Generation Loss cn-1

by Elizabeth Hand

  I grabbed the book and shoved it into my bag beneath the table. When I looked up, the other guy had joined his friend.

  “Did he try to steal your book?” he said. “Because I can call the police if you want me to.” He plucked the cigarette from behind his ear, bent over my hurricane glass, and lit it. His hands were crosshatched with scars, and the tip of one thumb was missing. “Smoke?”

  “No,” I said.

  As if by magic, the waitress appeared and set down two more beers and a glass of red wine.

  “You know you’re not supposed to do that in here, Toby,” she scolded.

  The bearded man smiled sheepishly, pinched out his cigarette, and stuck it back behind his ear. His friend stood, silent, beside him. The sleeve of his suede jacket had ridden up so that his wrist was exposed, the scar grayish in the dim light.

  I looked at him uneasily. I hated that he’d seen me before I saw him. The sense I’d had earlier, that overpowering taint of fear and damage—it wasn’t gone, but it was definitely subdued. I thought of how he’d jumped away and cracked his head on the door.

  I’d surprised him. Now he’d surprised me. I picked up one of the beers and took a long pull.

  “I’m Toby Barrett,” said the bearded man. He picked up the other beer and raised it to me. “I hear you’re looking to get to Paswegas.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Everett told me there was a lady looking to get over.”

  “Oh yeah? Is he here? He fucking bailed on me when I called him this afternoon.”

  “You mean he wouldn’t take you over in the dark?” Toby Barrett seemed amused. “You’re lucky he answered his phone.”

  He pulled out the chair across from me and sat. “You’re from away, aren’t you? Not me.” Toby cocked a thumb at his friend. “Not him, either.”

  I finished my beer. “What about Everett Moss?”

  “No. Not Everett,” conceded Toby. “Everett was squoze from a rock.”

  “You know her?” His friend pointed to my bag beneath the table. “Aphrodite Kamestos?”

  “Yeah. Sure I do.”

  He stared at me coolly then smiled, his teeth white and uneven. “You’re lying.”

  I set one booted foot atop my bag. He finished his wine, set down the empty glass, and pushed the full one toward me.

  “I’m outta here,” he said. “You can drink that, if you want. In case all that Jack Daniel’s isn’t doing the job for you.”

  I said nothing. He turned and walked away. I watched him hand a few bills to the bartender then head for the door. He had an odd loping pace, his head thrust forward and staring downward, hands shoved into his pockets. At the door he turned and stared at me. He smiled again, his mouth moving silently, but I could read what he said.

  Liar.

  A blast of cold air rushed into the room as he disappeared outside.

  “The fuck,” I said.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Toby Barrett.

  “Nothing.” I desperately wanted to leave, but I didn’t want to run into that guy again. Whoever the hell he was.

  “Gryffin,” said Toby. “With a Y. Don’t mind him. He’s always like that.”

  “Like what? Fucking rude? And who the hell names their kid Gryffin?”

  “It’s a respectable old hippie name. He’s not rude, really—”

  “Oh yeah? He just picked up my book and—”

  “Well, he didn’t hurt it now, did he?” Toby’s voice was low and calming. I imagined he’d be good with fractious children or dogs. “That’s just what he does. He’s a rare book dealer. What about you? You a friend of Aphrodite?”

  “Not a friend, exactly. I’m seeing her on business. Assuming I ever do see her.”

  He looked surprised, then said, “Well, okay. We’ll get you out to the island. Don’t worry.” He finished his beer. “What’s your name?”

  “Cass Neary.”

  “Right. Well, Cass Neary, I’m off too. Got to get up at the crack of dawn. Nice meeting you.”

  He nodded and left.

  I paid my bill then went back outside. Three beers and two shots of whiskey did a lot to neutralize the cold. Gryffin was nowhere in sight. I walked down to the granite pier and looked out across the harbor. I could hear the creak of boats rocking, the thin rustle of wind in the evergreens. The northern sky arched overhead, moon so bright I could read the names of the lobster boats: Ellie Day, Aranbega II, Miss Behave.

