by Deb Caletti
“I’d like to know more about you, too.”
We had that pleased moment between us, where you both just sit there and smile and don’t dare say anything to interrupt it. And then there was the thud of shoes on deck, and a shout.
“Break it up, love birds,” Jack said.
Finn blushed. “Oh my God, I’m sorry. I’m going to kill him,” he said. “Jack, shut your fucking mouth,” he called.
“It’s okay.” I laughed.
“You got ten minutes to clean those toilets before we take off again,” Jack shouted.
“I hate him,” Finn said. “You’re a rat bastard,” he called.
Jack was in a fine mood. He cracked open the cap of a bottle of root beer and took a long swig. “Ahh, not quite the real thing, but it’ll do.”
“He’s got a new girlfriend,” Finn said. “He’s going to be impossible. He’s been taking her out on the boat at night. Got in at three a.m. Looks wide awake, too.”
“He does,” I said. Jack was about as happy as a guy could get. The swing of his arms looked happy. The curve of his back did, as he bent over and untangled a line.
“That fucking seagull followed Cleo home again,” Jack shouted to us. “And he was there on the table again at eleven a.m. like he was ready to start work. Cleo’s finally got a steady guy.”
“Better looking than the last one. Probably smarter, too,” Finn shouted back. “I better get going,” he said to me.
“Do what you need to,” I said. “I’m happy here.”
“This boat hasn’t been this lucky in a long while,” Finn said.
He leaped to his feet. I watched his ass in those jeans. I was guilty of all the things Christian accused me of. I admired how his belt sat on his hips. The braid of leather around his wrist. That black shaggy hair that curled around his face. I watched the dock move up and down, leaned back on my palms and breathed in the good air. In a few minutes a middle-aged couple came aboard, wearing matching sweatshirts. I might have seen them around the grounds of the lighthouse. They sat in the seats back by the wheel. He took her picture with the camera around his neck.
And then another couple. Matching blonds with blond children. A boy and a girl. She was pouting about something, and the boy went over to the wheel and was going to steer until his mother told him to quit. Two guys in baseball caps came aboard as their wives stayed behind snapping photos. We waited awhile, but that was everyone for this trip. Finn got busy. He was undoing lines from the dock and hopping back on again. Uncinching ropes and cinching others. Jack was motoring, steering the boat out toward the wide water, shaking his head at Finn and Finn shaking his head back at him when a small motorboat crossed in front of them. Jack turned off their own motor, made a little speech to the passengers, safety talk, a few jokes that made the people laugh. I could only hear every few words where I was. The wind was picking up. Finn began to hoist the huge sail. He grabbed the rope with two hands and pulled down, crouching all the way to the ground, one long movement that involved his whole body. He did it again and again, until the grand white sail began to lift and lift and then it was there, all the way up, and it was enormous and majestic. You could see how hard it was to raise that sail, how strong Finn had to be.
The boat took over from there. We sailed out, and it was fast, and as the boat slanted, I held on as Finn had told me to, my feet anchored hard against the floor. There was the speed, and the holding on, and the thrill of the incline, yet it was relaxing, too. The gliding along the water, the repetition of motion—it almost made me sleepy. A second sail was hoisted, and then there was only forward motion again. Calm speed. And then, a flurry—the warning that they were “coming about,” the swing of the huge boom, lines skittering on deck, the clatter of the rings and ropes against metal, the tilt, the other way this time, and then, smooth, fast sailing again.
“You okay?” Finn, on his quick feet. Standing above me. He was brave to walk around like that.
“Great,” I said. “This is fantastic.”
“Right?” he said. He breathed. He stretched his arms behind his head. I didn’t realize how much work sailing took, or how much strength. You could see he was an athlete. Not just for a season—you could see that this sport was a way of living. A connection to water and sky and rhythms of earth and atmosphere. “Now you’ll come again?”
“Absolutely.”
