by John Rocco
“Finally. Thank you, Jake.”
This is it. The first time I’ve hugged her since dad went missing.
A dark, twisted knot, this mass in my stomach that I’ve felt for a long time, is working its way up to my throat. I cough and gag and I can feel it leaving. And now all I can feel is my mother’s arms.
I’m not alone anymore.
When we arrive back home, my mom heads into the kitchen of the diner and flicks the lights on. I follow her in.
“What are you making?” I ask, plopping down on one of the stools.
“Late breakfast.” She looks at the clock on the wall and laughs. “Or maybe an early one. Hungry?”
“Starved.”
“Did you know that your dad made breakfast for me when I came home from the hospital with you?” She points with the spatula to one of a hundred faded Polaroids pinned to the wall above her. “That’s you and dad. You were three days old.”
“That’s us?” I lean forward in my seat. It’s a picture of my dad sitting at this very counter, holding a tiny little baby wrapped up in a blue blanket. My mom pulls the photo down and hands it to me. My dad is surrounded by a bunch of his buddies, and they all have big cigars hanging from their mouths. To the right of my father, I see Gene, and directly behind him is another man. George Hassard. I drop the photo on the counter like it’s a hot plate burning my fingers. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but it’s weird seeing Captain standing next to my dad, and it’s even weirder seeing him standing next to me at three days old. “Did Dad know George?”
“Of course. He and Gene and your dad were best friends. They were inseparable. They grew up together. They went out quahogging together, camping together . . . everything,” my mom says with a tight smile. “George was the best man at our wedding.”
My head is spinning. I can’t imagine my dad being friends with Captain, never mind his best friend. I’m staring at the photo now, looking at George Hassard. He looks so young, tanned and smiling. His shirt is unbuttoned and I can’t see his scar.
“What happened? I only met this guy for the first time eleven days ago,” I say.
“He turned up now and then over the years, but it always ended in arguments. Your father would never really tell me much.” She pours pancakes on the griddle and puts the bowl down carefully. Turning back to me, she places both elbows on the counter. “George is not a bad man, Jake, but he does bad things.” She places her hands on my forearms and opens her eyes wide. “Even so, you need to stay away from him. I know you were just doing what you thought you had to, but it’s not worth it.”
“How come I’ve never seen this before?” I ask, holding the Polaroid up to my mom’s face.
“I just found it.” My mom is watching me carefully as I study the photo. “I was packing up some things, and it was tucked between some pages in the photo album.”
“Packing? You are giving up!” My voice gets loud.
“I said I was packing. I stopped. I couldn’t do it.” Her voice is cracking again as she waves her hands around the room. “This is all that your father left us.”
“Yeah, this, and a bunch of debt.”
“That’s not fair, Jake.” She looks at me and her eyes tighten. “You don’t know the situation we were in. I signed on to that debt too, not just your father.” She slides a plate of pancakes in front of me, but suddenly I’m not hungry anymore. “I was pregnant with you when he injured his back.” She’s looking at all the photos on the wall. “The only thing he enjoyed more than being a quahogger was cooking. So that’s when he decided to build this diner.”
“Yeah, I already know that.”
“But what you don’t know is this: Those jerks at the bank weren’t about to give an injured fisherman money to build a diner. I mean, we already owed them a ton of money for the house.”
“So he went to the Mafia?”
“No.” She whips around to face me. “Well, yes . . . sort of. I mean they aren’t really the Mafia like you see on television. We’d be wearing cement shoes by now, standing there at the bottom of the river.” She lets out a nervous laugh.
“But they are going to take the diner, just like the bank took our house?”
“Business has been slow. I haven’t been able to make the payments. I thought they would give us a break, with John gone and everything.”
“Well you drive away all the customers,” I say angrily, and get up from my stool and head over to one of the booths with my back to her.
“That’s not fair!” I can hear her storming around the counter toward me. She slides into the booth and forces me to look at her. She’s holding a clenched fist to her chest. “I lost my husband. Every time one of our customers walks in that door, I wait for your father to shout out a hello, or break into a story, but nothing comes, just silence.” Her tears begin to flow again.
“Just wait here a second,” I say, and run upstairs.
Seconds later I place the cigar box down on the table in front of her. She traces the lid with her finger.
“This was your father’s. Where . . . where did you find this?”
“Open it.”
She opens the lid carefully and her eyes go wide.
“Oh. Oh, my God. Jake, there must be thousands here,” she says, lifting some of the bills.
“A little over two thousand. Not enough to keep them from taking the diner, though, is it?”
She throws her arms around me and nearly squeezes the breath out of me. It feels great. She pulls back and takes both my arms with her hands. “You know what you did is wrong, though, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but not more wrong than them taking the diner,” I say defensively.
“It doesn’t matter what they do. It only matters what we do.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“Well” — she claps her hands together —“Darcy had a pretty good idea, and I think we should do it.”
The mention of Darcy shakes me. I wipe my face as if she might walk into the diner any second. “Yeah, what is it?”
My mom’s eyes light up as she says, “A cabaret.”
“What’s a cabaret?”