  Somewhere out there was Paswegas; somewhere beyond that a hundred other islands unknown to me, unnamed. I heard a low thrum, turned to see the running lights of a small boat cruising slowly along the shoreline. A green light on one side, red on the other, like mismatched eyes.

  Our gaze changes all that it falls upon.

  I stood and watched it move through the darkness. Did people here fish at night? Did they ride around in their boats for fun, looking for frozen lobsters?

  My eyes teared, from cold and strain. I rubbed them and looked out again.

  The running lights were gone, the outboard’s thrum silent. Nothing else had changed.

  I drove back to the Lighthouse. I went slowly; I’d had a lot to drink, and the road wound perilously between woods and steep hills where the shoulder fell off into sheer rock that slanted down toward the sea. Then it was woods again. Even driving slowly, the car seemed to lunge through the forest. Trees momentarily shrank from its passage then loomed back into place. I gazed into the rearview mirror, entranced. It was a spooky effect but also hypnotic. I looked back at the road in front of me again.

  A black form stood in the middle of the tarmac. I swerved to avoid hitting it, swerved again so I wouldn’t plow into the trees.

  A deer, I thought, my heart pounding, and brought the car to a crawl. But it wasn’t a deer.

  It was Mackenzie Libby. She had been walking toward Burnt Harbor, but now she turned to stare at my car, her baggy pants flapping like wings, her face a white crescent in the folds of a hooded sweatshirt. Her eyes caught the red glare of my taillights and glowed like an animal’s. Her mouth opened. She yelled something I couldn’t hear. It wasn’t an angry sound, more questioning or pleading. Then my car rounded another curve and she was gone.

  Stupid fucking kid! I thought, but at least the encounter had woken me up. I drove the rest of the way without passing another car, or person, and reached the Lighthouse ten minutes later.

  I wanted to be nowhere near Gryffin. I considered asking Merrill Libby for another room, but that seemed a little paranoid, even for me. Plus the office lights were off. I hopped out of the car and ran across the empty lot. I entered my room on tiptoe, locked the door and drew the curtains, then angled the room’s single chair beneath the doorknob. Security didn’t seem a high priority at the Lighthouse—there was no deadbolt, only a flimsy-looking chain.

  And, of course, no telephone. But my choices were limited to staying there or sleeping in my car. I’d probably freeze to death if I did that. So I made sure the heat was cranked as high as it would go and got ready for bed.

  It was only when I switched the light off that I realized there was no clock in the room and, natch, I had no travel alarm.

  I checked my watch. It was just after nine. The last time I’d turned in that early I was ten years old. At least I’d get a good night’s sleep and wake in plenty of time to meet Everett. I lay in bed, listening to the plastic crackle every time I moved, half expecting to hear a knock at my door or on the few inches of sheetrock that separated me from Gryffin. But there was only the sound of wind, and mice scrabbling in the ceiling.

  The alcohol had done its job. I was drunk and exhausted. But I couldn’t sleep. I kept listening for the sound of a car pulling up outside. The thought of Gryffin in the next room wouldn’t leave me, like that sick rush when someone else’s pain lingers like the aftertaste of blood. It wasn’t even him I was thinking of, but the photograph of him, that unguarded, reckless eruption of joy on the face of a total stranger.

&n
bsp; I switched the light back on and fumbled for the copy of Deceptio Visus, took out the photo and stared at it.

  A happy man at a party. Sun, bougainvillea, and a champagne flute. That was all.

  Our gaze changes all that it falls upon.

  I looked around the motel room. Nothing had changed here in forty years. I slid the photograph back into the book and turned out the light. At some point I fell asleep; I at some later point woke, to the noise of car wheels on gravel just outside my room. I lay there listening to a car door opening and closing, and then as the door to the next room slammed shut.

  I held my breath. Would he be able to tell I’d been in there? For a few minutes I listened as someone moved around on the other side of the flimsy wall. There was the sound of a flushing toilet and, finally, silence. I huddled beneath the blankets, telling myself that my anxiety was meaningless, that nothing was different, and that at any rate by the morning I would be gone. Only the last of these was true.

  9

  I woke with a blistering headache, reached for my watch then sat bolt upright.

