Outside In (31 page)

I’ve got to get out of here.

The band playing in the Round House provides cover so I don’t have to talk to people—just sit and drink. Haley makes sure I don’t even have to order, and a shot is always in front of me. Soon I won’t feel or remember anything.

The light by the middle cash register flashes, indicating a phone call. Haley goes into the back to answer it. When she returns, she slides a note across the bar. I sip my drink, attempting to delay any real consequences with casual gestures. I can’t receive bad news this way.

I go in the back to return the call. Griffin answers on the first ring. “Any news?” he asks.

“No. They called off the search for today and will begin again in the morning. How’d things go with your parents?”

“They wish I would’ve called them right away.”

“What good would that’ve done?” I ask. “We still don’t know any more than we did a few days ago.”

“If there’s still no news, we’re coming over Friday morning so my parents can talk to Chief O’Connor and we can pack up Cinch’s stuff.”

“Do you really think it’s come to that?”

“Where else could he be?”

Griffin saying that makes me face the inevitable: Cinch is gone forever. Somewhere deep inside of me I was holding on to the slim hope that Cinch could still be alive. That somehow he had snuck off the island and was waiting at his parents’ house when Griffin arrived, and it all was a sick joke. Hearing the resignation in Griffin’s voice destroys any fleeting traces of optimism.

There’s no way I can go back to the bar after the call. I can’t be around anyone. The only thing to do here to be alone is to walk.

The sun has disappeared behind the trees, and a brisk wind charges off the lake toward shore. Boats speckle the docks. I turn left onto Bay View Avenue and walk out of town. At Peach Point I
continue onto West Shore and head south, still without a destination. Two parked golf carts at the boat ramp impel me onward. I follow West Shore until it bends to the left, giving way to Trenton Avenue. I’m at the cove.

The water beckons as it did the first night we came here, but I don’t feel free or energized tonight when I step onto the cliff. My legs weaken at the sight of the watery coffin. I step back from the edge. The leap that once represented trust and belonging is now an abyss of pain and loss, and most of all of foolishness.

A gust of wind shakes the trees behind me. Through the darkness the faint outline of the fire ring on the beach sneers back at me. The waves crash below, mocking me. I drop to my knees. A burst of warmth explodes in my stomach and then rushes up through my throat into my mouth.

A gush of liquid splatters onto the edge of the cliff. It runs back over my hands and sticks to my knees.

“Why did we have to be so stupid?” I whisper.

I stare at the water below, wiping my hands on my shorts. My tone changes to pleading. “Why did we have to keep pushing? Please give him back. You made your point. You don’t need him any more. Let his family have him.”

I sit in silence, alternating my gaze between the sky and the water, expecting an answer or some sign that my message has been received. Instead the only reply is the scornful repetition of the waves against the rocks. Not even the stars offer hope; they just stare back at me, silent and cold.

THE VISIT TO THE COVE PURGED JUST ENOUGH OF THE EMOTIONAL WAVE I HAD BEEN HOLDING BACK THE PAST FEW DAYS TO ALLOW SIX HOURS OF UNINTERRUPTED REST
. But the same haunting emptiness still chases me out of the red barn early. At least I got some sleep. I have to burn off this anxiety. I do three laps around the island on my bike before I meet Bob at the winery to help deliver beer.

He says, “The wind finally switched directions last night. It was due north when I went to bed, out of the west when I got up, and by the time I got on the boat, it had dropped down out of the southwest. Fishermen should be happy. Fish scatter when the water level shoots up.”

I climb up into the cab, grateful for the small talk. Anything to get me out of my own head. I keep it going. “How’s the load today?”

“Pretty average, nothing to bust a nut over.” He glances in the mirror. “We’ve got company.”

Chief O’Connor exits his car and approaches the cab. He says, “Griffin told me to come find you if there was any news. Do you want to go down to the station for this?”

My body stiffens. I can’t move. I have been pleading for resolution, but now that it is here, I’m not sure I can face it. I take a long, staggered breath. “Sir, you better tell me right here.”

He opens his notebook. “About 6:45 this morning, two fishermen in a rowboat north of the cove were drifting close to shore. One of the fishermen spotted something bobbing in the water, trapped in the back of the cave. They had seen the rescue team and the divers around the island, so they called 9-1-1. Coast Guard responded to the call. At 7:04 a.m., the Coast Guard confirmed a male in his mid-twenties had apparently drowned and was trapped in the cave. They worked quickly to remove him from the water, and at 7:12, they lifted him onto the boat. The subject meets all descriptions of Cinch, and his injuries and the apparent cause of death match the report filed.” He lifts his eyes to mine. “Are you able to come and identify the body?”

His question hangs in the frozen moment.

“Brad, I know this is a difficult time, but we need somebody to identify the body.”

“Don’t even ask,” Bob says to me. “Just go.”

Chief O’Connor leads me to his car. Looking at him through the wire mesh reminds me of my first time in one of these cars only months ago. After that night, I worried I might end up in a police car for the wrong reason, one that would put me behind bars. Now that almost seems like a preferable outcome.

