On Little Wings Page 17

  “And when she says no?”

  “She’ll want me to come home sometime,” I said, my nervous voice too high. It sounded much better coming from Little.

  “And when she sends me to ground you for the rest of your natural life?”

  “You tell her no.”

  He huffed in exasperation. “So you’re taking us both down?”

  “No. I’m bringing her home.” I bit down on my thumb, rubbing my bottom teeth against the smooth nail, while I waited. I sensed that everything depended on what he said next.

  “If she doesn’t come are you just going to live in Maine?” He challenged.

  I felt a weakening behind his questions. “No. If summer comes to an end and she hasn’t come to get me, then I’ll give up and come home. If she really can’t do it, if she really can’t face it, then all she loses is a few weeks with me.” The tortuous silence filled the air around me, amplified my thumping heart.

  “I’m not telling her.”

  I had to replay the sentence twice before I understood him. “Are you saying …?”

  “I’m not telling her. I’m not going to be home when you tell her. You call her when I’m at work. If you break this to her when I am within sight, so help me …”

  “I promise. I swear on my life,” my voice rose in excitement and then lowered with gratitude. “Dad, I love you. I really think this is the right thing.”

  “Oh, I hope you’re right,” he mumbled. “If I end up crippled and alone you better take care of me.”

  “I don’t think it will be that bad. I just have a feeling.”

  “I don’t like feelings,” He complained.

  “I love you, Dad.” But I said it more like Thank you, Dad.

  After I cleaned up for the night I rushed back to bed. I’d never been in such a hurry to crawl under the covers. Not to sleep. To remember. I could barely stand to touch my skin because even my own fingers sent jolts of hot electricity through my nerves. I lingered on every image of the night: Nathan’s stare over the jumping, crimson flames, the black water spilling onto the sand as we passed the beach, the nervous movements of his hands when I stepped too close. Sometimes the memories seemed too much and I couldn’t understand how I’d stayed so calm when those things actually happened, but lost my breath in the shadowy remembrances. I grabbed my extra pillow and squeezed it tight against my stomach as I tried to fall asleep. If I held it there long enough maybe it would smother the butterflies bursting out of their cocoons and taking their first frantic flights in the middle of my body.

  Even waking in the cool morning had an added charm. Before I finished opening my eyes and stirring from my stiff, curled position I felt feathers of happiness unfolding under my skin. It seemed that through the unconsciousness of sleep my body remembered what my mind did not – I would see him today. That was enough to rouse me from my soft blankets and send me hustling through my morning routine. I took special care with my hair, brushing and drying it until it fell in a glossy, amber fountain over my shoulders. I couldn’t bring myself to put on any make-up other than lip gloss and a tiny bit of mascara. Anything else would look absurd for staining a fence. I glanced over my nails. Hopeless. Thin, chipped, neglected. All I could do is clip them short and ignore them. I tried on every t-shirt, but then settled on my oldest one because I didn’t want to ruin my best ones. Sadly, when I was done, I looked exactly like I looked on any other day. But even that couldn’t weigh me down for long. It was hard to fret over myself when using the bulk of my concentration to review every conversation we’d had, each comment he’d made at lines and expression that crossed his face.

  Apparently the hectic activity going on inside me did not reveal itself in my face because Sarah didn’t notice anything. We ate bagels and I told her that I spoke to my father and he decided I didn’t have to pick a flight yet. I made a conscious choice the moment I adopted Little’s scheme not to tell Sarah. If my mother threw a tantrum I wanted Sarah’s hands to be clean. She didn’t need any more strikes against her.

  When Nathan rapped on the door at eight thirty I restrained my feet, making them take easy, measured steps. “Hi, Nathan,” I said, proud of how friendly and nonchalant it sounded. “You want a bagel before we go?”

  His expression, though polite, was stiff. “Sure. Morning, Sarah.”

  “Hey, Ace,” she said, throwing a bagel through the air. He caught it on his finger.

  “Ace?” I asked him. He just shrugged and waved good-bye to Sarah.

