Sailing Lessons

by Hannah McKinnon

  But Caleb spoke with such ease beneath the flickering candlelit chandelier, seemingly relaxed even in Beverly’s Chippendale chairs, that the evening took on a soothing cadence. Wren found she was finally able to let out some of the breath she realized she’d been holding. The topics were safe, and she was perfectly fine dancing around them this first night. When the meal was finally over and Wren began to believe they might actually end this first meeting unscathed, Piper set her fork down. “So are you moving home for good?”

  All eyes swiveled to Caleb, who seemed to sink a little beneath their weight. “Well, I haven’t thought that far ahead. There are some things I need to take care of, so I guess that will determine my time here.”

  It was an instant disruption to the quietude Wren had been almost able to enjoy up to this moment.

  Lindy, however, had apparently been waiting for it. “Then you’ll be returning to Arizona?”

  Caleb hesitated, but in the end, said yes.

  “And what is it like there?”

  It was a small artist’s colony, he explained, and he’d been there for many years. He had a little house, one bedroom. No bigger than a Chatham boathouse, he joked, though no one really laughed. He cleared his throat. “I travel when I get assignments, but those are few and far between these days.”

  Wren wondered why that was, as she listened. It seemed to her that he lived simply. He went on to make a point of saying he lived alone, at which Lindy did not blink.

  Hank stood to clear the plates, something Wren was sure he was aching to do, if for the first and last time in his life. She half wanted to join him. But something held her at the table. Whether it was curiosity or wanting to protect her mother and sister, she couldn’t say. Her father rested his chin in his hands and looked directly across the table at her. She almost blushed. “So you’ve got yourself a store in town.”

  “I do.” He knew this, of course. His first letter had found her there. She still wanted to know how.

  “Wren’s grand opening is this week, actually,” Lindy said, proudly. “She’s worked very hard to get the shop up and going.”

  Caleb nodded approvingly. “I have no doubt. What kinds of things do you sell?”

  Wren told him about the local artists she’d made relationships with, and how she’d had an aesthetic in mind from the start. “But I wanted it to be local and I wanted it to be eco-conscious,” she explained. “So I’ve had to handpick items carefully. Which takes time.”

  Caleb was listening intently, his green eyes shining for the first time since landing on Piper. She couldn’t help it; Wren felt the pleasure of her father’s approval, just as she had as a child.

  “I’d really like to see it sometime,” he said.

  She could feel her mother’s gaze, and she imagined Lindy taking her temperature on this. Her store was a piece of her, after all. The most important thing she’d created, after Lucy. She hadn’t even opened its doors to the world, let alone to a man who was for the first time walking back into her life. He must’ve sensed her reservation, because he quickly added, “If that’s okay with you, of course. I understand if it isn’t.”

  It occurred to her in that moment that she’d come wanting something from her father that night. Perhaps some kind of answer or apology, neither of which had been offered to any of them yet. She’d had no intention of sharing herself with him in any meaningful way. How could she? But now she surprised herself with her answer. “There’s something more important than the shop you might be interested to know.” She reached for her phone and held it up to him.

  Caleb took it gently and peered at the screen. “I’ll be damned.”

  “Her name is Lucy. She’s six years old.”

  Lindy’s eyes blazed, and in reply Wren reached under the table and rested a hand on her mother’s knee. For a long time, he stared at the photo on the screen, and then he set the phone down on the table between them. “Thank you,” was all he could manage.

  Lindy’s chair scraped abruptly across the floor. “I’m going to see about coffee,” she said. They sat in silence, the hushed murmur of voices and the clink of dishware coming from the kitchen.

  “This is hard for her,” Piper said.

  Wren stood, too. “I’ll be right back.”

  • • •

  Wren was glad for the spotlight to be off of her. Her father’s gaze was warm and without want, but it was also familiar in a way that made her ache, and she needed to step out from under the light it cast. She left Piper filling their father in on her course work and job search.

  Hank was alone in the kitchen, standing at the sink. He wore yellow gloves and the tap was running. But he was just staring at the dishes in the basin.

  “Where’d Mom go?”

  He pointed a gloved finger to the sun porch. “Give her a minute,” he mouthed.

  “What about you? Hiding in here with the cutlery?”

  “Guilty. I figured I’d get a head start so your mother doesn’t have to face the full sink at the end of the night. And I suppose I wanted to give all of you a few minutes alone.” He turned off the tap. “How are you doing?”

  Wren shrugged. “It’s all very strange, to be honest.”

  Hank nodded sympathetically.

  “I mean, here we all are. And there’s so much ground to cover. And yet we’re not really going anywhere.” She stopped, suddenly, and a lump rose in her throat. “I only just told him about Lucy. He didn’t even know he was a grandfather.”

  Hank pulled his gloves off and went to her.

  Wren didn’t cry, but she wished she could. There was something inside her that she needed to expel. “I feel off-balance,” she said, finally.

  Bowser, who’d been sniffing around the kitchen for handouts, clunked his cone against the kitchen island, startling all of them. It was a good excuse to laugh. “Speaking of balance, how do you think he feels?” Hank joked. Then, more seriously, “Listen, this is strange for all of us. None of us knows what he wants, but I have a feeling we’ll find out soon.”

