Sebastian paused on the trail and pointed to a little brown smudge like a patch of lichen on a flat rock embedded in the hill. It was a small bird, huddled in the lee of the rock.
Nightjar, Sebastian shouted in my ear. You can tell it’s a male because of the white spots on the wings. Nocturnal, so they huddle up most of the day. They won’t move until you step on them. The old Irish call them goatsuckers. Used to believe they sucked milk from goats.
The wind was changing directions quickly and buffeting us from all sides. We walked leaning into the hill, one hand clutching the ground, Sebastian’s binocular case dragging through the grass, until we came to where the land formed a dramatic tight V with the actual point only a few feet wide. Below us the ground sloped away another hundred feet till the cliffs, a sheer drop of another two hundred feet to the sea. We sat on a jutting rock and Sebastian took out his binoculars to scan the horizon.
There, he said, pointing, and he handed me the binoculars.
I tried to keep them pointed in the same direction. All I could see was exposed and magnified sky, a rich shade of blue.
Like a bobbing comma, Sebastian said, coming straight at us. A large seagoing bird, I think, perhaps a black-browed albatross. A large, dark thing.
I can’t see it, I said, and handed him the binoculars.
Just wait a bit. It’s coming right at us. It’s only going to get bigger.
The wind tore through our clothes, the rocks below boiling with white surf. On the narrow rock our shoulders and thighs were touching, and I was acutely conscious of that warmth.
Watch, keep looking. There!
He pointed into the blue at a bobbing wisp, a line of black flexing, high above the water, a thousand feet or more.
Awfully high, Sebastian said, frowning. For an albatross this close to land. Might be something else.
He raised the binoculars to his eyes and focused.
Odd, he said after a moment. Take a look at this.
I took the binoculars and the bird popped into view, a large, wide-winged black thing, heavy flexing shoulders, long ponderous strokes. A thick bill like a wedge, the color of a lemon.
A raven, Sebastian said. Never seen that before. No telling where that chap is coming from. Something must have compelled him to come this far across the ocean.
It was getting late and I had to catch the ferry. I stood up and needed to put my hand on his shoulder to steady myself in the wind. He looked a bit surprised, but pleased. He stood up and took my hand, and we laughed a little as we swayed and lurched.
Shall we go then?
I’ll go, I said, you can stay.
You sure? I’d say be careful on the walk back, but I guess if you fell in the water it wouldn’t matter much, would it?
Not really, I said. You’ll be around?
Sure, Elly. I’ll be here. Right at this spot.
I left Sebastian there, scanning the horizon.
Chapter Eleven
My parents married late, and my older sister Beatrice was born when my mother was well into her thirties, and so they had recently begun the mild eccentricities of the aged. Since I left home my mother had taken to arranging ever-widening fans of newspaper around the kitchen door where all visitors entered, imploring everyone repeatedly in remonstrative tones to remove their shoes. My father disappeared for hours in the basement, most of the time in the bathroom. The holidays at my parents’ house were a testament to the ability of my mother to contrive ways to tint the celebration with the veneer of joy, while underneath the constant reminder of disappointment echoed like a dirge.
The year Fred and I returned from Ireland for Christmas, Beatrice brought to dinner a man who had the improbable job of restoring flintlock muskets.
He’s got this sweet farm on the Eastern Shore, Beatrice said, her mouth full of cheese dip. It’s got a barn full of bullet holes from the Civil War.
The gunsmith was working alongside Beatrice on the bowl of corn chips and dip, chewing, his thin ponytail slung across one shoulder. He had a half dozen leather thongs around his neck bearing various amulets, most of which appeared to be made of lead. Nobody had brought up the topic of the baby.
