The scene was so peaceful, but inside, he was seething.
For a moment or two, he considered taking out all of his frustrations on Horse Lips. They were alone on a deserted clam flat. What was to stop him from smacking the crazy asshole a couple of good ones with his clamming fork and then sinking his body in one of those honey pots?
By the time anyone found the old coot, he’d be so decomposed or crab-eaten his own mother wouldn’t recognize him.
Pete chuckled at the thought as he took one last drag from his cigarette and then flicked it in the direction of the water. It hissed and sputtered with a thin ribbon of smoke when it landed on the wet sand, rolled over, and went out.
“What’s so funny?” Horse Lips asked, frowning as he took another drag. He always smoked his butts down to the filter.
“Huh? Oh, nothin’ … nothin’ a’tall,” Pete said as he pulled his rubber glove back on. “Just thinkin’.”
“‘Bout what? How tasty that Meadows’ woman’s pussy’d be?” Horse Lips shot him a lascivious grin that only increased Pete’s agitation. He tensed, clutching the handle of his clamming fork, but only for a second or two. Then he relaxed his shoulder muscles and bent over to pick up his bucket.
“We ain’t gonna get any worms dug standin’ around here waggin’ our jaws,” Pete said.
Without another word, he picked up his stuff and walked about fifty yards down the beach away from Horse Lips. He groaned as he bent over and started digging. The muscles in his arms and back were wire-tight as he savagely plunged the clamming fork into the wet sand several times, turning over wet clumps of sand until — finally — he saw a small, squiggling bloodworm in the wet grit. He picked it up and tossed it into his bucket, and kept on working, jabbing his fork over and over again into the damp sand, all the while thinking how it wasn’t Horse Lips he wanted to wail on …
And if Ben still hadn’t gotten the message that he should leave Julia Meadows alone so he might have a shot at her, then he’d have to make sure he got the message loud and clear the next time.
Chapter Eleven
Separation Anxiety
“’Cluster fuck’s more like it,” Capt’n Wally said. “That pair of chucklenuts was so drunk they could barely row the goddamned boat. We was lucky we didn’t get caught off-loadin’ ’em. And then when they was loading up the truck — and whose brainstorm was it to use the Cove Lobster Company truck for moving the shit — they was making enough racket to wake the dead.”
Richie Sullivan looked at Wally with a dull, neutral expression, making it clear this was Wally’s problem, not his. They were both seated on the Abby-Rose as it bobbed on the water, tied to the dock. Each man had a bottle of Sam Adams beer in hand. Moisture beaded up on the sides of the bottles and dripped onto the deck.
“Whaddayah want me to do about it?” Richie asked with a shrug.
“Hire someone who knows what the Christ he’s doing … someone who don’t have his head up his ass, not those two peckerheads.”
Richie nodded thoughtfully and took a sip of beer, inhaling deeply as he leaned back against the gunwales and looked up at the sky. His body was taut and lean. The muscles in his arms bulged like packed sausage. A gentle breeze off the water ruffled his hair. He looked for all the world like some rich flatlander, enjoying his summer vacation.
“I’ll check into it,” he said after a moment. “But before then, I got another pickup for you.”
Wally choked back the curse that almost escaped him. He knew — and Richie knew — he was in no position to complain. They wouldn’t be sitting here on this boat if it weren’t for Richie.
“I got my traps to tend, you know?” Wally said.
Richie shrugged and said, “I’m sure you can fit it in. They won’t be here for a couple of days. Get your traps pulled before then.”
“This more weed?”
“Does it matter?”
Wally considered, then shrugged and shook his head.
“Six of one, half a dozen of t’other,” he said.
Richie nodded and then drained his beer. When he was through, he tossed the empty over his shoulder. It hit the water with a loud plunk, quickly filled up until the bottom dropped, and then bobbed there in the water, half-submerged. A school of tiny fish, flashing like silver blades in the water, rose and circled the object, inspecting it before disappearing again into the darker depths.
“You oughtta think about doing more harbor tours,” Richie said. “I got some friends coming up in a few weeks who’d love to go for a cruise.”
“Say the word,” Wally said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Even as he said this, he hated how compliant he sounded. He despised that Richie exerted so much control over him, but there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it … at least not until the boat was paid off.
“I was headed out,” he said with a cheery note in his voice. “Wanna come out and be my sternman?”
A crooked smile lifted the corners of Richie’s mouth as he shook his head, almost laughing out loud. Wally couldn’t help wondering how Richie would handle it when he reached into the bait barrel with his clean, manicured hands. It’d be fun to have some kind … any kind of control over Richie. But Richie was too smart to put himself into that position.
“Not too friggin’ likely,” he said.
Wally tossed his empty overboard and then heaved himself up from the plank seat. He brushed his hands on his pants leg.
“Well, I gotta be heading out,” he said. “You sure you don’t wanna come along?
“Some other time maybe,” Richie said as he stood, and they shook hands. Wally noticed how dry and soft Richie’s hands were.