  Wren nodded. “Okay. But can you come back out there?” she asked.

  “I will. As soon as your mom is ready.”

  Wren went to the bathroom where she splashed cold water on her face. When she opened the door, Piper was standing right there.

  “Oh, sorry. It’s all yours.”

  “I don’t have to go.”

  Wren pulled her into the small bathroom and they shut the door behind them. The childishness of it made them both giggle. “How are you doing?” Wren whispered.

  Piper was animated. “Did you know he worked as a photojournalist in Syria?”

  “No. I did not.” Crammed together in the marble bathroom under the stairs she couldn’t begin to imagine his experience in the war-torn country.

  “Shannon should be here. He has a bunch of work he brought with him, back at the motel. He said he’d be happy to share it.”

  Wren thought of the black portfolio he’d carried off the bus that afternoon. She could understand Piper’s interest, something she felt, too. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to open that portfolio, no matter how compelling the stories it contained. While it may have explained what he’d been doing and where he’d been, it could never justify why he’d stayed away. Why should she care to view the collection of places and people who’d taken up all those years, years he should have been spending with them?

  But looking at her expression, Wren could tell Piper wasn’t thinking along those lines. And she wasn’t sure which one of them was better off as a result.

  “You’re coming back out, right?” Piper asked. “I don’t want him to leave yet.”

  Wren followed Piper out of the bathroom and through the kitchen. She was pleased to see Hank had abandoned his post at the sink. It was still full. They found him back at the table with Lindy making small talk.

  Seeing them, Caleb stood. “I think I’m going to have to call it a night,” he said.

  “Wait. You’re going already?
” Piper glanced quickly around the table, trying to determine what she’d missed. But there was no apparent ill will. The evening was just over.

  “Yes, I’m afraid the trip out here was a long one and I’m pretty worn out. Nothing a couple good nights’ sleep won’t fix. But I want to thank you all for a wonderful dinner.” He looked at Lindy. “Thank you for having me.”

  He pulled a phone from his back pocket, an older model iPhone with a cracked screen, Wren noticed. “Excuse me a moment, while I call for a ride?”

  “I can drive you,” Piper offered. “It’s no trouble.”

  Caleb looked surprised. “All right. That’s very kind.”

  Hank and Lindy walked them to the door. Unsure of what to do, Wren followed.

  Caleb stopped at the top of the porch steps and looked up at the swollen moon. “Do you think we could drive along Chatham Harbor on the way to the motel?” he asked Piper. “It’s a clear night.”

  Piper liked the idea. It meant the night was not over yet. “We could go for a walk down there if you’d like.”

  “A drive by is all I can manage tonight, I’m afraid.” He looked at Wren. “I look forward to seeing that store of yours some time.”

  “I’ll be there tomorrow,” she said.

  “Tomorrow,” he said. It sounded like a promise coming from his lips.

  As Piper backed out of the driveway Lindy and Wren remained on the porch watching them go.

  “What a long weird night.”

  Wren wrapped an arm around her mother. “So, what did you think?”

  “No one knows better than we do how much time has passed. Just look at the years—you girls grew up. But I have to say, I was completely taken aback when that gray-haired man walked into my kitchen tonight. It’s like I still expected him to be young, somehow.”

  “I know. How do you think he’s doing? He didn’t drink.”

  “I noticed.”

  “But still, he seemed so different than I remembered. Sober or not.”

  Lindy wrapped her arms around herself in the cool night air. “He’s aged quite a bit, honey. Living project to project and traveling as much as he did is lonely. It may sound adventurous when you’re young. But I imagine the older you get, the more you want a warm bed and a pot of something cooking on the stove to come home to. It doesn’t sound like he’s had that.”

  Wren wondered if there was sympathy in her tone or if it was just her own sense of it that she attached to Lindy’s words. Either way, she’d gotten the same feeling. Caleb Bailey was an articulate man who’d led an interesting life doing the work he loved. All over the world, in fact. But he seemed empty sitting at their family table that night. And he seemed tired beyond the long bus trip to get there.

  Inside, the kettle whistled from the kitchen. Hank was making tea. Wren glanced up at the sky. The same night sky he used to point to before he went away on a big trip. She never liked it when he left; she used to cry that she couldn’t fall asleep until he came back.

  “See those stars?” he’d ask, pointing skyward with one hand and holding her against his side with the other. “When you miss me at bedtime, I want you to look up at them. Because no matter where I go, we will always be under the same sky. And then I won’t seem so far away anymore.” He’d taught her the constellations, the Big and Little Dippers. And her favorite, Orion. “Start with his belt,” her father would remind her. “Those three stars are the most prominent. Can’t miss ’em.”

  Now, standing on her mother’s porch, she found Orion’s belt overhead and followed the line of stars up to the tip of his sword.

  “I’m glad it’s over with, but I’m also glad we did it. Thanks, Mom.”

  Lindy leaned her head against Wren’s. “Don’t thank me yet. I just hope you and your sisters get what you need from this.”