Fred had retreated into the den with my dad to watch football. Through the door I could see him in the armchair that was covered with an old print sheet, a glass of bourbon balancing on the arm. My father was crammed in his worn corduroy recliner, the footrest under his calves, enormous feet in slippers dangling. Mother worried over the stove, boiling water for tea. On the table she had laid out three boxes of Entenmann’s pastries: coffee cake, raspberry strudel, and something called the Cinnamon Wedge, all covered with thick laces of crusty white icing. Also on the table was the crock of cheese dip that Beatrice had brought, which consisted of ground beef and Velveeta, and the plate of tomato caprese that Fred had arranged, alternating fans of red and yellow tomatoes topped with disks of creamy mozzarella, chopped basil, olive oil. I told him that no one would eat it. Beatrice stared at me with a puzzled look, chewing. She was waiting for my response.
Wow, was all I could think to say. That must be interesting.
It is, Beatrice said, and there’s lots of money in it. You wouldn’t believe it.
The gunsmith nodded. His fingers were tattooed with Gothic letters, but he moved so deftly between chip bowl, dip, and mouth that I couldn’t read them.
The Christmas Eve gathering took on the same general configuration each year; after rising early to Mother’s gentle bed shaking, we made a trip to the store for whatever odd purchases she had missed or created the need for, had lunch of cold cuts and white bread, then the steady diet of Entenmann’s pastries and whatever unholy dish Beatrice came to town with, Dad and Fred in the den diligently watching sports, putting away nearly a fifth of whiskey between them before dinner. The turkey was always served at four thirty, dry as a bone, cut into shreds with an electric knife by Dad while the meat was still hot, such was the old man’s zeal to dismember the bird, the buzzing knife rattling against bone and cartilage. My mother watched each year with trepidation, a towel at the ready to stanch bleeding or make a tourniquet as her husband lurched into it, his eyes filmed over like a feeding alligator, a faint smile on his lips. But he seemed to take genuine, honest pleasure in the ceremony, which for my dad was a rare thing, and so everyone left him to it.
Beatrice was still living in Ocean City, Maryland, working at an Italian restaurant that catered to tourists. In the winter she went on unemployment. She was thirty-two years old, divorced, and wore belly shirts to show her pierced navel surrounded by a Polynesian scrawl. Beatrice was tall like me and had the lean look of a habitual drug user. She kept her hair dyed black and had stopped using most hygiene products. Our father paid for her car insurance, when she had a car, and for her phone bill, in an attempt to get her to call. During dinner she took numerous bathroom breaks as well as getting up to step out onto the porch and smoke, the gunsmith tailing behind her, gripping his hand-tooled leather tobacco pouch.
Later in the kitchen my mother and I were discussing how unfit my sister was for motherhood, her complete lack of any sense of responsibility and how this marked her for a problematic and difficult career as a breeder. I had a few glasses of wine, and I think I was trying to gain some insight into my sister’s life by talking to my mother. Which was a mistake.
Maybe some people just shouldn’t have children, I said. My mother was spooning butter and sour cream into a giant bowl of mashed potatoes, mixing it with her hands.
I wish you wouldn’t go, she said. Why can’t you stay here?
Her eyeliner was caked under her eyes, and my mother suddenly looked clownish and absurd.
You could help your sister, you know, she said.
I can’t do anything for Beatrice, I said. You are her mother, you do something.
She paused, and looking at me my mother said: You know Eleanor, some women are mothers, and some women have children. I was no mother. I was just a woman who had children.
<
br /> Mom, I said, that’s a terrible thing to say. Particularly to your daughter.
She shook her head, tried to wipe her eyes with her sleeve, and left a streak of potatoes across her cheek.
I’m afraid, she said, that you will likely have to confront this yourself at some point.
* * *
I can’t take much more of this, I whispered to Fred.
We were sleeping in my old room, in the separate twin beds that Beatrice and I had slept in as children. The mattresses were special-order, an extra six inches in length, like all of the beds in the house.
Hmmm.
Fred was solidly drunk. He would snore, I knew, and I would spend half the night getting him to turn over.
And what’s with the gunsmith?
Take it easy, Fred mumbled.
What?
You are awfully lucky, Elly.