Never did an honest day’s work in his life, he thought.
Richie looked a bit unsteady on his feet as he walked to the port side of the boat, but Wally couldn’t tell if it was the morning beer or the gentle rocking of the boat. Maybe both. Richie stepped over the gunwales and onto the dock. Wally took mild satisfaction in knowing that The Crowbar probably would have gotten seasick if he’d agreed to come out to sea with him. He tried not to smile as he imagined Richie doubled over, hurling his guts out over the rails.
“Catch yah later, then,” Wally said raising his hand to his forehead and giving Richie a salute.
“Later.” Richie winked and pointed his forefinger at Wally like it was a gun.
Wally was steaming as he watched Richie walk up the gangplank, but his ire faded as he turned to the business of getting ready to cast off. Turning around quickly, he saw something that gave him pause.
Two men were walking on the narrow, rutted dirt road leading up the hill from the docks.
They might be a couple of early season tourists, out for a morning stroll around the harbor. But there was something about them … something in their gait that caught — and held — Wally’s attention. A small voice in the back of his mind whispered that these guys were cops or federal agents.
Had they been watching him? … Maybe photographing and recording his conversation with Richie?
“Shit-fuck-balls!” Wally muttered as he watched the men get into a dark-colored, nondescript car that was parked at the top of the hill. It was far enough away so he didn’t hear it start up. As they drove away, a thin cloud of dust rose in its wake.
If anything said “Feds,” it was that sleek, dark blue car … that and the fact that both men had been wearing dark suits. Wally knew not many tourists wore dark suits on a bright, warm late spring morning.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Tom’s voice, coming so suddenly from behind her, startled Louise. She jumped and spun around to face her husband. Dressed in his officer’s uniform, he stood in the doorway, leaning with one elbow on the doorframe. His brow was furrowed, and his eyes gleamed with an unnaturally bright glow.
“Packing,” Louise said, irritated by the high-pitched squeak in her voice.
Christ, she thought. I sound like goddamned Minnie Mouse.<
br />
“Packing? … For what?” Tom lowered his arm and took three or four steps into the bedroom. The leather of his utility belt creaked like an old saddle. Consciously or not, he dropped his hand to his service revolver and rested it on the handle as if he were making an arrest and was prepared to draw if there was any trouble.
Louise glanced at the dresses, blouses, pairs of shorts, socks, and other things she had laid out on the bed. She had been heading into the bathroom to get her toiletries when he showed up.
“I … I’m leaving for a while.”
“You don’t say,” Tom said, not a question but a statement.
Louise had thought she had plenty of time to pack up and move back to her father’s house while Tom was at work today. He’d started on the morning shift and shouldn’t have been home until five o’clock.
“What you mean to say is, you’re leaving me?”
Louise bit down on her lower lip.
“I can’t take it anymore,” she said, enunciating each syllable.
“Take what?” Tom’s voice snapped like a piece of dry wood.
“You,” she said simply, surprised that she found the courage to say anything. But now, the mere fact that she had spoken the truth gave her courage, and she continued, “I don’t think … No, I know you don’t love me anymore.”
“Oh, so you know that?” Tom nodded his head up and down like a puppet with a loose hinge in its neck. “Tell me exactly how you know that?”
“I … It doesn’t matter because I —” She sucked in a breath, not believing she had the courage to say what she was going to say. But she did.
“I don’t love you anymore, Tom. I want out.”
“’S that a fact?”
Tom took another step closer and folded his arms across his chest. He was smiling at her, but there wasn’t a hint of kindness in his eyes. The cold light never left them.
Louise was struggling not to let her fears show, but she couldn’t stop herself from backing up, keeping the same distance between them.
“So you’re running back home to your father, is that it?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“And that’s it? You want out, and you think you can just walk out on me like this?”
“What do you think, Tom? You treat me like crap, you … we never go out … and we don’t make love anymore, and you … you hit me.” As she said this, she raised her hand to the side of her face and touched the fading bruise.
Tom stared at her steadily until cold trickles of sweat ran down her sides from her armpits. Her chest ached. She wished she could take a deep enough breath, but the air in the room was too thin to breathe.
After a terribly long moment of staring at each other, Tom smiled a slow, thin smile. The tension left his body, and he was chuckling to himself as he took a step to one side, clearing a path to the door.
“Fine,” he said. His voice was as empty as an echo in a steel drum. “Go ahead, then. Leave.”
But before Louise could react, he lunged forward, his hand raised as though to deliver a quick backhand slap. Then he drew back and dropped his hand, apparently satisfied to see her flinch.
“Get the fuck out of here … Now!”
Without a word, Louise started stuffing her clothes into the suitcase on the bed, but Tom stepped up and pushed the suitcase and most of the clothes onto the floor.
“You don’t get to take a goddamned thing!” he shouted, his face flushing, his eyes bulging.
For a flashing instant, she considered fighting him. She imagined going for his throat and ripping it open with her fingernails or teeth.
Instead, she stared blankly at the heap of clothes on the floor and waited for the initial rush of anger to pass.