  He didn’t look at me as he got into the truck. I pulled open the squeaky door and climbed inside, carefully pushing a few tools aside. He riveted his eyes on the dashboard, avoiding my face as he threw the truck into reverse and backed onto the road. Curiosity made me wonder how long he would go without speaking. Though the quiet oppressed me I clenched my hands in my lap and waited. And waited. We had one short mile to drive but the road stretched out interminably, seemed to expand with the silence. I bobbed my head as I took turns looking out the windshield, my window, at the floor, the ceiling. Still nothing. His mouth twitched once, but his lips pressed back into a thin line and he tapped the steering wheel softly.

  “Did you talk to your mom last night?” He finally asked

  “No. My dad. He’s going to back me up. I think I’ll call her sometime soon.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “A little.” Not as nervous as I felt waiting for his next word, his next expression.

  “Would you rather stay home so you can talk to her? Spraying a fence really isn’t fun.” He squirmed, the wiggle working up from his legs to his shoulders. He clearly didn’t want me sitting in his truck. My face trembled as I tried to ignore the flat, burning disappointment running down the back of my lungs.

  “You know, you sort of have a Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde thing going on.”

  “I what? How?” He swung his face toward me just as Main Street came into view.

  “You get mad at me. Then nice. Then mad. It makes no sense, really.”

  “I’m not mad at you. Why would I ever be mad at you?”

  I was surprised by how defensive he sounded. “Naturally grumpy?”

  “Naturally nosy?” He retorted, with a smirk.

  “I’m really not usually. You are just … harder to figure out, I think.”

  “Why try?” He uttered, a dark current rippling through his voice. He parked the car beside the small, yellow house with the stripped fence and stared through the chipped windshield. He didn’t take his hands off the wheel. He didn’t unbuckle his seatbelt.

  “Why not?” I asked softly.

  “Where do I begin?” he replied as he finally freed himself from the seatbelt and hopped out the truck.

  I found myself abandoned in the dirty truck cab that smelled faintly of cologne. I was toying with the idea of sitting there like an idiot a little longer when a wild-eyed woman with unruly dark hair and a voluminous purple gown pushed aside my confused thoughts and strode squarely to the center of my mind’s stage. She squeezed one hand madly, looked at me with flaming eyes and hissed, “Screw your courage to the sticking place!” I don’t usually channel Lady Macbeth - never before and never since – but she said what I needed to hear in that moment. I opened the door and stepped down to the driveway, shaking my head to clear the demented picture. “How about you begin at the first reason?” I said to Nathan’s back as he knelt over the paint sprayer, adjusting nozzles and knobs.

  He didn’t look up. I didn’t know if he would even acknowledge me until he muttered, “It’s a lot of trouble for someone who’s just visiting. This is your vacation. Maybe you should dig for clams and stop prying into psyches.”

  “I don’t like clams. Second reason.”

  At last his head came up, his nose and brow wrinkled, but his mouth just shy of a grin. He looked like I puzzled him. And pleased him. My heart lifted in my chest.

  “Even if you came back, I probably wouldn’t be here. So it’s a waste of time.”

  “W
here would you be?”

  “School. Work. I’ll be eighteen next month. Sarah says I have to leave sometime.” He pried open a can of stain with a screwdriver and signaled me to back up. “It spatters,” he said under his breath.

  I walked to a soft patch of grass and lowered myself beneath a large tree. Taking advantage of his concentration on the messy work I asked, “Where do you want to go to school? What do you want to do?”

  “Dunno,” he said. One hand caught a large spill running down the can. He pushed as much as he could back onto the rim and wiped the wet remainder on his t-shirt, leaving a brown streak across his stomach that resembled dried blood.

  “You have no idea?” I challenged.

  “No,” he quipped. “It’s noisy when I turn it on.” He closed the subject by hitting a switch that released a cloud of wood stain out of the spray wand. The vibrations and noise made conversation almost impossible, and I didn’t feel like shouting back and forth. I could take a hint. I leaned against the tree and watched the slow progress of the stain as it advanced across the fence, one plank at a time. Nathan’s nose flared occasionally and I realized he wore the same, intense mask of concentration that I had seen on the fisherman’s faces as they worked at the docks. After a while he relaxed and seemed to give his entire self to the task at hand. I think he forgot that I was there because when I finally stood he startled and turned the sprayer off.