Finn scooted off. He worked hard. I watched him. Maybe it was just his ease here, or his physical strength, but he looked healthy. He looked like he was happy, even. I looked for angst in his jawline. I looked for the possibility of dark thoughts there, across his forehead. But he was just moving about that boat like he and it were one, the way you see a cowboy ride his horse, the way you see old people who know how to dance together.
The guy with the camera pointed one finger and everyone stood and looked—there was the smooth black head of a sea lion in the distance. A fishing boat we passed pulled up a huge trap of crab. The sun, the waves. The sense of possibility. The creatures doing the things creatures have been doing for centuries. It seemed possible to find instinct here.
We docked. I felt so satisfied. It was as if I’d eaten a big meal of fresh air and sun. I wanted to take a nap. I could have slept for days. I hadn’t felt that relaxed in a long time.
I waited on the dock until Finn was done with his duties. The couple asked me to take a picture of them, and the man showed me how to use his camera. They looked great in the tiny square with their matching shirts. Finn showed up. He’d snuck a mint—I could smell the sweet puff of his breath.
“Thank you so much,” I said. “This was fantastic.”
“You free later?” he said. Casual. Easy. It all felt like that. “Get some food or something?”
“Butch’s Harbor Bar? Fried clam special, one week only?” I said.
“One week only since, what, the 1970s? Excellent choice, Miss Clara.”
We made a plan, said good-bye. I felt sleepy and rested and happy, too, like my insides were having their own little party. I couldn’t wait for Butch’s Harbor Bar. I felt so pleased and full of regular life that I reached for my phone. I had my hand on it, just like I always did—I was going to call Shakti and tell her about this. I had it in my palm and looked down. My whole life was sitting there, it seemed. But I just wanted to hear her voice. I missed my friend so much right then. I missed the normal thing you do, which is to call your best friend and share the good things that might be happening. I put my phone back in my pocket. I couldn’t take that risk. The only way to truly be safe was if no one knew where we were.
I stopped to get us some groceries, and then I drove home. On the street by our house on Possession Point, I saw my father, riding in circles on a bicycle. I rolled my window down.
“Where’d you get that?” I asked.
“Look at this thing. I found it in the shed out back. He’s got to be one successful bastard. You don’t leave a bike like this out in sea air where it can rust, unless you can replace it like nothing.”
“You taking up biking?” He looked a little wobbly on it. That ankle, probably. “And, what, did you have some sort of miracle cure after your fall?”
He ignored that. “I figure we could use a way for us both to get around.” He was smiling. He looked happier than I’d seen him in maybe forever.
“I see,” I said. And I did. I felt both nervous and glad. Dad had never even dated much, for all the attention he got from women. Annabelle Aurora had said he should start living again, but it never seemed to me that he hadn’t been living. He worked and had his friends and every now and then he might go out and come home late but it would end before I ever met anyone. I guess I figured he was still in love with my mother.
I drove the car the rest of the way to the house and parked, and he rode that bike and set it against the porch. I got out, locked the car door, though there wasn’t exactly anyone around to break into it. He looked like he was walking funny. “You okay?” I asked.
&nbs
p; “Fucking ankle.”
“Just like the old nursery rhyme. ‘Asses, asses, we all fall down.’”
“Hilarious.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be riding that bike.”
“It’s fine. I was an athlete.”
“One lousy season,” I said. “She said she was married.”
He turned. “What?”
“Mrs. Genovese.”
He thought about this.
“There’s probably an explanation,” I said. Who knew.
“I’m sure there is,” he said. “Because she agreed to go out with me tonight.” I opened the trunk to get the groceries. He put his hands on his hips, looked out to the sea. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and I could see scratches from where he had fallen.
“At least it’s not Fiona Husted,” I said to his back. I just hadn’t liked the sound of her name when Annabelle had said it. Sylvie Genovese was maybe a snake my father could charm, but Fiona Husted was a big unknown.
My father swung around and stared at me. I swear, his mouth dropped open. He looked spooked. “Jesus,” he said.