Something pawed on the window screen, and I craned my neck to look. Branches, the holly tree that towered over the side of the house. No real snow this year. For Christmas, Fred had given me a flannel bathrobe and a Tiffany charm bracelet with two charms. The first was a heart shape that said: “If Found, Return to Tiffany & Co., New York City.” The other was a fish.
To mark our introduction to the island, he said. Each new adventure we’ll add another charm.
Thinking of it, I wanted to roll onto him and give him a squeeze. I stuck my hand out.
Hey.
He reached out and clasped my hand.
We fly to Ireland on Tuesday, Fred said. We’ll be in Baltimore again on Wednesday. Try and enjoy the time you have.
I think Beatrice is on something, I said.
And this is a surprise?
I can’t believe it, I said, but I’m actually ready to go back.
I’m glad, Fred said. Me too. But first Atlantic City and Ham. You up for it?
Sure, I said. Always.
We held hands for a few moments, our arms stretched across the darkness.
Fred?
Yes.
I’m scared.
Of what?
A baby.
No need to be scared, he said. They’re tiny little things. Not particularly aggressive. You can overpower them.
You know what I mean.
The old house wheezed and cracked with the press of winter. It was the only home I’d ever known.
Yes, Fred said. I do. But I’m not scared. Not with you.
* * *
The airport security screeners located a small penknife in Fred’s bag and pulled him aside. We had a flight up to Newark to spend New Year’s with Ham in Atlantic City. This knife had made the trip to and from Europe undetected, and lain forgotten in an obscure pocket for many years. The penknife was inlaid with mother-of-pearl and capped with gold, engraved along one side: “HJB—1930.” Fred’s grandfather, the original Ham, would have been eighteen years old at the time, Fred explained, still in Virginia, working at a sawmill before he began his forays out west. It seemed a precious and expensive thing to procure during the Depression, but Fred said that his grandfather was known to run a little whiskey in those days.
The penknife would have to remain behind, and the security agents gave Fred the option of mailing it to himself. They provided him with a standard business envelope, which Fred addressed to our hotel in Atlantic City.
It was the day before New Year’s Eve. Ham wanted to take Fred up in his new plane. I made him promise not to get in a plane piloted by his father, under any circumstances.
We arrived at the address with a frozen turkey in the trunk of the rental car and a gallon of Canadian Club. It was a slate-gray afternoon, with a fine mist of rain, and the boardwalk looked particularly decrepit. Ham was meeting us in an Italian restaurant on a side street where black prostitutes gathered to seek out the lonely tourists who wandered out of the casinos. We found him perched in a giant booth near the door, with a window overlooking the parking lot. He was doing the New York Times crossword puzzle and drinking scotch. He seemed genuinely happy to see us, and after we shook hands he waved over the waitress, who took our drink order. Ham was looking better than when we saw him last; he had healthy color in his face and was wearing a well-tailored suit. His leather valise sat on the table. He reached over and stroked my arm.
Elly, how’s the water over there?
It’s great, Ham, thanks.
Good. Great to see you. You look great.
So do you, Ham.
The restaurant was full of pairs of people, black woman/white man, all slurping piles of spaghetti carbonara with carafes of pinkish Chianti. At regular intervals these pairs would wipe their mouths on their napkins and exit through a back door in the alley, returning a few minutes later and exiting out the front. Ham ordered for us, and a grizzled old troll trundled out vast plates of pillowy cream-colored ravioli the size of doughnuts, accented with artful splashes of marinara. Ham took out a crumpled pack of Camels and shook out a bent cigarette.
So what do you do here? I asked.
I have dinner. Do the crossword.
No, I mean for employment.
I’m a gaming consultant.
Ham popped a match on the table and lit his cigarette, leaning back and stretching an arm across the top of the vinyl booth. Some kind of little kingdom you have here, I thought. Congratulations.
Which casino? Fred asked.
The Golden Castle, Ham said.
Never heard of it, I said.
That’s because you aren’t a serious gamer.
Don’t you mean gambler?
Gamblers flip coins and hope for luck, Ham said. Gamers are people who play to win. I’ll show you what I mean. C’mon, eat up. Let’s get out of here and go back to my place.