  “Do you mind if I walk down to the docks?” I asked him.

  “By yourself?” He looked torn between his job and trying to babysit me.

  “It’s two blocks. I can manage. I wanted to say hi to the Jacks. If they’re there.”

  “They’ll be there, all right. Come get me when you’re ready for a ride home. But just a word of advice – don’t mention politics. Or anything related to politics. At all.”

  “Why no politics? I don’t mind a good discussion.”

  “I’m not talking about a spirited debate. I’m talking blood in the streets.”

  “Oh, come on …” I searched his face for a sign of jest without finding one. “The old men are going to beat up a teenage girl?”

  “No,” he said in exasperation. “They won’t touch you. They’ll kill each other.” He used his shoulder to wipe the sweat off of his upper lip.

  “They’re friends.”

  “With rules. Just trust me. I’ll tell you tonight at lines.” That last sentence distracted me from the argument. Lines. Tonight. The promise of sitting in the quiet dark with Nathan, defenses down, voices gentle. Perhaps another compliment. I stopped my thoughts right there before they ran away from me.

  “I promise. No politics,” I gave him a lighthearted salute and walked away, feeling free as I stepped down the street. Only nine days in Smithport and already the crooked sidewalks and weathered houses were starting to feel familiar. I walked behind the restaurants and small store to the slanted ramp that leads to the boats. The largest Jack, once again wearing his cap, sat alone on the wooden bench that commanded the best view of the docks. He looked wrong, by himself, with no one to heckle him.

  “Morning,” I said as I approached.

  He looked up with a faint scowl until he recognized me. “Oh, Nebraska. It’s you. You here with the women-folk again?”

  “Nope, just me.” I eyed the bench, curious if it was reserved only for the Jacks or if I could sit with him. Too timid to try I stuffed my hands in my pockets and rocked onto the balls of my feet.

  “How’s your trip going? Having fun?” He asked

  “Definitely.” Fun didn’t truly convey the depth of my experience but it would do for casual conversation. “Where are the other … Jacks?” I stumbled on Little’s label, but I couldn’t remember their real names.

  “Not here yet. We come and go. I stay the longest. Don’t like to be too far from The Misses.” He nodded down to the docks. “I guess I’m just a family man,” he said, his eye twinkling.

  “Are you Russ?”

  “God forbid it! If I were Russ I wouldn’t know the North Star from the North Pole. Pitiful Sailor,” His words faded out and then he looked up at me. “I’m Glenn,” he barked. “But Jack is fine. A rose by any other name, right?”

  “You like Shakespeare?” I looked over the portly man in doubt.

  “He the one who said it? Huh. Don’t matter. I don’t know yer name, neither. Can’t remember. Just know you’re Hank’s grandbaby.”

  “You knew my grandfather?”

  “Knew ‘im? Course I knew ‘im! But it’s been a long time. We all know Sarah, though. She’s the daughter of the town. We sorta all adopted her after Hazel went like that. Saddest thing I’ve seen, for sure.”

  I sidled toward the bench, watching for signs of disapproval if I took a seat. He seemed relaxed enough as I got closer. “Do you remember my mother – Claire?” I asked him as I gingerly sat down.

  “Sure. Sure. Last saw her at the funeral. Not a good memory for an old man.”

  “Why?” I tried not to stare too intently, forcing my eyes away from his drooping jowls every few seconds.

  “Just sad. No, worse than sad. Scary. Her standing by the coffin by herself, no family, her face white as a ghost. I thought she’d pass out right in the funeral parlor. Most women woulda. She just stood there. About half-dead herself. And jus a little kid. Ah don’t like to think on it.” I felt the blood drain from my face, hearing her described like that.

  “So she went to Nebraska, eh? That beats all,” he mumbled. When he spoke again it was in a much louder and brighter voice. “You wanna meet the Misses?”