“What?” I said. I had a plastic bag full of lettuce and bananas and yogurt on my arm.
“You just sounded . . .”
“Sounded what?”
“Like your mother. I swear to God. Exactly.”
I didn’t know how to take this. It could have been a good thing, couldn’t it, except for that look on his face? That look—it was troubled. He actually took a step back from me. I wasn’t my mother. I was me. I wanted to move past that moment, fast. What I saw disturbed me—a flash of the complicated feelings he’d had about her. It was the first time I’d witnessed it in such a large way. Then again, maybe I was just at that point where you suddenly see your parents clearly. I held the bag out to him. “Here.” I flung it his direction, and he caught it. I took out the other bag and slammed the trunk. I tried to sound casual. “I’ve got a date tonight myself,” I said.
“Really.” His face returned to normal. He even looked pleased. He nodded. “I see.”
We walked inside. Rather, he hobbled inside. He went to the bathroom, rummaged around for what I was guessing was the aspirin bottle. “The dating thing . . . I’ll go slow,” I called to him. “I don’t want you to worry.”
“Clara, you learned more with all of this . . . I don’t worry.” He came back out, two white tablets in his palm. “You learned too much. Your problem is going to be letting go of this experience, not holding on to it.”
He was probably right. Everything that had happened with Christian—it took up so much space, it was like another person inside of me. That’s how heavy it felt. The guilt, the responsibility. The weight of memory and decisions. I wanted to be as far away from Christian as I could, and yet I still worried about him every day. I still thought about him endlessly. It was my fault, what happened. I was sure. But Dad was right—nothing like this would ever happen again. That was the only thing in all this that gave me any rest.
He took out a glass, filled it with water, and swallowed the pills. He turned back to face me. He was smiling again. “Look at us,” he said. “Who would have thought?” I felt good, too. My father’s eyes looked bright, and my heart speeded along at the thought of Finn and me at Butch’s Harbor Bar.
“Wouldn’t it be weird? We come here when things are so awful . . .” I said. “Can a whole lot of good come from that much bad?”
“Phoenix rising from the ashes!” Dad twanged like a Southern preacher.
“We are reborn,” I said, like a Southern preacher, too.
“Hal-le-lu-jah,” he said. And then, he did something very un-Dad-like. My literary father with his writerly wild hair and black glasses raised up his arm, slapped me a sports-father high five as I slapped him one back.
* * *
Dad insisted on riding that bike to Sylvie Genovese’s in spite of his ankle, and so I took the car to Butch’s Harbor Bar. The place was crowded, spilling people and music, but when I got to the doorway I could see Finn at a table, waving his arm at me.
“Nothing like someplace quiet and romantic,” he shouted.
It suited me just fine. I liked it there. Country music blared; you could see Butch with his huge belly and gray beard behind the bar. The waitresses wore red aprons. The food was served in red plastic baskets with checked paper inside. It was a place where people laughed loud.
I slid into the seat across from Finn. We joked about his brother and sister and that seagull. I asked him about the rest of his family. His mother owned and ran the boat and restaurant business since his father died.
“My mother,” I shouted. “She died, too.” It was a funny thing to shout.
He nodded. We could have said more to each other about this, but we didn’t.* We ate our fried clam special and passed the napkins and sipped icy cold Cokes in red plastic cups. Every time someone came through the door, especially if it was a guy our age, I tried to make sure I kept my eyes on Finn’s. I watched my words when we talked about school. I didn’t mention anyone from my past, unless it was a girl. But when our waitress finished her shift only to be replaced by a friend of Finn’s, he introduced him to me. I was well-trained, you know? And so I didn’t joke with them at first. I was aware of what I was doing, but I couldn’t stop myself. I felt like I’d been in one of those cults where the women wear long dresses and are forbidden to watch television. Once out in the world, television was still a thing to fear. But Finn looked only relaxed and happy. And so I joked with them, and I remembered how good it felt to do that, and Finn’s face never changed. It seemed possible but also impossible that he might not see threats everywhere. It seemed possible but impossible that I might be able to relax, too.
