Catch of the Day (30 page)

“I’ll tag along with the two of you, if you don’t mind,” Father Tim offers. “I could do with a bit of air myself.”

Noah wraps a few shrimp in a napkin and slides them into his pocket. Father Tim and I pretend not to notice. “You coming, Noah?” I ask as he surveys the rest of the leftovers.

“Ayuh,” he grunts.

The night air is cold, feeling more like February than April, but it feels good after being in the stuffy rectory. Noah’s street is a block or two before mine, and Father Tim shakes his hand. “Thank you for coming, my good man,” he says.

“No problem,” Noah responds. “’Night, Maggie.”

“Bye, Noah.”

Father Tim pauses. “Well. I’ll just see you the rest of the way home, shall I?”

“Sure,” I answer. It’s only a block. I can’t help but notice that Father Tim looks…well, quite sad. My heart tugs.

“Is everything okay, Father Tim?” I ask as we walk.

“It’s funny you bring that up,” he says softly, his eyes scanning the heavens before returning to my face. As ever, the old attraction thrills through me as I look at his gentle eyes, his perfect bone structure. He doesn’t say anything for a minute, and my heart starts thumping with nervousness. Or maybe it’s guilt for still finding him so appealing. “Well. Difficult decisions lie ahead,” he says obliquely, sounding more like a fortune cookie than a priest. He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t ask him to.

It only takes a minute more to get to my little house. Father Tim turns to me. “I hope you know you’re a special friend to me, Maggie,” he murmurs. “A great friend.”

Weird.
“Sure.” I swallow. “Right back at you.” I glance up at my house to see if Mrs. K. is spying, then remember that she’s out of town for the weekend.

“You have a way about you, Maggie,” Tim says quietly. “I hope you know that. Even if things change, I hope…well.” He looks at me intently, as if he’s trying to telecommunicate something.

If things change…
What the heck does that mean? What’s he trying to say? My face flushes. “That’s nice. You’re so nice. And—and—tonight. Was nice. Really nice. Thank you, Father Tim.”

He doesn’t move, just continues to look deeply into my eyes, then looks away, sighing. “Well. Good night now, Maggie.”

“Good night! Thank you. Thanks, Father Tim! For everything. Bye, now!” I scurry the remaining distance to my porch, then race up the stairs, glad, perhaps for the first time, to put some distance between me and Father Tim.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“
I
HAVE A DATE
with Malone,” I tell my reflection the next afternoon. “Just have to go see Mom, get that over with, and then I have a date. With Malone.”

It’s a calming thought. Malone, after all, is not my angry mother. Nor is he a priest. No vows of chastity for Malone, that’s for sure. “And thank goodness for that,” I grin.

But something is definitely going on with Father Tim, and I’m not sure I want to spend a lot of thought on what it could be. When he didn’t come into the diner this morning, I was surprised to find myself a bit relieved.

However, any sense of reprieve I might feel is cancelled out by the dread I have of seeing my mother. Still, I can’t just ignore her, so I pedal my bike out to my parents’ house, take a few cleansing breaths outside and go in. Dad is nowhere in sight, as usual, but Mom is sitting at the kitchen table.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, bending down to kiss her cheek.

“Oh, Maggie. Hello,” she answers. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” I say, pulling out a chair and sitting. “What about you? This must be very…” My voice trails off.

“Mmm. Yes, it is. Very.” She stares at the table. “So. What’s new? Did you get another dog yet?”

“Um, no. I think I’ll wait a while. Mom, are you okay?”

She sighs and looks at the ceiling. “No, Maggie. I’m not. I’m the town laughingstock, dear. Divorce after all these years. Poor Mitchell Beaumont couldn’t stand it another minute. That’s what they’re all saying, you know. Nice old Mitch, married to that bitch.” She gives a grim smile to acknowledge her rhyme.

“Oh, jeezum, Mom, I don’t think people are saying that,” I blurt, though I myself have thought almost those same words verbatim. Many times.

“Well, you’ve always been naive,” she says. “Want a drink?”

“Uh…no.” I watch as she gets a bottle of vodka out of the freezer and pours herself a half a glass, then adds a shot of orange juice. It may be the first time I’ve ever seen her drink anything other than white zinfandel.

