Imaginary Enemy (5 page)

Ferrier’s Point Marina

O
ne morning about seven weeks after the Meltdown, Dad said, “Go put on your shoes and socks. I’m taking you kids to meet my new girlfriend.”

The feeling inside me was horrible. I wanted to find a place to hide and never return, to scream, puke, rage, and die all at one. I knew my mother was Dad’s second wife, that we were his second family—my half brother Luke made that obvious. Was Dad now moving on to some other lady? I looked at my mother, who was loading the dishwasher. Her face was placid and undisturbed—almost satisfied.

“Girlfriend?” asked Zander. “You can’t have a girlfriend. Mom’s your girlfriend.”

Dad winked. “That she is.”

“Well, you can’t have another one,” argued Zander.

“Just go put on your shoes,” said Dad. “Now.”

I grabbed Luke’s elbow in the hallway. “Dad has a girlfriend?”

Luke, stonefaced, shook me off without comment.

Minutes later, we were all piling into the car. And when I say “all,” that includes my mother. I knew some kids from school who had unusual family setups, so a list of creative possibilities raced through my head. At the same time, it simply did not compute—we were a
regular
family, and it made no sense for my mother to sit in the car smiling while my father took us to meet his girlfriend.

The morning sun streamed through the car windows and into my eyes, making tears slip from them. I turned my face to the side so no one could see.

Dad pulled into the parking lot at Ferrier’s Point Marina on Bayou Angelica and parked. “Come on,” he said. Reluctantly, I unlatched my seatbelt. I didn’t want to leave the comparative safety of the car. As long as we sat there, nothing could change. “Can’t wait for you kids to see her. She’s a real beauty.”

Again I looked at my mother—tried to read hurt or shame or anger in her eyes, but again she seemed more content than she had since the day of the Meltdown.

We followed them down the pier. Oddly, they were holding hands. Dad stopped in front of a cabin cruiser with teak trim. “Well?”

Luke, Zander, Carmella, and I stood by mute.

“What do you think?” Dad asked. “Isn’t she gorgeous?”

I looked around. We were the only people on the dock.

“Who?” Zander asked, at least as confused as I was.

My father grinned. “My girlfriend.
Annika Elise.
”

Luke and I exchanged glances. I knew that Luke, like me, was wondering if this was Meltdown Number Two and we’d be heading for the loony bin with Dad in a straitjacket before the day ended. “There’s no one there,” Luke muttered uncomfortably.

Dad grinned. “The boat, kids. People commonly refer to a boat as ‘she.’” He motioned toward the words
Annika Elise
painted on the stern in blue and silver letters. I hadn’t noticed them before when I was scanning the piers for some supermodel of a woman.

“Boat?” Carmella asked.

“This is the girlfriend?” I asked.

“Yeah. She’s perfect,” Dad said dreamily. “Course, I can’t afford her right now, but one day—”

That’s when I hauled off and punched him as hard as I could right in the stomach and fell to the pier sobbing loudly.

It amazes me how clueless parents can be at times. Mine were shocked to discover what I’d been imagining as we drove from our house to Ferrier’s Point Marina. Shocked to find I’d believed there was some glamorous lady lurking in the shadows of our family dynamics.

When things settled down, Dad led us to a picnic table at the foot of the pier. “The real reason I brought you here was to share some news with you. Uncle Grayson and I have leased Ferrier’s Point Marina, and I’m going to manage it.”

I looked around. The grounds were somewhat overgrown, and many of the piers showed signs of neglect. Paint peeled from the sides of the three buildings on the property, and weeds poked their heads and arms through the oyster-shell parking lot. Scraps of paper, old beer cans, and fast-food wrappers were trapped in the saw grass and reeds lining the banks. All that aside, the place had potential. It was certainly a lot more appealing than the insurance company offices in the big glass building downtown.

Incidentally, Dad doesn’t call his transformation a Meltdown. That’s just my name for it. He doesn’t call it a midlife crisis, either, like Mom’s sister does. He calls it his mid-death crisis. Said he was dying more and more every day until he threw away his insurance company clothes and resuscitated himself. He claims he’ll never again own a piece of clothing that requires dry-cleaning or ironing.

Schooled

Z
ander, Carmella, and I spent nearly every day that summer at the marina. When Luke wasn’t at his mother’s (he spent alternate weekends with her), he was usually there as well, but he was just as likely to spend the day organizing a corner of the workshop, replacing broken decking, or painting as he was to hang out with us. Occasionally boat owners hired him to detail their boats, and he always called us over to admire his work when a job was completed.

The place was vast, with a large area for parking boat trailers, a store/office, a workshop, and a windowless building crammed with miscellaneous junk—some nautical, some as out of place as a battered ’67 Chevy Malibu, a crib, a rotted-out upright piano, and a dented airplane propeller. Playing in that overstuffed building was the treasure hunt of the century for us, and we were heartbroken the day Dad and Uncle Grayson decided to clear it out to turn it into a bait shed.

The main building was two stories, with office space upstairs and a general store on the bottom floor. The inventory was minimal, mostly whatever some desperate boater might have forgotten to pack—bread, peanut butter, Vienna sausage, and the like. Cigarettes, sunscreen, sunglasses, batteries, and similar high-priority items were shelved beside the cash register. Peg-Boards on the back wall held fishing tackle, life jackets, and basic emergency repair supplies. A pyramid of propane tanks, popular with the live-aboards, was stacked next to the beer cooler. Then there was the section that Uncle Grayson sarcastically called “The Boutique,” where T-shirts, flip-flops, beach towels, and hats were on display. A couple of ancient pinball machines were jammed into the corner, and Dad and Uncle Grayson hung a dartboard on the wall. On rainy or slow days, they’d have lengthy dart tournaments. A chart tacked to the wall recorded their wins and losses.