“We done here?” Finn said. I really liked those sweet eyes. Really liked. I would never again be attracted to anyone who wasn’t entirely and completely kind. Down to their cells kind. The garden variety of nice, as my dad said, not the sort that was righteousness in hiding. Being attracted to anything else—to badness or darkness or trouble—it seemed not only immature but slightly twisted. You might as well say you were drawn to car crashes, or burning buildings, or cancer. I was scared to see Finn’s goodness (I’d been wrong about that before), but I did see it. There was something uncomplicated about him, and I had come to know that “complicated” was something to distrust.
We shoved our empty baskets away. Those clams had been fantastic. You saw why the place was so crowded. Butch was telling some story and sliding beers down the bar, like you see in Western movies. “How about some quiet?” Finn said.
“Quiet sounds good,” I said.
I went to the bathroom and checked that I didn’t have anything embarrassing in my teeth. I looked like me, but a different me, in the mirror. It was funny, because I felt like myself, but I also wondered where exactly I was and how I got here. In that bathroom, with cowboy music playing outside the door and a guy waiting for me on the sidewalk outside, I was someone I needed to get to know.
He’d snuck a mint again, but so had I. Our mutual mint breath meant we hoped to stand closer. The street seemed so quiet after that restaurant. Finn took my fingers, ran with me across the street to where the water was. His hands were rough and callused from those ropes. He did not have Christian’s smooth, protected hands.
“Want to go to the beach?” he asked.
“Sure.” I didn’t know where people here went on a weekend night. At home we would have gone to a coffee place. Maybe one of the parks by one of the lakes.
He kept hold of my fingers. I didn’t mind. We stood at the top of the breaker wall, looked down at the stretch of sand going in both directions. Bonfires dotted the shoreline. This is where people went on weekends; I could tell. They gathered in groups, small orange-lit parties. A guy called Finn’s name and Finn waved, and a girl gestured for him to join them. There was laughter, beer bottles tilted for a drink in the moonlight. I felt a little shy. I would be the tourist girl people looked at with curiosity
.
“Friday night,” he apologized. “Maybe somewhere more quiet? We can see if Jack’s hijacked Obsession.”
“Okay.”
We walked down the main street to a now familiar place, the docks. Obsession was in its place. The lapping and sloshing water sounded different and more insistent in the dark. A few of the boats were glowing from inside, looking like snug hideaways. Finn climbed up on the boat, held his hand out, and helped me over. He opened the hatch below, called out Jack’s name. Finn disappeared for a second. I imagined Jack popping out, hitching up his pants with his shirt off, but the boat was empty. I wondered what it was like down there, what it would be like to be with Finn in his own snug hideaway. A boat seemed like the best kind of secret place—better than a treehouse or a fort tucked into a forest. You could hide, but you could flee, too.
“Just us,” Finn said. He had some thick blankets under his arm, which he set on the deck for us to sit on. “You warm enough? I’d take you out, but it really takes two of us, and that idiot never remembers to leave the keys, anyway.”
“This is great.” I sat down, looking out onto the sea, where the moon had dipped the waves into gold light. You could hear someone’s radio. The waves lapped and sloshed against the side of the boat. “Hidden.”
Finn sat down next to me. He stretched out his long legs. I wondered how that word would sound, hidden. Would he think I meant something by it? That this was something I regularly did?
“I love being hidden sometimes. Do you ever just love that? When no one knows where you are?” He hadn’t misinterpreted. I decided to try letting all of that go, the weighing and the measuring. I would say what I wanted, slip off the chains. It seemed strange how at ease I felt. You could be comfortable with Finn Bishop, and yet, the space between us still felt charged.*
“We aren’t supposed to be on a boat after dark, remember?” I said. “The ghosts will grab our ankles trying to save themselves?”
