told me to come find you if there was any news. Do you want to go down to the station for this?”
My body stiffens. I can’t move. I have been pleading for resolution, but now that it is here, I’m not sure I can face it. I take a long, staggered breath. “Sir, you better tell me right here.”
He
opens his notebook. “About 6:45 this morning, two fishermen in a rowboat north of the cove were drifting close to shore. One of the fishermen spotted something bobbing in the water, trapped in the back of the cave. They had seen the rescue team and the divers around the island, so they called 9-1-1. Coast Guard responded to the call. At 7:04 a.m., the Coast Guard confirmed a male in his mid-twenties had apparently drowned and was trapped in the cave. They worked quickly to remove him from the water, and at 7:12, they lifted him onto the boat. The subject meets all descriptions of Cinch, and his injuries and the apparent cause of death match the report filed.” He lifts his eyes to mine. “Are you able to come and identify the body?”
His question hangs in the frozen moment.
“Brad, I know this is a difficult time, but we need somebody to identify the body.”
“Don’t even ask,” Bob says to me. “Just go.”
Chief O’Connor leads me to his car. Looking at him through the wire mesh reminds me of my first time in one of these cars only months ago. After that night, I worried I might end up in a police car for the wrong reason, one that would put me behind bars. Now that almost seems like a preferable outcome.
There’s no morgue in Put-in-Bay, not even a hospital—only a small paramedic outpost that consists of an examination room and a garage for the ambulance. The chief leads me into the garage, where the divers are breaking down their equipment. A gurney covered with a beige blanket stands conspicuously behind the ambulance. All eyes turn to me.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Chief O’Connor asks.
I motion to proceed.
He peels back the blanket. The face is pale and bloated. Small chunks of flesh are missing from his neck and shoulders. The right side of his forehead is badly bruised and swollen.
I close my eyes. “It’s him. That’s Cinch.”
The chief replaces the blanket over his face.