The ravioli were excellent, and Fred and I ate a couple each while Ham polished off the crap wine. We were never given a bill, and Ham left no tip.
On the boardwalk the sky was the color of cement and a steady sleet pounded the boards. Ham’s place was only a few blocks away, in a building with a series of unmarked solid steel doors on a stretch of wall decorated with a vaguely Mardi Gras–esque mural. Next door was Caesars, then Bally’s, then the rest of the strip. The upper stories were blank, windowless, with more lurid paintings of carnival behavior. Ham seemed to choose a door at random. Inside was a cavernous warehouse area, naked neon bulbs and packing materials piled in the back.
Jesus, Fred said. What kind of place is this?
Ham grinned and beckoned with a finger, his shoes clacking across the concrete floor. He took us to the back of the room and into a freight elevator, the walls covered with heavy packing quilts.
This is a bit of a perk, Ham said. Watch this.
The elevator had no buttons or doors. Ham stuck a key in an unmarked slot and the car lurched upward, moving remarkably fast, the wall of brick a blur in front of us, cut occasionally by an opening, blinks of light and glimpses at various interiors as we flashed by the floors: a small stage with couches around it, tables with men playing cards, someone’s bedroom, a woman holding a glass pitcher full of water, a room full of glowing computer screens. Ham’s place was on the top floor, a vast loft space painted in muted colors, the kitchen great slabs of obsidian marble, gleaming stainless-steel appliances, polished hardwood floors and a wall of twelve-foot windows overlooking the Atlantic City strip.
Ham fixed us cocktails and the sleet stopped so we went out onto the veranda and up a small set of stairs to the roof. A covered and heated patio with a teak wet bar and deck furniture overlooked a long, rectangular pool, the water glowing deep red.
Twenty-five meters long, Ham said. Regulation distance, right Elly? Climate-controlled. And salt water too.
The ocean pounded itself into the sand below us and there was the faint sound of laughter and shouting from the boardwalk, the lights of the casinos washing out the night sky. I bent down and felt the water. Perhaps sixty-eight, seventy degrees. I put my finger to my tongue and tasted the salt. It wasn’t the briny, gritty taste
of the ocean, more of a clean, sharp sensation, but delicious nonetheless.
Watch this, Ham said, and turned a small dial on the control panel. The pool lights faded to white then to emerald, then sky blue, then a hazy yellow.
This is incredible, I said.
I thought you’d like it, Ham said. I thought of you, actually, when I had it made.
He led us to a small table with cushioned chairs.
Wait here, he said, I need to get something.
This place is insane, Fred said as soon as his father went down the stairs.
How is it possible? What’s this consultant thing he’s talking about?
I don’t know, Fred said. I don’t know what he’s doing.
Ham came up a minute later with his valise and a bottle of scotch.
Bring your suit, Elly? Dive in if you want.
I shrugged. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
Ham took out a yellow legal pad and slid it in front of Fred. On the pad was a list of names and dollar amounts. Fred’s name was there at the top of the list. The amount next to his name was extremely large.
What’s this? Fred said. I don’t understand.
This is what I calculate that you owe me, Ham said.
What?
We just stared at him for a few moments, until he cracked up.
Kidding! This is a rough draft of my will. I’m gonna have it drawn up soon. I know a guy in Hoboken who can do any legal document in twenty-four hours that’ll hold up in any court in the world.
How . . . Fred stammered. Where did this money come from?
Ham shuffled around in the valise and pulled out a folder.
All I need, is a signature on this here and it’ll be all set.
You want me to sign . . . what?
Ham sighed and ran a hand through his hair. His fingernails were battered and chipped, gunked with dark material in the creases like a mechanic.
This whole thing is going to collapse, Ham said. This world will eat itself. I’m not just talking about Atlantic City. The whole thing. You guys have the right idea, going out to that island.
Our pub isn’t on an island, Fred said, it’s in Baltimore, on the coast.
The Night Swimmer Page 15
