by Luanne Rice
As I looked through the pages, I saw my aunt's future sculptures coming to life. It was like having a mystical vision: someday we'd drive to her house, and in the field, instead of dodo birds and mastodons, there would be an installation of a man sleeping in a hospital bed. We'd go to an art opening, and she'd have a show full of cribs filled with pink-bootied baby dolls.
That's what I told myself. I could see this notebook being the basis for Aunt Katharine's sculpture. Art and math aren't so different. They come from ideas, from a way logic and magic combust. My working with Lucy on formulas to bring us close to our fathers was not so different from Aunt Katharine starting with ideas of Providence and turning them into art.
But the more I stared at the pages, the stranger my feelings got. My gut churned as I saw things that made no sense. And why would my mother have this book? Wouldn't Aunt Katharine need it to complete her projects? Paging slowly through, I heard wind in the laurel leaves outside our cottage. The wind was saying my sister's name: Carrie, Carrie, Carrie.
Never have I taken an object from my mother. Money in the past, but not lately. Because she is such a part of me and I of her, I haven't needed any mementos. But this book burned in my hands. It made my skin scream: I felt blisters forming on my heart. My throat closed so tightly, I couldn't breathe. I felt as if the black cover was melting into me, or I was draining into it. Either way, I couldn't put the book down.
I carried it into my bedroom. Because it was too big to fit into my special hiding place, I slid it under my mattress—all the way to the center of the bed, where no one changing the sheets could reach without really trying. The instant I let it out of my hands, the burning stopped.
I kissed the cats; they seemed skittish, as if they could hear the wind talking too. It was time for math lab with Lucy. I grabbed my backpack and ran out of the house, letting the cold and salty November air drench my scorched self.
Practice intensified in the week before the championship game, with Travis pouring everything he had into the workouts. He hadn't let himself want this, or even acknowledge what he was doing. But every game, every yard gained, every touchdown scored—he was doing it for his dad.
He couldn't explain it, didn't even want to try. For him, football had always been fun, discipline, playing the best game, doing it for his team. He'd never given the sport a cosmic purpose, never thought it had much meaning beyond a drive to win.
But this season, that had changed. Coming to a new school, losing his old girlfriend, trying to put together an accumulation of time without his father and older sister, had all seemed like challenge enough. He'd never expected to arrive in Newport and ignite their football program. He'd always played hard, to win. His father had taught him rigor, but had reminded him not to lose sight of the fun. That had made Travis a really good player. But nothing before this season had led him or anyone to believe he could be a football star.
The only difference he could think of was his father. He'd started talking to him, on the way to practice, and out on the field. Between plays, after the huddle, he'd face his opponent and hear his father's words: Truer than true, faster than fast. He'd hear his dad's voice: Do it with grace. His father had coached many winning baseball teams with that spirit; Travis was only now discovering how lucky he'd been to have those words coming at him from his dad, any time of the day or night, no matter what the game, no matter what the obstacle.
Walking over to the field, Travis would tell his father he was going to play true, hit hard, run fast, and he'd do it with grace. He'd promise his dad that no matter what happened he'd hold his head high, shake the other team's hands, thank his coach. And Travis did all those things: every game of Newport Academy's season, he'd remember his promises to his father.
At first Chris Pollack, the quarterback and team captain, had seemed glad of the help. He'd praised Travis, given him the ball whenever possible. The wins started stacking up. Ty Cooper, a junior star and considered to be a sure bet for captain of next year's squad, had started saying darkly, joking at first but then with a kind of glum reserve, that he'd have some stiff competition against Travis.
Travis tried to follow his dad's rule, never compete with your teammates. When interviewed by the Newport Daily News, he always gave credit to Chris. And when Coach told him there was a groundswell of support for him as next season's captain, Travis said, “No, that's Ty.”
Travis knew that's what his father would have wanted him to say. And the more games that passed, winning every single one, the more Travis felt that his father was with him. He started to understand the players who pointed at the sky after scoring a touchdown, winning a game.