  Seven-ten. I was supposed to meet Everett at six.

  I stumbled out of bed and pulled on my boots—I’d slept in my clothes—grabbed my bag and ran out to the car, my boots sliding on a sheen of ice. Sunlight streamed across icy puddles; the grass glittered with frost. The Volvo that had been in front of Room 1 was gone.

  The door to my car was iced shut. I scraped at it with my room key until I could finally pull it open. Inside, I jammed on the defroster and started backing up without waiting for the windshield to clear. I pulled over by the office, ran inside, tossed my room key onto the desk then raced back to my car. As I started to drive off I saw Merrill Libby yank open the office door.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “Did you—”

  “I can’t,” I yelled back. “I’m late—”

  He stumbled down the steps as I roared off, his face bright red. Maybe he was mad I didn’t stay for coffee.

  The road was slick. I drove as fast as I dared until I got stuck behind a schoolbus. By the time I reached Burnt Harbor, it was seven-thirty. I drove to the waterfront and hopped out of the car.

  I saw no one. A few pickup trucks were lined up at dockside. Gulls circled above the water, keening loudly. The lobster boats were gone.

  I shaded my eyes and looked across the harbor. I could see the islands clearly now, bathed in morning light. The nearest one was a slaty blue, its jagged headland softened by golden mist. A small white shape churned toward it from the harbor’s mouth.

  I hoped that wasn’t my ride. I turned and headed for the Good Tern.

  It was more crowded than it had been the night before. A different waitress hurried between tables and gave me a brusque nod. “One?”

  “I’m looking for Everett Moss.” I scanned the room, trying to figure out which burly man in a Carhart jacket and gimme cap might be the harbormaster. “Is he here?”

  “Everett?” The woman frowned. “He was here earlier, but I think he went out. Hey, Toby—”

  She called to a man sitting alone at a table by the window. “Where’d Everett go?”

  Toby Barrett looked up from a plate of eggs and bacon.

  “Everett? He left a while ago.” When he saw me, he blinked. “Oh. It’s you. You know, I think he was waiting for you—”

  “Well, he didn’t wait long enough,” I snapped.

  “Have a seat.” Toby nudged a chair toward me with his foot. “You want coffee?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  I slumped into the chair. Toby paid me the courtesy of turning his attention back to his food. He was wearing the same clothes as the night before, with the exception of a faded T-shirt commemorating the 1975 solar eclipse in Boze, Montana. After a minute the waitress brought me coffee and a menu.

  “I can’t eat,” I said. I held my head in my hands. “God, I can’t believe this.” I picked up my coffee, grimacing. “So where the hell is Everett’s office, anyway? If I had been able to find him?”

  “His office? That would be it, there—”

  Toby gestured out the window to a red GMC pickup.

  “His truck?”

  “Yup. He give you his home number? That’s the best way to get hold of him, unless you radio him on his boat. Not much cell reception up here.”

  I drank my coffee miserably, hoping I wouldn’t get sick. “I overslept. But I thought he’d at least wait.”

  “He did. For a while, anyway. He was in here for breakfast—he’s here every day.” Toby speared an entire fried egg and ate it in one bite. “But then he got another paying customer, so he left.”

  “Will he come back?”

  “Not for a while. He’ll make his delivery. Then he’ll probably be out hauling traps.”

  “Shit.”

  I finished my coffee. The waitress set a fresh pot on the table, along with a plate of toast. I picked up a piece and ate it slowly, fighting nausea.

  Now what?

  Toby leaned back in his chair. He reached into the pocket of his flannel shirt, took out some rolling papers and a bag of American Spirit tobacco.

  “How come you need to get out there so bad?” he asked as he began to roll a cigarette.

  “I have a job out there.”

  “A job?” He seemed taken aback. “On the island? Who you working for? Aphrodite?”

  I hesitated. Phil had geared me up with all this cloak-and-dagger stuff about Kamestos and her paranoia, but it all seemed stupid now that I was actually in Burnt Harbor. There was no one here, and certainly no one who seemed to care that I’d arrived.

  “I’m supposed to interview her,” I said at last.

  “Really? She expecting you?”