  Wren thought about this. About Shannon’s absence, and her own uncertainty. “Well, if Piper’s behavior tonight is any indication, I’m a little worried about her. You know how she is; she opens herself up too easily. She wants too much.”

  Lindy held the porch door open. “Go easy on Piper,” she said. “That’s the one thing I worry about with all three of you. What you want isn’t necessarily what you need.”

  Twenty-Three

  Caleb

  Moonlight illuminated the motel room in soft-blue light, spilling over the white bedding. He rolled over to face it. It was quiet, save for the reassuring thrum of peepers in the woods outside, and even they were only interrupted the occasional car passing on Route 28. It was warm, and he slept bare-chested, his arms free from the sheets. He stared at his hand resting by his pillow as if it belonged to someone else. In the glow of the moonlight, it was just a silhouette, transformed. Gone were the ropy lines of veins and the age spots, the crepey skin that gave acknowledgment to the years behind him. He made a fist and held it up in the light. Anger had found him. It was not meant for the girls or Lindy. Or the fact he’d made it back here. His grip softened, and he let his arm fall back onto the bed. Already he could feel himself losing strength.

  They had passed two liquor stores when Piper drove him back to the motel, and it had been hard to avert his gaze. It had been three years that he had been truly sober. There had been many times before that he’d tried, stretches where he made his AA meetings and stayed the course religiously. In the beginning the attempt to get sober was all about the family he’d left behind. He owed it to them. He would not let go of the vision he had for their future. But as the years passed and his attempts failed, he turned back to the bottle. At times because he’d given up on that future; at others because he was afraid to remember the past.

  Though he’d decided that his family was better served by his absence, there was still his work. The singular hunger he had, stronger than his desire to drink. He didn’t care about paying rent or putting food in the fridge; but he needed to work. Luckily, he’d kept some contacts over the years. Some who were loyal friends, some who simply appreciated his work. In the beginning, he learned how to pull himself together for short stretches when he landed an assignment. But it grew harder. There were times when he lost assignments for showing up hungover or worse, like the time he staggered onto the set of a documentary project he’d been brought on board for in Santa Fe. They were shooting in the Native Nation reservation west of the city documenting a Navajo man who was a revered silversmith. Caleb had no memory of the drive from his hotel to the reservation that day. He arrived late and more than a few days unshowered. The thing was, he was excited about this project. It had been some time since he’d had real work, something substantial like this. What was more, he liked the man, Josef Nez. He’d spent the day before at the artist’s home, talking to his wife and three of his grown children, following Joseph around his small workshop in a shed behind the house. Josef was seventy-nine, the father of seven children, and had supported the family with his silverwork his whole life. He showed them his creations: thick cuff bracelets set with turquoise, women’s Concho belts, sterling-silver bolo ties. As Caleb watched the old man cut and hammer, turning sheets of metal between his gnarled fingers, he had felt inside him a stirring, a hunger that began in his gut and moved into his fingers. Josef did not speak much to the crew, so much as he invited them into his process. There was artistry in the quietude of his work, and in the warmth in his dark eyes when he placed a silver ring in Caleb’s palm. This was the job Caleb had been waiting for.

  But the night before shooting began, the crew had met in an adobe-style café for dinner that turned into drinks. Caleb had been dry if not sober for a few months. He did not turn down the occasional beer, and on this night with dust in his shoes and the desert heat permeating the crowded bistro, he was alive and hot and thirsty. He had a beer. Then another. He remembered turning down a round of shots of tequila at some point in the night, but he must not have later, for he awoke late in his motel the next morning, his mouth as chalky as the red landscape outside. When he stumbled into Josef Nez’s living room, it wa
s not the looks of the crew, or Dennis, the producer, that got to him. It was Josef Nez. He did not speak to Caleb but stared through him. As Caleb stood in the middle of the room, struggling with the zipper on his lens bag that would not open, aware suddenly of the acrid smell permeating from his cotton shirt and the brightly colored rug that would not stop swirling, he looked up. He didn’t hear Dennis muttering under his breath, ordering him outside. He didn’t notice the other members of the crew fiddling with their equipment, stepping in where he should have been setting up. All he saw was Josef Nez staring at him with his hooded watery eyes. Josef shook his head. In that moment the room came into focus.

  Caleb left the reservation and bought a packet of cigarettes and a liter of soda. He got in his car and drove straight through to Arizona, the radio off, his head humming with static. He’d given up his family and his life in the Northeast. If he gave up on his work, too, he was a dead man.

  That was the last time Caleb touched a drink. As dark as the journey out had been, he had tools. He had his meetings. He had his sponsor, Alice. He had God. But being here, in Chatham, he felt the old itch crawling to life under his skin. He felt it in his fingertips that had drummed on the dining room table tonight under Lindy’s gaze. It coursed through his muscles, causing him to want to get up and away, any place, as if he could put distance between himself and this growing urge that was spreading within him.

  Caleb got up and went to the bathroom. He poured himself a cup of water and took a pill for the pain. When he slid back into bed he did not worry about how he might feel in the morning or what effect his pain might have on the things he hoped to do with the girls. It was enough that he had tomorrow. That he was here in Chatham with his girls.