There’s no morgue in Put-in-Bay, not even a hospital—only a small paramedic outpost that consists of an examination room and a garage for the ambulance. The chief leads me into the garage, where the divers are breaking down their equipment. A gurney covered with a beige blanket stands conspicuously behind the ambulance. All eyes turn to me.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Chief O’Connor asks.

I motion to proceed.

He peels back the blanket. The face is pale and bloated. Small
chunks of flesh are missing from his neck and shoulders. The right side of his forehead is badly bruised and swollen.

I close my eyes. “It’s him. That’s Cinch.”

The chief replaces the blanket over his face.

I try to block out the image and remember him as he was: full of life, unconquerable. He doesn’t look peaceful at all.

I follow the chief back to the cruiser. “What are those marks on him? Can they fix him up?”

“It could be from scraping against the rocks or from fish feeding on him. The funeral parlor will restore him as best they can.”

The chief drops me off at the red barn. I walk directly to the phone. Two rings. A male voice, but not Griffin, answers. It’s Cinch’s father. I don’t want to have this conversation, but what can I do? There’s no way out without lying directly, and he doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve any of this.

I say, “Is Griffin there?”

“No, he’s not. Is this Brad? Anything new?”

“Yes, sir, I’m afraid there is. Apparently when Cinch dove in the water he hit his head and drowned. They found his body this morning. I just got back from the rescue station.”

The line is silent.

“Sir? Are you there?”

“I—we’ll be over as soon as we can.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. Chief O’Connor said they’ll send him to the mainland wherever you want.”

“Brad, I need to see my son. I’d appreciate if you’d tell the chief to hold everything until we get there.”

Three hours later I repeat the same procedure I hoped never to have to do again. It isn’t any easier looking under the blanket the second time.

I need not chronicle the events of the next four days except for the basic facts for one simple reason: I don’t want anyone to have to live through the experience unless forced to do so. The visitation was Sunday and Monday, and the funeral was Tuesday. Every dark emotion—pain, anger, shock, guilt, and for me, even jealousy—collected and stuck to the walls and floors of the funeral home like thick sludge.

Just as a wedding doesn’t prepare a person for the days after, neither does a funeral. Ceremonies are only the midpoint between when the waiting and anxiety stop and the rest of your life begins.

Wednesday morning is the day after another event I won’t be able to escape. Every other day will merely be another “day after,” filled with the same deep-seated pain and guilt as the previous one. My decision not to fight for my job is now only another step that led to this outcome. I thought that coming here was both an end and a new beginning, but I found a way to keep spiraling down.

When I first came to the island, I was leaving a life that collapsed around me. After the funeral I feel as if I am in a vacuum, one in which all the important things in my life are siphoned out.

Griffin cleans out his room the same day he packs Cinch’s things. Each morning I open the doors to their rooms and hope to see them passed out, their heads hanging off the bed, snoring. And then each night I close the doors, hoping to shut out the nightmares that have filled the place in my heart each of them used to hold.

Another weekend, another band, another mob of drunks. I float through the days, numb to my surroundings.

On Sunday, Haley helps me clear tables on the porch. “You know we’re still going down to Key West right after the holiday
to secure a place to live for the winter.” Her behavior follows the same pattern everyone else’s has lately. After a tragic event, no one speaks about it, but their tone of voice and actions draw attention to the experience like a buoy with a bell in turbulent water. She says, “White Spider night is Monday, then we plan to catch a flight out of Cleveland on Tuesday afternoon, stay with some friends in Miami that night, and drive to Key West Wednesday and stay until Sunday.”

“What about missing the weekend here?”

“It’ll be slow after Labor Day. We’ve already got the days off and the ticket is cheap, so think it over and let me know by Friday.”

Think about it? Since returning from the funeral, getting out of here is all I’ve been thinking about. Lately I’m not sure if I’ll make it through most days, let alone the fall and winter. I say, “Count me in. I need a change.”

Haley hugs me. “Going back there will be the best thing for all of us. It’s where we met, remember?”

“How could I forget?” I say. “That’s the whole reason I’m here.”

Tears swell in her eyes. She buries her face in my chest.

I say, “I’m sorry—”

“I know what you meant.” She kisses my cheek. “We all need a break from here.”

We start clearing tables again. I redirect the conversation. “What’s White Spider night all about?”

“Years ago, long before the Jet Express—when the only ferry was the Miller ferry—the boats stopped running and all the businesses closed after Labor Day. All the islanders would gather at the Lime Kiln dock and bid farewell to the last boat. Since the season was over and the bars would close for the winter, the establishment owners poured all the white liquors together to get rid of them, making a drink called a White Spider. Most of the island entertainers perform at the dock, and then everyone comes to the Round House.”

“Sounds like a nice evening,” I say.

“Not anymore. Now it’s just another excuse to party for tourists, so it takes something away from the ceremony. I used to know every single person in the bar at the end of the night. Last year I was a little salty and didn’t have that much fun because it was like any other night in the Round House. I’ve been here too many years to wrestle with tourists for space in this bar.”