  “Yeah.” I wondered if maybe this guy was the friend Phil had mentioned, and asked him.

  “Phil Cohen. Nope. Never heard of him.” Toby tipped his head, regarding me with calm hazel eyes. “But you do know Aphrodite.”

  I finished my coffee.

  “No,” I admitted. “I’ve never even spoken to her. Phil was the guy set it up for me. Through an editor in London.”

  I poured myself more coffee. “But you know what? I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing here. I think I better just get back into my goddam car and drive back to New York.”

  “That would be a long way to come to have a cup of coffee and sleep—where did you sleep last night, anyway?”

  “The Lighthouse.”

  “That would definitely be a long way to come to sleep at the Lighthouse.”

  Toby tapped his cigarette and tucked it behind his ear, folded up his tobacco packet and rolling papers and put them away.

  “Well, if you still want to get over there to Paswegas, I’ll take you,” he said.

  I stared at him in disbelief. “You can take me?”

  “Sure.” He pointed toward the harbor. “See that boat out there?”

  “A sailboat?” I squinted at the sunlit water. “You can sail in the winter?”

  “Sure. Water’s same temperature as it is in the summer. You’d just die faster if you fell in now. We’ll motor over, unless the wind’s with us. It’ll take a little longer than Everett’s boat, but I’ll get you there. I was going over later today anyway.”

  “Jeez. Well, thanks.” I ran a hand through my dirty hair. “I didn’t even take a shower.”

  “That won’t bother me. If you’re staying with Aphrodite, I’m sure she’ll let you take a shower. But we should get going.”

  He stuck a ten dollar bill under his plate. “How should I pay you?” I asked.

  “We’ll figure something out.” As we headed to the door, he glanced at me. “Those all the clothes you got?”

  “Pretty much. You mean, am I dressed up enough to meet her?”

  “I mean you’re going to freeze your butt off if you don’t put on something warmer.” He looked at my boots and shook his head. “You better be careful with those—cowboy boots are terrible on deck. I think maybe I got so
me stuff on the boat you could wear. Come on.”

  I followed him outside. I retrieved my things, locked the car, then headed after Toby.

  Two steps and my gut clenched. Maybe getting onto a boat wasn’t such a great idea, after all. But Toby was already halfway down the beach, so I hurried after him.

  As he’d warned, my boots were terrible in the damp. The pointed toes caught between rocks and slid on lumps of greasy black seaweed. I walked gingerly to where he bent over a wooden dinghy. A few yards off, waves swept the shingle and left a trail of shining foam.

  Toby glanced up. “That all you got?”

  I nodded. “Will my car be okay if I leave it for a few days?”

  “Should be fine till Memorial Day. Okay, come on down this way—”

  He dragged the dinghy into the shallows, waved for me to clamber in. I did. A film of brackish water covered my boots and immediately soaked through to my feet, ice cold.

  “Better get down,” said Toby.

  I sat as he got behind the dinghy and shoved it farther out. A moment later he hopped in, settled in the bow, and took the oars.

  “This won’t take long,” he said. A few strong strokes and we were free of the shingle. A few more and I leaned over the side and vomited.

  “Seasick already?”

  “Hangover.”

  I cupped icy seawater with one hand, rinsed my mouth then splashed more water on my face.

  I felt a little better. My headache receded. The frigid air and water seemed to purge exhaustion from my blood. My eyes stung, but the pain felt clean and sharp, almost welcome. I sank back onto my seat, making sure my satchel stayed dry.

  “See there?” Toby gestured at a small, blunt-nosed sailboat bobbing a short distance from the end of the pier. “That’s her. Northern Sky. Know anything about boats?”

  I blinked into the splintered blue-and-gold light. “No.”

  “She’s what they call a gaff cutter. Twenty-six feet on the waterline. I bought her twenty years ago for a dollar, from the ex-wife of a guy in jail down in the Keys. You know the two happiest days of a man’s life? The day he buys his boat and the day he sells her.”

  Out here the dank reek of the harbor was gone. The air smelled of salt and wet rock, with a faint undertone of diesel fumes. I shaded my eyes and looked for other boats.