After that, all she felt was deep sorrow.
Don’t push it, she thought. You need to get out of here alive.
“But I need —”
“You’re not taking a goddamned thing with you!” he shouted. “You or your fuckin’ father and your goddamned brothers can buy you whatever you need. You leave me, you’re lucky to leave with the shirt on your back.”
You are totally unfair, she wanted to say, but she didn’t dare to.
But she knew what she had to do.
She had to leave now … walk out … and not look back.
Sucking in a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and started for the door. She was going to pass within arm’s length of him, and she was coiled, ready for the punch when it came, but — surprisingly — she got to the door, and he hadn’t moved a muscle other than shifting his eyes to track her.
Go! … Get out! … Run! her mind was screaming, but she told herself that she was going to leave him walking tall. With or without any of her belongings, her dignity was intact.
Her legs felt as thin and light as balsa wood as she walked down the stairs and down the hall to the front door. She paused only long enough to grab her purse and car keys from the small table by the front door.
She didn’t look back. She didn’t have to. She sensed Tom’s presence at the top of the stairs, watching her. His gaze bored into her back like laser beams.
At least her car was undeniably hers. She had bought it before they were married, so let him try to stop her from driving away from what she was convinced was the biggest mistake of her life.
Screw you, she screamed in her head, but she told herself not to let his hatred and bitterness poison her life.
She opened the door and left.
It was a little after eleven o’clock in the morning. Ben was standing in the kitchen with the phone pressed to his ear. His vision kept going in and out of focus as he leaned over the sink and stared at the ocean view outside the kitchen window.
“I — ah, think I owe you an apology,” Ben said into the phone.
“Only one?” Julia said.
Her voice was mild and sounded pleasant enough, but there was an edge to it that told him she might not be able to forgive him for what he had said and done last night no matter how many times he apologized. He winced when he touched the palm of his hand to his forehead, wishing his memory of the night was a little clearer. It still felt like a high school marching band was rehearsing inside his skull.
“How about a dozen apologies, then” he said, smiling feebly.
“A dozen times ten, maybe.” She paused.
“I know … I know and … Well, really, I don’t know. I was out of it, and I — I know that’s no excuse, but ever since I got —”
He’d been about to say something about how his drinking had only gotten bad since he came home from the war, but he knew she would see that as a copout.
How could he expect her to believe him?
What he had to do was make sure he didn’t drink like that anymore … especially if he wanted to keep — or restore — his relationship with her. He feared it was broken for good.
“I know I was pretty stupid.”
“Stupid and hurtful,” Julia said. He was so used to avoidance in his family, he admired how direct she was being with him.
“So … Can you forgive me? I really …”
I really miss you was on the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t say it.
“I really would like to spend time with you.”
“Spend time?” The edge in her voice was still there — harder now. “Is that all I am? A time-filler?”
A sudden stab of pain shot a flash of yellow light behind his eyes. He winced and closed his eyes.
“No … no …” he said. “It’s not like that … not like that at all.”
“What’s it like, then?”
Ben paused. After opening his eyes and blinking rapidly for a second or two, he focused on the distant horizon. A sailboat whisked into sight from around the headlands, moving across the water as fast as a cloud. Its sail was a small white triangle against the vibrant blue of the ocean. Further out, he could make out the outline of a lobster boat.
She’s hinting at something, he thought. She wants me
to say that I love her.
“How ’bout I come over … maybe later today … and apologize to you in person?”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Julia said. Ben caught a definite teasing inflection in her voice this time as though she were toying with him. “I’m pretty busy today.”
Ben’s eyes went out of focus again. The view out the window became a blue and green blur with erratic white streaks.
“Look,” he said, after taking a breath and mustering up courage he wasn’t sure he had. “If you want it to be over, say so. All right? We’re both adults. I think we can handle it.”
“Technically,” Julia said, “yes. We’re adults.”
Ben wasn’t sure if he should take that as a joke or a slam.
“I’m just saying — if you don’t want to see me anymore, I can live with it.”
“Can you? Really?”
For the first time, Ben caught a frightened pitch in her voice, like someone had their fingers around her throat and was squeezing ever so gently. He considered carefully before he spoke next, but after he cleared his throat and, surprising even himself, he said, “No … Not really.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line — long enough for Ben to wonder if the call had dropped. But then she took a slow, deep breath that, at the very end, caught in her throat almost like a sob.
Jesus, is she crying?
“I might be able to get out later this evening,” she finally said.
“Are you sure you want to?”
After another long pause, Julia said simply, “Of course I do. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Fuck her,” Tom muttered between clenched teeth.
As he pulled to a stop in his driveway and killed the engine, he realized the same thing applied to both of the women in his life — Julia and his wife.
When he turned off the car’s headlights, the night collapsed around him like the inside of a coal mine. He stared straight ahead at the closed front door of his house. It looked impossibly far away, and with the car windows closed, the sudden hushed quality of the night was disorienting. He wondered if this was what death was like.
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