The strange thing was, he really needed his father more than ever. Beck was lost in geometry, his mother had been strangely distant lately, and Ally was long gone. He'd heard from Greg Wainwright that she'd started seeing Cal Steiger, a freshman at Ohio State. It had been his idea to split up, so he was surprised by how deep it cut to hear she'd found someone else. The knowledge made him run and hit harder, made him catch passes out of thin air, but he knew the main reason for his season was his father.
His mother had left just before the end of the last regular season game, disappeared somewhere with Aunt Katharine. But she was there on Saturday, as she always was, for the championship game. There was no sign of Aunt Katharine. His mother sat in the stands with a bunch of other teachers. Travis located her, just so he'd know. He did the same with Pell. She hadn't missed a game.
And then he let loose on Mooreland Hill. The Newport Academy Cuppers' defense did well in the first half, allowing fifty-two yards of rushing, forcing two turnovers, on twenty-two plays. With thirty seconds left, Chris completed a twenty-five-yard pass for a balletic catch by Travis, who scored. Still, the teams were tied 14-14 at halftime.
When they came back for the second half, it was snowing. Not hard, but steady. The field turned white, then muddy. Travis heard the crowd cheering. He glanced at the stands. Beck had gone to sit with their mother; they were both staring up at the sky, and seeing that, he felt his heart somersault. He wasn't sure why. Maybe they were looking for the same thing he was: a sign that his father was near. Then he scanned the bleachers for Pell again and found her, bundled up in her dark green down parka, looking anywhere but at the sky.
Her eyes were fixed on him. He'd been doing this for his father, and the snow felt like a sign from him. But there was Pell, two rows up, watching him as if her life depended on it. He felt her gaze, felt it fill him up. The huddle broke, and he took his position.
He intercepted the first pass thrown by Mooreland, ran seventy yards into the end zone to score. And that was just the start. The snow tapered off to a few light flurries, but he was on fire. His father had died in summer; somehow winter set him free. He broke through a shell. He scrambled for a late-third-period first down, even passed laterally to Ty for the score. The fourth quarter was explosive, with Chris and Travis trading places, passing then receiving, gaining ground, with Travis punching it, ten seconds to go, to blast over the line and score for the win.
It was Newport's first championship in decades, and the school went wild. Interviews, photographs, college scouts. Party in the ballroom, in Blackstone Hall, with roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, sparkling pear punch, and homemade pies. Most of the kids were heading down to Truffles for Saturday night, but Travis hung back.
“Honey, aren't you going out tonight?” his mother asked afterward at home, when he'd usually be showered and ready to join his friends downtown. She must have noticed that instead of getting dressed up, he'd put on his old jeans and patched sweater.
“Yeah, maybe,” he said. “But I thought I'd take a walk first.”
“You want company?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “I think I'll go alone.”
His mother put her arms around him, looked up at him with pride in her hazel eyes. She seemed so small; he'd grown this year. “Your father would have been so proud of you,�
�� she said.
He smiled; did she wonder why he wasn't saying anything? He couldn't get the words out past the ridiculous lump in his throat.
“You're the reason Newport won,” she said. “For the first time in over fifty years. Ted Shannon is ecstatic. They all are—you've brought glory to the school. But the main reason your dad would be proud is that you're such a gentleman. You're so thoughtful of Chris and Ty's feelings. I heard what you said to the interviewer. That the team was full of champions before you got here …”
“It was,” he said.
She touched his cheek. “You made it better,” she said. “You made it great.”
“Thanks, Mom,” he managed to say. Then he grabbed his jacket and hurried out of the kitchen before she could say anything more.
Running across the campus, he felt a little like Beck. He had something he didn't want anyone to see hidden in his back pocket: the red baseball cap—the one his dad had worn to so many Buckeyes games, the one with a big white “O” on the front. He jammed it on his head as he jogged.
The grounds were white with a light frosting. Snow had started up again, the flakes drifting down. An east wind gusted, blowing snow into his eyes. He wiped his face, slowing down as he reached the far end of the school lawn, just before he got to Cliff Walk.
