Barefoot (51 page)

At lunchtime, Vicki pulled out the lunch she had made: chicken salad sandwiches, potato chips, cold plums, watermelon slices, and chocolate peanut butter cookies. Pete and Andre devoured the sandwiches and cookies Vicki had included for them, and Andre said it was the best lunch he’d had all summer.

“Leave it to my wife,” Ted said.

“Leave it to my mom,” Blaine echoed proudly.

Vicki smiled at them and felt happiness, fleeting though it was. After lunch, she went up to the bow of the boat and closed her eyes as the boat sliced through the water.
This will not be my last day on the water,
she thought. But then she had a vision of herself on the operating table, the surgeon brandishing a scalpel.
Why not just cut me open with a saber?
The night before, Vicki had watched Brenda and Walsh holding hands. Walsh was the kind of person Ellen Lyndon referred to as a “gem,” or “a real treasure”; he was immediately recognizable as good, kind, and sensitive, as well as extremely attractive (well, there had never been any doubt about that)—he was the kind of person that it might be reasonable to lose one’s job over. Brenda and Walsh were so visibly happy together that Vicki thought,
They will get married. But I won’t be alive for the wedding.
Where did these thoughts come from? How could she make them stop? Dr. Alcott was right about one thing: Fear was its own disease.

Vicki handed Ted his cell phone; she wanted him to check on Porter. It would stand to reason that since she was enjoying herself, something must be horribly amiss at home. Ted dialed the number and it rang once, then the connection cut out.
Call ended.
As Ted dialed again, Vicki pictured Porter’s face in a purple squeal. It used to be when Porter got upset, he would throw up, and though he hadn’t done this all summer, it was the vision that came to Vicki: Porter spewing pureed carrots all over Ellen Lyndon’s white linen pants and choking on the vomit until he stopped breathing.

The second call didn’t go through at all, and Ted shook the cell phone in frustration. “There’s no reception out here, hon. Just relax. Everything is fine.”

You always say everything is fine,
Vicki thought angrily.
How am I supposed to relax when Porter is probably in the hospital on a respirator?

She was distracted from these thoughts by a shout from her other son. “Dad! Daddy!” It had only occurred to Vicki a hundred times since the day began that Blaine would fall overboard and be sucked under the boat by the power of the engines. When Vicki looked up, however, what she saw was Blaine holding on to the fishing pole for dear life. The line was taut, and Blaine was pulling back in a professional way, bracing his bare feet against the side of the boat.

Ted said, “You’ve got a bite! Here, let me bring him in.”

Vicki thought Blaine might protest, but he handed the rod over to Ted right away, with relief. Vicki, too, was relieved. She didn’t want Blaine pulled into the drink by the resistance of some monstrous fish, nor did she want to see Blaine lose the rod altogether, which was the more likely outcome. Vicki thought there might be a long, drawn-out Ahab versus Moby Dick–like struggle, but Ted landed the fish in a matter of seconds. Even in the overwhelming sunlight, Vicki could see the glint of silver scales. The fish was sleek but long, much longer than any of the bluefish Ted had caught.

“Striped bass?” Ted said uncertainly.

The captain whistled. “Better. You caught a bonito. She’s a beauty.” He pulled out a tape measure and pressed the flopping fish to the deck with his shoe. “Thirty-seven inches. She’s a keeper.”

“What’s it called?” Blaine asked.

“Bonito,” Ted said. “Bone-ee-to.”

“They’re good eating,” the captain said.

“Do you want to keep it?” Ted said. “Do you want to take it back to the docks so Grammie and Grandpa can see it?”

“We could gr——ill it for dinner,” Vicki said.

Blaine sucked his lower lip as he studied the fish. In his sun visor with his hands on his hips and the look of deliberation on his face, he could have been fourteen. He could have been twenty-four.

“Nah,” Blaine said. “I want to throw her back. I want to let her live.”

They threw the bonito back, but to celebrate their day of fishing, Ted stopped at East Coast Seafood on the way home and bought salmon, swordfish, and tuna. It was their next-to-last night on the island, the evening of the last big dinner, and it would be really big with the addition of Buzz and Ellen Lyndon and John Walsh.

When Ted pulled the Yukon up in front of the house, Vicki blinked with disbelief. Josh’s Jeep was parked out front.

“Josh,” she said. His name came easily, all in one piece.

“Josh!” Blaine shouted.

“Good,” Ted said, unbuckling his seat belt. “I can give him his check.”