“Well, we turn this diner into a fancy nightclub for a night. We have entertainment, dinner, drinks, candlelight . . . it’ll be fun.”
“That’s Darcy’s idea?”
“Oh, come on.” She slaps my arm playfully. “It’s a great idea. Robin will sing, and we’ll charge twenty bucks a head, even fix the jukebox.”
I haven’t seen my mom this excited about anything in years, and I don’t want to burst her bubble, but the math just doesn’t add up. Even if we fill the place, at twenty bucks a head that’ll be about fifteen hundred bucks. Not nearly enough to cover our debt.
“When?” I ask.
“Well, I was thinking. . . .” She starts pointing to the tabletop as if it’s an invisible calendar. “The day after tomorrow is the big Barrington Beach opening, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And all these quahoggers can’t think of anything else right now. I swear that’s all they talk about. So I was thinking the next night, Wednesday. We’ll paint up a sign and leave it out on the street so everyone can see it.”
The phone rings. It’s the police. They saw me. I get flush with fever; my rib cage is about to burst. Please don’t let it be the cops.
“Who could be calling at this hour?” My mom heads over to the phone, and I want to tell her not to pick it up, that it’s a crank call, a salesman . . . anything. Just don’t pick up the phone! I’m frozen in my seat.
My mom is real quiet on the phone, just listening, and I’m sure this is the end for me. I’m going to jail.
She hangs up the phone and carefully walks back over to the table, like she’s afraid the floor might crack open and she’ll fall through.
“It’s Gene.” Her eyes are red and tight with concern. “That was his sister, Ginny. He’s gotten worse. The infection has spread through his bloodstream and . . .” Her
hand goes up and covers her mouth. Her face contorts into a knot.
“I thought he was coming home.”
“That’s what we all thought, but they’re not sure he’s strong enough to fight it.”
“What are you saying? That he could die? Who says he’s not strong enough?” The room is spinning.
“The doctors . . . nobody. Nobody says he’s not strong enough. Gene will be fine. Gene will be fine.” My mom keeps repeating this over and over, like she’s in some sort of trance.
I run up to my room, slam the door, and fall onto my bed, covering my face with my hands. I picture Gene on his boat, pulling the rake, looking strong and healthy. I hold that image in my mind for as long as I can.
Sleep overtakes me.
I sleep all day.
It’s 4 a.m. . . . It’s 4 a.m. . . . I bolt out of bed in a panic, the alarm still echoing in my head. My feet settle on the cold floor as I get my bearings. Why am I up at four?
Now I remember. Today is the Barrington Beach opening, and I’m gonna make it there after all.
I get dressed and take the stairs down into the kitchen. Through the window I can see my mom, Trax, and Robin going through the motions. The regulars are already in their seats, gulping down coffee and fueling up for the big day.
I rush around and, still fixing my shirt, grab two gallons of water, two loaves of bread from the pantry, and two large cans of beef stew. I remember to grab a can opener and throw it all in a large canvas bag.
“Where you going with all that?” Robin stares at the bag in my hand as she bangs through the double doors.
“Me? This? It’s my lunch. It’s going to be a long day,” I say, hefting the bag.
“Are you working for Dave Becker today?”
“Yeah, sort of a last-minute thing,” I lie.
“Is he coming in? I haven’t seen him in years.” She checks her hair in the reflection of the fridge.
“Ah, no. He doesn’t eat breakfast. I’m meeting him at the dock.” I leave the bag at the back door and head toward the dining room.
I squeeze past Trax and swipe a couple Danish and three bananas from behind the glass case next to the register.
“Some morning, huh, Skipper?” Trax lifts his glasses and wipes the sweat from his brow with his rolled-up shirtsleeve.
“It’s the big day. Where’s Darcy?”
“She’s just a kid, Jake. Your mom’s not going to have her come in at this hour.”
“Just a kid?” I grunt. “I’m just a kid, and I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, but you live here. That doesn’t count.” Trax studies the grill and counts the orders with his finger. “You want any breakfast?”
“No, thanks, Trax. I gotta run.”
I duck out from behind the counter, shove a Danish in my mouth, and use my back to push through the double doors. As I bend down to pick up my bag, a pair of black Converse sneakers step into view.
“You’re going to do it, aren’t you?” She has her arms crossed just like my mom does when she’s angry with me.
“Do what?” I try to go around her, but she keeps sidestepping and blocking my way.
“You’re going to work the beach today.” Darcy is stabbing her finger into my chest as she stands on the tips of her toes, trying to make eye contact as I look away. “You’re taking Gene’s boat, and you’re going out there by yourself.”
My eyes dart toward the double doors.
“Aha!” She says, bouncing on her toes. “I knew it.” She grabs my shirt by the collar and pulls me down toward her. “Well, I got news for you, Stretch; I’m going with you.”
“What?” For a millisecond the idea sounds pretty cool. Me and Darcy out on the boat together . . . but then I think of Gene and George and how they got hurt and how I couldn’t forgive myself if anything happened to her too. “You can’t come with me, Darce.”
“I may not know much about quahogging, but if I can handle working in this place, I can handle counting a few quahogs.”
I take Darcy by the arm and lead her out the back door so we can talk without being overheard. We stop short by the streetlight near the seawall.