  “Your boat?”

  “The boat,” he stressed. “Best steaming vessel in the ocean.”

  “I’d love to.”

  Glenn rose with a huff, pulling his bulk up slowly. He tottered back, leaned forward and seemed to get his momentum for his first laborious step. I followed his slow progress down the concrete ramp onto the solid lumber of the docks. I felt the sway of the water in the gentle motion under my feet as we passed the fishermen working on their boats. Glenn led me to a small boat, squatting low in the water and hung with colorful tarps. White letters spelled out The Misses against the black bow and a small white room stood in the middle of the deck looking like little more than a glorified Port-a-Potty with a steering wheel.

  Glenn swept her bow to stern with a worshipful gaze. “Ain’t nothing she wouldn’t do for me. Not a wave she wouldn’t mount. Not a storm she wouldn’t bring me through. Best boat in the waters. She’s got a living soul in her.”

  I tried to see what he saw: the beauty, the appeal. She looked small, old and unremarkable next to the commercial boats. “She looks . . . very nice,” I attempted a convincing tone.

  “It’s not the looks. It’s the soul! I know she don’t look like nothing. But she fights. She wins. This old sea bows down and gives up when she sees the Misses coming. Can’t beat her.” Glenn reached out and stroked the metal railing.

  “Why is everything here a girl? The ocean. The boats. The storms. All girls.”

  Glenn chuckled and grabbed his thick jaw in his hand, pulling it thoughtfully. “Well, guess I took it for granted. Never thought much about it. Guess ‘cause those are the things that give us the most trouble.” He laughed and turned back to his vessel. “But The Misses, she’s a good lass. Some boats are nags, always complaining, always falling to pieces, never wantin’ to do what ya tell ‘em. Those boats are the shrews. They need a good, square kick in the bloomers, is what! But not my Misses. She’s a lady.” His light blue eyes studied me. “You know what a lady needs, don’t ya? Hazel was big on being a lady.”

  “No. What?” I asked, hardly able to turn away from the boat. For all his adoration she continued to squat heavy in the water, paint chipping off her sides.

  “Well a lady needs a little love. Needs someone to pet her, feed her ego. A lady needs to be complimented, seduced. Then she’s putty in your hands.”

  “All that knowledge about women and you never got married?�
� I grinned, knowing the dimples at the sides of my chin appeared when I smiled like that.

  “Ah’m an Eagle Scout. Loyalty. One woman for me,” He said, tapping his hand on the Misses. He let go of his boat and flexed one arm. “Right there,” he said, pulling up his sleeve to reveal a tattoo of an eagle, eyes fiery, talons extended.

  “You tattooed an eagle, but not your boat? I thought sailors always get tattoos of the women they love.”

  “Hah! I got one of The Misses. If I show you where ol’ Jed will haul me to the cell, is what!” He laughed again and I joined him “You get yerself outta Nebraska and some young Sailor will ink your name, for sure. All in good time.”

  I blushed, oddly flattered. “Not sure I’d want a fisherman, Jack. Too much competition. They just love their boats.”

  “Mebbe so, mebbe so. Many a man sleeps in his boat when his lady kicks him out. But I don’t see how you’d avoid it. What else do men do?”

  I grinned at his joke, before I realized he wasn’t kidding. His world began and ended where the water rippled against the long wooden posts of the docks, blackened with time and slime. When I found my voice it came out gentle and slow.

  “Jack, they do other things.”

  “Huh. Suppose they do. Somewhere. Poor saps.”

  CHAPTER 26

  “The Jacks there?” Nathan asked when I returned. He put down his sprayer and started the futile process of scratching some of the brown stain off of his skin.

  “Yeah. I swore allegiance to the Republican Party and they went at each other with fish hooks. Carnage.”

  “You said I wasn’t funny.”

  “You’re not. I am. Only Glenn was there. He let me meet his boat.”

  “That’s an honor.”

  “So I gather. You got farther than I thought you would. How much longer do you think you’ll be here?” The stain now covered a good two thirds of the fence.