Vicki felt unaccountably happy when she walked inside. She expected a house full of people, but the only person waiting for them was Ellen Lyndon, who was relaxing on the sofa, gimpy leg up.

“Hello, all,” Ellen said. “How was fishing?”

“We caught fish!” Blaine said. “Seven bluefish and one . . .” Here, Blaine looked to his father.

“Bonito,” Ted said.

“Bonito!” Blaine said. “But we let them go.”

“Josh?” Vicki said. Again, no stutter, no stumble.

“Josh?” Ellen Lyndon said.

“Is heeeee——here?” Vicki said.

“Yes,” Ellen Lyndon said. “Josh and Melanie took Porter for a walk.”

Josh and Melanie,
Vicki thought.

“And Brenda and Walsh are at the beach,” Ellen said. “And I sent your father to the farm for corn, tomatoes, and blueberry pie.”

“We bought . . .” Vicki held up the fish to show her mother. She set the fillets on the counter and immediately started thinking: eight adults for dinner if Josh would stay; she had to marinate the fish, chill wine, soften butter, set the table, and get a shower. Plus, food for the kids. Shuck the corn when her father got home, slice and dress the tomatoes. Would there be enough food? Should she run to the market for a baguette?

The lists were back. Vicki scribbled some things down on a tablet. But as she unwrapped the beautiful fish fillets from the butcher paper, the terror returned. Terror! When Ted passed behind her, she turned and grabbed his wrist.

“What is it?” he said.

“We’re leeee——aving.”

“We have to go back sometime,” Ted said. “We just can’t stay here forever.”

Of course not, Vicki thought. However, back in Connecticut, reality awaited.

From her outpost on the sofa, Ellen Lyndon sang out, “Nantucket will always be here, honey.”

Yes,
Vicki thought.
But will I?

Josh might have been more comfortable in the house with the women—Vicki, Melanie, Brenda, and Mrs. Lyndon—but he found himself, instead, out on the deck with “the men.” The men included Buzz Lyndon, Ted, and John Walsh, Brenda’s student, Brenda’s lover, who had (Josh learned from Melanie) shown up without warning a few days earlier. Initially, Josh felt threatened by John Walsh, but it quickly became apparent that John Walsh was different from the likes of Peter Patchen, or even Ted. To begin with, John Walsh was Australian, and his accent alone made him seem cheerful and approachable, open, friendly, and egalitarian. When Ted introduced Josh, John Walsh stood up right away from the deck chair and gave Josh a hearty handshake.

“Hey, mate. Name’s Walsh. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Josh said.

“Beer?” Ted said.

“I’ll get it,” Buzz Lyndon said. He handed Josh a Stella.

“Thanks,” Josh said. He took a long, cold swallow.

“Not your usual duds,” Ted noted.

“No,” Josh said. He was wearing the bare bones of his gray suit—the gray pants, the white dress shirt (unbuttoned at the neck, cuffs rolled up), and his dress shoes with black socks. He had walked with Melanie and Porter to the beach in this unlikely outfit, and whereas he felt overdressed, the suit made him feel older, like an actual grown-up. “I had a funeral.”

“Who?” Ted said.

“Friend of mine from high school,” Josh said. “A girl. My ex-girlfriend, actually. Didi, her name was. She worked at the hospital.”

Ted stared at him. “Blond girl?”

“Yeah.”

“I met her,” Ted said. “Briefly. When we were there for Vicki last week. That’s terrible. God, I’m sorry.”

John Walsh raised his beer bottle. “Sorry for your loss, mate.”

“Oh,” Josh said. “Thanks. She had . . . a lot of problems.”

“That’s too bad,” Buzz Lyndon said. “Young girl like that.”

“Was she sick?” Ted asked. “She didn’t look sick.”

“No, not sick. She overdosed. It was a combination of pills and alcohol.” Already he had said more about Didi than he wanted to. He had hoped to leave behind the sadness of the funeral and the discomfort he felt around his high school friends, but that was proving to be impossible. All summer, he’d tried to keep his job at Number Eleven Shell Street separate from his life at home, but he saw now it was pointless. The island was so small that everyone intersected. Thinking back, Josh realized he wouldn’t even be working here if he hadn’t shown up at the hospital that day to lend Didi the two hundred dollars. So in a way it was like Didi led him here. “It was an accident,” Josh added. “Her death was accidental.”

“When I think back on the stuff I tried as a kid . . . ,” John Walsh said. “It’s a bloody miracle I didn’t accidentally off myself.”