She takes a healthy swallow, pats down a stray lock of her curly hair, then sits back down with a thump. “So. What do you want me to say? Or would you like to tell me I’m a bad mother?”

I tilt my head, looking at her. She actually looks quite pretty today, for some reason. Then I see what it is; she’s not wearing makeup. “You’re not a bad mother, Mom.”

“Well, thank you for saying that.” She takes another slug of her pale orange drink.

“Mom,” I blurt, “you were kind of rushed into marrying Dad, being a mother, all that. Maybe this is your chance to have some independence, start a new life, you know. That kind of thing.”

“That’s rich, Maggie,” she says. “I’m fifty-five years old. I don’t want a new life.”

“You didn’t want your old one, either,” I point out cautiously. “You’ve been unhappy most of your life, haven’t you?”

Surprisingly, she reaches out and takes my hand, frowning automatically at the roughness, my short fingernails, the cut on my left middle finger. “I want to tell you that’s not true,” she admits slowly. “I do love you kids. And your father.”

“We know that, Mom,” I tell her. “You don’t have to apologize for anything.”

“You’re so generous, Maggie,” she snaps, and only she could make it sound like such a put-down. “Oh, it makes me mad sometimes! You’re just like my father, and your father, as well! Everything, anything for everyone and anyone! It drives me crazy, honey! You give away
everything
and never take anything for yourself, you with all the chances I never had! My God, honey, do you want to end up like me?”

My mouth hangs open, but Mom is on a roll. “Take a good look, Maggie! I was all set to have a life I’d dreamed of. Get out of Washington County, get out of Maine and live in a big city, have a career, really do something. I imagined myself climbing up the ladder at some publishing house, becoming like Jackie O or something, surrounded by books and creativity and excitement.” Her fist slams down on the table, her voice rising. “And I ended up here, working in a stupid doctor’s office instead! And now my goddamn husband is divorcing me and I’m terrified!”

My mother bursts into tears. I get up from my seat and kneel next to her, gingerly putting my arm around her shoulders.

“Mom,” I say gently. “Listen. Calm down. It’s going to be okay. Daddy’s not going to kick you into the street or anything. You’ll be fine. And if you want to do something else, you can now. This is a second chance for you. You can move, you can get another job, do anything… Don’t cry, Mom.”

But she continues to sob. “You don’t understand, Maggie,” she chokes out. “It’s too late. I’m too old. You can’t teach an old dog young tricks. And before you know it, honey, you’re going to be just like me.”

S
o, okay, that didn’t
go too well
,
I think as I ride home. That was definitely not good.

I never thought of my mother as “poor Mom,” but I can’t seem to help it right now. Maybe Father Tim’s right, maybe my parents should work it out. Then again, it seems like my dad has suffered enough. Besides, it’s not like they’d be fighting for their old happy life. Maybe a divorce will give them both a new chance. Clean slate, all that crap. But I’m shaking a little. My mother was never afraid of anything before.

I decide to go to Malone’s house, even though we had said seven at mine. I don’t care. He’ll have to deal with me showing up on his doorstep two hours early.

Malone’s house is at the top of a hill, and I get off my bike and push it up the steep incline. When I’m a few doors away, I hear the nicest sound—someone’s playing the piano. I pause and listen, but the wind is pretty strong, and I can’t catch it all.

Afraid that he won’t play if he knows I’m there, I push my bike into the neighbor’s driveway, then walk into Malone’s small yard, making my way around a couple of lobster traps that are stacked neatly near the side of the house. The living room window is open, and I can hear quite well now. Smiling, I sit down on the ground, resting my back against the sun-warmed shingles. Malone continues to play, so I’m pretty sure I’ve remained undetected.

The song is lovely, a sweet, delicate melody. Occasionally, there’s a change in key, so it goes from happy to sad, though the melody is still essentially the same. It sounds difficult, and once in a while, Malone stops and goes back to repeat a bit of the song. I even hear him swear once—“Shit,” followed by the correct notes, then, “Gotcha.” A car pulls up on the street, not far from Malone’s, and I hope the driver doesn’t see me. It would be embarrassing to be caught sitting here.