Now he stood still, looking out to sea. Black waves crashed at the foot of the rocks, sending towers of foam upward to meet the falling snow. Behind him Blackstone Hall was brightly illuminated, still celebrating the team's victory. The crystal chandeliers sparkled through tall windows, bathing the white ground in brilliant paths of gold and silver light.
“You're not going to the wharf?”
He turned, saw Pell. She looked dazzling, dressed for Saturday night: glossy hair and makeup, a midnight blue cashmere cape that matched her eyes, something slight and silver and strapless underneath, tall black boots that seemed to go on forever.
“No,” he said. “I don't think so.”
“But it's your moment,” she said. There was distance between them, a few yards. She closed it, stepping slowly forward as if reluctant to disturb him.
“I have something I have to do,” he said.
“So do I,” she said.
“Yeah, what?” he asked.
She took another step forward, slid her hand into his. “Stand here with you,” she said.
They turned back to the water. This was the Atlantic Ocean, not Lake Michigan, but Travis thought of that stretch of water where he'd last seen his father. He thought of the season he'd just had, of every inch and drive that had belonged to Andy Shaw.
“You're thinking of your dad,” Pell whispered.
“How do you know?” he asked, looking down at her with surprise.
“Of course you would be. On this great day… when he should have been here with you. I'm thinking of mine too. He went to Newport, loved this school. I think I told you, he played football for Michigan. He'd be so thrilled to know we won the championship!”
“I'm glad,” Travis said, nodding.
“You think they're here?” Pell asked. “I know Beck and Lucy think they are….”
“I know they're close,” Travis said. He wouldn't have been able to say it to anyone else.
“Did you win for him?” Pell asked.
Travis nodded. Then he looked more deeply into her eyes. “I did it for him,” he said. “And then, when I saw you in the stands, watching me, for you …”
They kissed then. Their hands found each other; her fingers felt so cold, the wind was whipping off the sea, blowing her fine dark hair into their eyes. She was shivering, so he opened his jacket, brought her inside against his body to keep her warm. His hand traced the smooth, white line of her cheek. He lost himself in the kiss for a long, sweet time.
But he had something he had to do. They stopped, and it seemed a little awkward. She stayed pressed against him, but looked up and asked, “Is it okay that I'm here? Do you have to be alone for something?”
“No,” he said. “I'm glad you're here.”
Reaching up, he took off his father's baseball cap. Of all his father's hats, this had been his favorite. It had once been bright fire-engine red, but had faded to warm brick. The flannel “O” had lost some of its glue, so one side flapped loose. Travis stared at the cap. He thought of the games he and his father had gone to, the teams they'd seen play. He remembered his father there every time he had played, game after game, calling to him from the bleachers. He thought of the words his father had said to him: Truer than true, faster than fast.
“You do it with grace, Andy Shaw,” Travis said out loud. Then he drew his arm back and let the cap fly.
Pell stepped away from him. She let him have the moment alone—him and his dad, and all the games, and all the bright days, and all the words they'd said to each other. The faded red cap caught the wind, then tumbled over and fell into the sea. It floated for a minute on the white fringe of a broken wave; a new roller crashed in, pushing the cap under, taking it away, out of their sight.
And then Pell came back to put her arm around him again. Together they stared at the spot where the cap had disappeared into the sea, and the snow swirled, and they felt their fathers standing with them.
18ON THANKSGIVING, THE CAMPUS WAS QUIET. THE boarders had gone home, except for a few students who lived too far away, or whose families were unavailable, and who were invited to dinner at the Shannons' house.
Maura was roasting a turkey, waiting for Katharine to arrive. She felt on edge. Where was Carrie? Who was she spending the day with? If she really was in Rhode Island, might she have figured out her family was nearby? Could she just walk through the door, come home? Maura had been in touch with Tim Marcus, told him about the girl she'd seen at Travis's game and everything Katharine and J.D. had discovered. But there'd been nothing since.