The back room was a kitchen outfitted for only the most basic meals. It held a fryer, a stove, a fridge, and counters topped with open shelves. Uncle Grayson had dreams of upgrading the facility enough to one day open a restaurant on the property, but that was a long-term goal. For the time being, the kitchen was only used by employees and family.

The piers were the main attraction for us kids. We spent hours on them. We fished and skipped rocks in the bayou. Played pirate or hide-and-seek. Raced our bikes up and down the driveway, boardwalks, and boat launch. Our favorite game, until a gash in Carmella’s forearm that required six stitches caused Dad to ban it, was a modified version of king of the mountain where the goal was to toss your opponent overboard.

I grew to love that place—it represented a freedom we’d never experienced. We could go barefoot all day, eat when we chose, and get as dirty as we pleased. The rules were vague and only enforced when issues of property rights or safety surfaced.

Sharp and I were draped across branches of one of the oaks in the deMichaels’ backyard. It was late afternoon, and insects buzzed in the air around us. We were playing hailstorm, one of our favorite made-up games. After setting a five-gallon bucket beneath the tree, we filled our pockets with pebbles and climbed into the branches. Then we took turns trying to drop rocks into the bucket. “That’s eight for me,” said Sharp when I heard his stone hit the plastic bottom.

I’d spent so much time at the marina that summer that I’d barely seen the deMichaels, at least compared to previous summers. School started in two weeks, and then things would really change. All through fifth grade, teachers and parents had lectured us on how different middle school would be.

“Are you nervous about sixth grade?” I asked as I dropped my pebble. It bounced on a lower branch and ricocheted at an odd angle away from the pail.

“No.”

“Not at all?”

“No.” His stone landed about three inches from the bucket.

“But middle school’s different than elementary.”

“I’m not going.”

I laughed, remembering how Sharp had insisted he wasn’t going to go to kindergarten when we were five. “You have to go, Sharp.”

“No, I don’t. I’m staying home.”

“It’s the law, airhead.” My pebble nailed the target. “That makes seven.”

“No, I don’t. Elliot’s going to teach Chord and me. We’ll be homeschooled.”

“No way.”

“Yes way. I thought I told you…. Nine,” he said when his rock hit the pail’s rim and bounced in.

“No.”

“Well, Chord didn’t do so great last year at Kingston Middle, and he got in trouble a lot, so last week Peggy and Elliot decided we’d learn more at home.”

I pondered this bit of news. Sharp and I had always gone to school together; often we were even in the same class. I dropped three stones at once, breaking the rules. None of them scored me a win. The idea of starting middle school without Sharp was unsettling. I’d assumed we’d help each other through the early weeks until we got the hang of things. “Wouldn’t you rather go to real school?” I asked.

“No. Elliot’s planning lots of fun stuff for us to do. I think it’ll be great.”

“But
everyone
goes to school,” I insisted.

“Lots of kids are homeschooled, Jane. It’s not that weird.”

“It’s your turn,” I said moodily. I didn’t like this new situation and refused to discuss it further.

Sharp dropped a pebble and scored another point. “Ten.”

Mom and Dad were in the kitchen, and Carmella and I were watching cartoons in the adjacent family room. “Doesn’t Jane sound good? I think music lessons were a great idea,” I heard Mom say.

“So do I. She needed something like that.”

“She’s picking it up quickly. Elliot thinks she’s not doing so well, but he’s used to his own kids, who’ve been exposed to music forever, and probably had a genetic head start as well.”

“Just listen to her. She sounds quite fluid for a beginner,” Dad said. I could hear some guitar riffs drifting down the hall.

Carmella looked at me. “What are they talking about?”

“Who knows? They must be hearing the radio. Change to channel seven. Bugs Bunny is on.”

“Jane?” I heard a confused voice in the doorway.

“Hi, Mom,” I said brightly.

“I thought you were in your room practicing.”

“Nope. Watching cartoons. I’ll do it later.”

“But then…who’s that?” She turned to walk down the hall. Curious, I followed her, and arrived at my room just in time to see her open the door and gawk at Zander, who was sitting on my bed with the guitar in his arms. “Zander?”

He looked up. “Hi, Mom.”

“You’re playing Jane’s guitar?”

“Yeah. She wasn’t using it. I’m just fooling around.”

Mom looked at me. Then she looked at Zander. Then back at me. “Zander, give your sister the guitar. Jane, play.”

Zander handed me the instrument. I sat on the bed and tried to strum something that just might have been able to disguise itself as music. “You’re holding it wrong,” Zander whispered, and he adjusted the guitar in my arms just like Elliot always did during my lessons.

I stumbled over the strings, twanging and twinging and twonging, and then I set the guitar aside in defeat. “Mom, I can’t do this,” I said. “It’s too complicated.”

She sighed. “Let’s go talk to Elliot. You too, Zander.”

So Zander played for Elliot, who was highly impressed, and then Elliot politely said to Mom, “Maybe visual art would be the right outlet for Jane. It’s very spatial and concrete.”

So that was the end of guitar lessons for me. (Zander took my place in Elliot’s studio, only to become a star student.) And after a few months of private lessons, all I knew about the guitar was the order of the strings: E-B-GD-A-E. Every Bunny Gets Drunk At Easter.