I don’t get caught.

Instead, there’s a knock on Malone’s door. He stops playing. I’m about to get up when I hear a familiar voice.

“Malone? Oh, thank God you’re home.” It’s Chantal. I freeze, midcrouch.

“What are you doing here?” Malone asks. Their voices are as clear as if I were in the same room.

“Damn it, Malone, you’re not going to believe this.” I think Chantal may be crying, and a strange sense of apprehension pins me to where I squat. “Do you have a sec? I need to talk.”

“Sit down. What’s the matter?” he asks. I hear the squeak of springs, a rustle.

“I’m pregnant.”

The air is sucked out of my lungs. Chantal is pregnant? And she’s telling—

“Oh, Christ,” Malone says. “Oh, honey.” Chantal bursts into tears.

The realization hits me slowly, their voices fading to a background undertone.

Chantal is pregnant. And Malone…

“How far along?” Malone asks, his voice coming back into reception.

“Just a couple weeks. I don’t know what to do, Malone. This is the worst—”

My vision swims, my hearing fades, and my hands are clenched over my mouth. I’ve never fainted before, but this must be close.
A couple of weeks.

A couple of weeks ago, Malone and I were sleeping together. And, apparently, he was also sleeping with Chantal.

I don’t realize that I’ve left my spot under the window until I grip the cold handlebars of my bike. Without making a sound, I push it robotically down the road. When I reach Water Street, I climb on and ride to my sister’s house.

It doesn’t matter,
I tell myself over and over, the wind biting my damp cheeks.
There was nothing real between us anyway.

But it seems that there was, because I’m crying so hard I can barely see.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

T
HERE’S A MESSAGE
on my answering machine when I finally return to my apartment the next afternoon. I’ve been hiding at Christy’s, and yes, I told her the whole story. She and Will fed me, let me put Violet to bed and opened a good bottle of wine. I slept in the guest room and went straight to the diner this morning.

The light on the answering machine blinks, waiting to tell me the big news. It takes me a minute to push the button.

“Hey, Maggie, it’s Malone. Uh…thought we were getting together tonight. Call me later.”

Really. He thought we were getting together. Not when another woman is carrying his child, that’s for damn sure.

I flop down in a chair and hug a worn throw pillow to my stomach, my eyes hard. Chantal made no bones about the fact that she found Malone attractive. That she’d put the moves on him before. And she mentioned something about him having a crush on her once, long ago. Or more recently, as the evidence indicates. Yes, God forbid that Chantal doesn’t get a man. Every damn male in town is required to adore her, aren’t they? I clench my teeth hard, willing the lump in my throat to dissolve.

The edges of the throw pillow are frayed, the material thin from years of use. I really should make it a new cover, but why bother? In fact, as I look around my cramped little apartment, impatience rushes through me. Why do I have all this crap? Does anyone really need six TableTop pie tins? So what if they’re collectibles? Suddenly, I hate collectibles.
Collectibles.
Why not just call them what they are? Old junk. Why own them? To collect cobwebs? If that’s their purpose, they’re doing an excellent job.

I jump up, grab some garbage bags and newspaper and start wrapping with a vengeance. I should have a yard sale. Or bring this crap to an antiques dealer. Suddenly, I want to have a spartan, clean living space. Just floor and futon, Japanese style. Or Swedish, maybe, with just a streamlined dresser for my clothes.

And clothes! I practically leap into the bedroom and rip open my bureau drawers. How many sweaters do I really need, anyway? About a third of them are my father’s cardigans, which I’ve stolen over the years—maybe he’ll want them back. And God, look at how many stained T-shirts I have. Working in a diner is no excuse. Surely I can afford clean shirts. When I dribble gravy or coffee on them and can’t get the stain out, into the trash they shall go. Maybe I should have T-shirts made up for the diner. Yes. That’s what I’ll do. That will eliminate the question of what to wear every day. Just a black T-shirt with red writing.
Joe’s Diner, established 1933, Gideon’s Cove, ME.
Perfect. The summer nuisance will love them.