“I have to do this alone. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”
“That is so lame. You know we’re all in this together.”
“Look, Darcy, I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Even lamer.” She’s rolling her eyes at me.
“All right, here’s the deal. When I’m out there, I have to be totally focused, and with you on board, who knows what I’ll be thinking about? Plus, there aren’t any girls out there.”
“Oh, my God! Did you just say that?” Darcy is walking in circles, talking to herself. “He did. He just said there are no girls out there. No girls!”
“Darce?”
She circles back around and comes at me like a tiger, eyes flashing. “Now, you listen to me, I’m not just any girl. I’m the girl that’s going to help you save this diner. You don’t know what life was like for me before this place. You don’t know . . .” Big pools of water are welling up in her eyes, and she keeps poking her finger into my chest.
“I do know.” I slowly reach out and rub her arm. I can feel the rippled scars through her sweater. Darcy shudders slightly and looks at me, her eyes red and wet.
“Close your eyes,” Darcy says, her voice quiet and small.
“What?”
“Just close your eyes.”
I do as I’m told. I hear the sweater’s zipper and the rustling of clothes. I nervously start talking, eyes still shut. “My mom told me your idea about the cabaret. I think it’s great.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, my mom is so excited about it. I haven’t seen her this excited about anything in a while. She’s been in a slump forever, and your idea totally pulled her out of it.”
“Good. Okay, now . . . open your eyes.”
“Whoa.”
That’s all I can say. Darcy shivers in the cold morning air, eyes wide, watching my face. She’s wearing a tank top. Her pale skin glows softly in the light of the streetlamp. My eyes sweep down her arm, tracing each contour. The scars pull and stretch across her skin, reminding me of a partially deflated balloon. It’s different and scary and like nothing I’ve ever seen, but it isn’t ugly.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, Darcy takes my hand and brings it toward her arm. My hand is stiff and robotic, and it doesn’t feel like a part of me, but Darcy keeps looking into my eyes, and I begin to relax. I let myself go, and my hand gently settles on her skin. Her eyes close, and her mouth goes tight as she breathes in deeply. I start to pull my hand away, but she takes hers and holds it there, and I let her. We stay like that for several long seconds.
“You’re the first.” She smiles, opening her eyes.
“The first?”
“The first person I’ve ever let touch my arm.”
“It’s cool,” I say like a total idiot, trying to grab the words back.
“You’re cool.” Darcy punches my shoulder. “Okay, show’s over.” She quickly pulls on her long-sleeve shirt and sweater, but her smile remains. “So you’re really going to do this?”
“You mean go work the beach?” I ask, surprised at how easily she changed the subject. “Yeah, I have to do this. I have to do it for Gene, I have to do it for the Riptide, for my dad . . .”
“And for you,” she adds.
“Yeah, and for me.”
Darcy straightens up and takes a deep breath through her nose, making her rosy nostrils flare slightly. “All right, Stretch, you go do what you gotta do. I’ll stay here and help your mom get ready.”
“Thanks, Darcy.” I hoist my bag over my shoulder and head around the side of the house toward my bike. I toss the canvas bag into the metal basket on the front handlebars and swipe my foot at the kickstand.
“Jake!” I turn around and Darcy slams into me, almost knocking me over. She has me in a bear hug. She throws her head back to look up at me. “You’re gonna
be great out there, you know.” She pulls away and wags her finger. “Just don’t get hurt.”
“Okay.” I’m in shock as Darcy reaches up and yanks my head toward hers. She kisses me quickly and runs back to the kitchen door. “Okay.”
Wow.
I get on my bike and feel like I could ride the Tour de France.
It’s still dark, and the lights on Water Street glow in the morning mist. I’m trying to remember all the things Gene told me about the beach. Where to dig, how much pole he was going to use, when to switch to the mud . . . all that stuff, but my mind keeps drifting back to Darcy Anne Green. Got to focus.
“Whoa, watch it!” I look up just in time to swerve my bike out of the way and almost run into a telephone pole. “Geez, Jake, where are you going at this hour?” Johnny Bennato is standing on the sidewalk with a newspaper rolled up under his arm.
“Oh, hey . . . sorry.” I wheel my bike back to where he’s standing. “I’m going to the beach. Aren’t you going to be out there?” I ask, catching my breath.
Johnny squints at his watch. “Man, someone’s got you going out pretty early. Sunrise isn’t till five fifty-eight. The DEM is going to be out there real thick, so no one’s starting before then.” He leans into the telephone pole and scratches his back. “Who’re you working for?”
“Nobody. I’m going out there by myself, in Gene’s boat.” Suddenly I wish I hadn’t said that. Doubt is creeping into my mind. I’m starting to feel like this isn’t such a good idea after all. I forgot about the DEM being out there. What if they recognize me?
“You going out yourself? In Gene’s boat?” Johnny is scratching his head. “Well, I’ll be damned. Good for you, Jake, good for you.”
“Yeah, it’s my first time without Gene, and I got some figuring out to do. His engine is real old and finicky. I usually flood it.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Not good. He has a bad infection. But he’ll pull through.”