Ted swilled his beer, nodding in agreement. Buzz Lyndon cleared his throat and settled in a deck chair. Everyone was quiet. The silence was similar to the silence Tom Flynn liked to immerse himself in; it was this silence that Josh had always found intimidating. But now, he savored it. Four men could drink beer on a deck and not say a word and not find it awkward. Women would talk, say whatever came next to their minds. Men could keep what was on their minds to themselves. And what was on Josh’s mind was . . . Melanie.

The anticipation of seeing her that afternoon had nearly strangled him; he felt like a half-crazed animal pulling on its chain. As soon as Josh set eyes on her (a little rounder in the mid-section, a little tanner, a little more luminous), as soon as they were pushing Porter in the baby jogger down Shell Street, he filled with quiet elation. She asked about the suit, and he told her about Didi. Talking to Melanie was as therapeutic as crying. A sudden, unexpected death, the death of someone young, the death of someone Josh hadn’t always treated nicely, a death that caused him to fill with guilt and regret—Melanie got it; she understood. Josh and Melanie became so engrossed in talking about Didi that they managed, for a while, to forget about themselves. But then, when talk of Didi was exhausted, Josh felt he had to address the issue of their relationship.

“I hadn’t planned on coming back here,” he said.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” Melanie said. “I thought you were gone.”

“Well,” Josh said.

“Well what?”

“I wanted to see you.”

Melanie smiled at the ground. They had made it all the way to the beach and were on their way back to Number Eleven. In the stroller, Porter was fast asleep. They could have turned right, back onto Shell Street, but Josh suggested they continue straight.

“Past the ’Sconset Chapel?” Melanie said.

“Yes.”

They walked for a while without speaking. Then Josh said, “You’re going back to Peter?”

Melanie pressed her lips together and nodded. “He’s my husband. That counts for something. The vows count for something.”

“Even though he broke them?” Josh said.

“Even though he broke them,” Melanie said. “I realize that must be hard for you to hear.”

“It’s hard for me to think of you getting hurt again,” Josh said.

“He won’t . . . well, he said he wouldn’t . . .”

“If he does,” Josh said, “I’ll kill him.”

Melanie leaned her head against Josh’s shoulder. The church was in front of them; there were white ribbons fluttering on the handrails of the three stone steps that led to the front door. The vestiges of someone’s wedding. “Finding you was the best thing that could have happened to me,” she said.

It was another line that rendered Josh speechless. As he stood now on the back deck drinking his beer, he thought:
Yes
. It had been the best thing for both of them, as unlikely as that might seem to outside eyes.

Josh was startled when the back door opened and Vicki poked her head out to say, “Josh? D——inner? You’ll . . .” She nodded at the picnic table.

“Sure,” he said. “I’d love to.”

At dinner, Josh sat between Melanie and Vicki. Melanie kept a hand on Josh’s leg while Vicki loaded his plate with food. Talk was light: Josh heard all about the fishing trip, the bluefish, the bonito. Then Buzz Lyndon told some fishing stories from his youth, then John Walsh told fishing stories from Australia, which quickly turned into stories about sharks and saltwater crocodiles and deadly box jellyfish. Josh had consumed no small amount of wine—Ted, at the head of the table, kept leaning forward and filling Josh’s glass—and the wine, along with the candlelight and the pure lawlessness of Melanie’s hand on his leg, gave the evening a surreal glow. Over the course of the summer he had made a place for himself at this table—but how? He thought back to the first afternoon he set eyes on them:
Three women step off of a plane.

Brenda sat in the crook of Walsh’s arm with a contented smile on her face. Scowling Sister. Except now she seemed happy and at peace. Vicki—Heavy-breathing Sister—seemed melancholy and very quiet, though now Josh understood why. The summer had left Vicki physically transformed (her blond hair was gone, and she was leaner by at least twenty pounds), but she still retained what Josh thought of as her “mom-ness,” that quality that brought everybody together and made sure every detail of the day was tended to. She was the glue that held everyone here together. If they lost her, they would break apart, splinter off. Fall to pieces. That was the cause of her melancholy, perhaps: She understood how important she was to other people and she couldn’t stand to let them down.

Finally, next to him, touching him, was Straw Hat. Melanie. He liked to think he had saved Melanie, but it was probably the other way around. Melanie had taught Josh things he never even knew he wanted to learn. She would go back to Peter—that fact was as real and hard and smooth as a marble that rolled around in Josh’s mind—and Josh would be heartbroken. He was on his way to heartbreak now, sitting here on this last night, but that heartbreak—along with everything else that had happened today—made him feel older and more seasoned. He had his story; nobody could take that away. Chas Gorda would be proud.