Cooking smells filled the small house. Beck and Travis were in the living room, watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade on TV. Maura said she was going for a walk, and pulled on her parka. The snow that had fallen the day of the big game had now melted; the trees were bare, and the grass was dry and brown. The water was calm, slate gray. Light shined through a break in low clouds, throwing silver on a patch of sea.
She heard a motor, turned around, saw Angus's van backed up to the side door of Blackstone Hall. He had activated the wheelchair lift, and the school door was opening; she saw Stephen pushing J.D. onto the lift, saw it being raised, J.D. being loaded into the back of the van. Maura ran over.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To look for her,” J.D. said. “Do you want to come?”
Maura hesitated. She did, but the other kids were waiting at home. Stephen got it instantly.
“I'm sure Beck and Travis are expecting dinner,” he said.
“They are,” she said.
“Stay with them,” J.D. said. “I'll call you if I find out anything at all.”
“Katharine made up a book,” Maura said. “Filled with all kinds of ideas she had about where Carrie could be. I thought she gave it to me, but I can't find it. Otherwise, I'd send it along with you. It might help….”
“Katharine told me pretty much everything,” J.D. said. “But if you do find it, or think of anything else, I'll be waiting for your call.”
She nodded, watching Angus silently close the doors. She stood there beside Stephen, hugging herself as the van pulled away. The air was cold, smelled of wet leaves and distant tidal flats. Katharine would be arriving soon. Maura could ask her about the scrapbook, if she'd left it in her car. Telling Stephen she hoped he'd have a good Thanksgiving, she turned to go home.
The Half Moon Diner was busy. Lots of doctors, nurses, and patients' families stopped in for their Thanksgiving meals. Owned by the Harwood family, it had been serving Providence since 1938, the year of the big hurricane. Located right off the highway, it attracted all sorts of people.
Truckers off I-95, Portuguese fishermen home from Georges Bank
, sailors off ships in the port of Providence, hospital personnel, kids from Brown, RISD, Providence College, Johnson & Wales, rock bands who'd played Lupo's Heartbreak Hotel or the Palace Theater. Everyone came to the Half Moon.
The waitresses Dell Harwood hired were invariably kind, sensitive, and most of all, vulnerable. They could easily be seen by male clientele as lonely-hearted marks. But Dell would have none of that. She had appointed herself the waitresses' guardian angel, plain and simple.
Many of the girls came to her from Hawthorne House. Dell herself had resided there thirty years earlier. Made a mistake with a boy in town on a freighter from Singapore, a sweet young sailor named Lin who'd met her one hot summer night and to whom she'd given her heart and everything else during his time in port. Lin had steamed off to destinations unknown without even realizing he'd left her expecting their baby. Ella Rose was twenty-nine now, and managed the Half Moon.
Wanting to give back—to help other young women as in trouble and afraid as she'd once been—she'd joined the board of Hawthorne House, worked there two days a week, tried to employ as many new mothers at the diner as possible.
Over the years, she'd gotten good at reading her young waitresses' minds. No one wound up at Hawthorne House because their lives were peachy. Girls who got pregnant had plenty of choices these days. When they wound up on the steps of that blue Victorian house, you could be pretty sure that all other possibilities had been considered.
Some girls had been thrown out by their families. Others had been beaten by their babies' fathers. Some were overwhelmed with shame. Certain girls had an exit strategy—have the baby, give it right up, get back to real life. Other girls weren't so sure of their plans. The pregnancy might have caught them so off guard, they had to wait the full nine months and sometimes longer to know what they wanted to do next. Yet other girls were in such complete shock, they seemed paralyzed.
Carrie had been one of those last. She'd shown up on the streets of Providence over a year ago, wandering like a sleepwalker. Bedraggled, emotionally fragile, obviously traumatized, she'd walked into the Half Moon and ordered a bowl of oatmeal. She ate three bites and promptly threw up. Fortunately, Ella Rose had been working that day. She'd called Dell, who'd gone straight over.
