The After House (2 page)

He turned to the boy, his voice stern. “Aren’t you supposed to be lighting the fires with Barney?” He gestured to the men springing into action below them. The boy looked down to the lower decks to see the ship’s cooper, blacksmith, stewards, and cooks all preparing the equipment for the next two days, when they would break down the whale. He sighed, pocketing the whale tooth and causing Eli to laugh. This was not the glamorous side of whaling.

“Can’t I stay until the flurry?” Henry pleaded. The flurry was the final minutes when the whale was known to swim in a tight circle until its fin surfaced, indicating it was over. They both turned to see the whale change direction once more, the circles growing smaller. “It’s our last before we head home. Please, Captain,” he added with disappointment, his large brown eyes imploring. He wiped impatiently at the moisture on his face.

“Aye, it’s in your blood too, Henry,” the captain said. Without a word, Eli nodded his assent, watching the whale pick up with a burst of speed. “There’s life in this big fellow yet.” He patted his pockets, wishing he had taken his pipe.

The creature took off, leaving a bloody trail. The boats were pulled by the giant bull. The chase could last all night. Some did. They could be dragged in the whale’s wake for hours until it tired, and its great heart gave up. The whale made a tight circle, swinging the longboats so that they flew above the waves, soaring four feet above the sea. They landed with tooth-jarring violence. The whale paused, as if getting its bearings, then turned into the longboats.

“What’s he up to?” Eli asked no one in particular, his hands gripping the rails.

“It’s lobtailing!” Henry screamed in horror, his dark brown eyes wide, as the huge tail reached above the waterline. The beast hit the churning sea with its fluke, creating a sound like a cannon.

Eli heard wood splinter and watched with disbelief as the first boat disintegrated, men flying as if an explosive had torn into them. The whale leaped out of the water, his long razor of a jaw tangled in the lines. It gnawed on the thick ropes. He heard shouts as the men in the remaining boat tried to regroup, looking for survivors. The loud cries turned into screams as the whale arced, pulling the lines tight to dive deep. Eli gasped as the other boat disappeared under the waves, only to resurface seconds later, empty of men. The tail appeared again, flapping the water, crushing a lone seaman struggling to grab an oar.

“What’s happening?” he yelled to the two men watching from the masts. “Launch boat three!” he called out to begin a rescue.

The lookout screamed, his eyes wild with horror. “It’s heading for us!” He scrambled down the tall mast, his feet barely touching the pole. Eli ran across the slippery deck, watching the giant head part the waves to barrel toward them. This couldn’t be happening. He was almost finished with his journey. This was the last whale before they headed for home. He had played it safe, just as his wife had asked.

The water turned wretchedly violent, the sky was black as pitch, opening up with a deluge and turning the horizon into a sodden mess. Sheets of water dropped from the heavens, obscuring the ocean.

He sprinted toward the wheel, his feet sliding. He fell heavily on his knee. It cracked in time with thunder, and white spots danced before Eli’s eyes. He pounded the deck with his fist in frustration. Cursing at the pain, he pushed himself to his feet and threw himself at the wheel, grabbing it from the old tar who was manning it.

He wrestled with it, trying to turn the ship, hearing his man scream, “It’s going to ram us!”

“Brace yourselves! Douse the fires!” Eli yelled to the remaining crew. Wrapping both arms in the spokes of the wheel, he planted his feet firmly on the deck. She was strong, his ship, filled to the brim with whale oil—heavy, but solid on the water. Still, he had heard of a ship, a whaler, destroyed by another whale somewhere in
the Pacific recently. He didn’t believe it possible, but he couldn’t deny the story.

He saw Henry huddled in the corner, his small form shivering. His eyes were rounded with fear, his shoulders hunched. Eli was supposed to protect him. It was his job. He had given his word that he’d keep him from harm. This was not supposed to happen. He had promised the boy’s mother a safe journey. He had promised Sarah his own safe return as well.

“Get to the afterhouse!” he yelled to the boy over the driving rain. “Go to the afterhouse! You’ll be safe there!”

Henry stared at him, rigid with fear. The afterhouse was a small structure on one of the lower decks where men went to escape the elements, to stay dry. He looked at the captain, tears making tracks down his chubby cheeks. Eli’s heart twisted in his chest. He had no time for this.

“Get below!” he bellowed. The boy stood frozen, looking small. He was too young to die. Eli pointed to the boxlike cabin below, his other arm straining to hold the spinning wheel. The boy responded as if shot. He gave a last anguished glance at Eli, then leaped, heading to the lower deck.

“Leave!” Eli shouted to the remaining sailors over the howl in the wind. “Batten yourself to anything! Go!”

The ship lurched as the angry whale slammed it. A great hole appeared in the side. Seawater came gushing in. Eli felt the ship tilt, his head connecting with the wheel. Dazed, he released the spokes, his fingers spasmodically trying to grab something, anything to hold onto. The ship tilted, and he slid off the deck, landing on the roof of the
afterhouse with a loud thud. Water rushed around him, cold on his skin, making his teeth chattered. Blood ran from his brow into his eyes.

The ship was hit again, and great gouts of water splashed around him. Men’s screams rent the air, muffled by the rain. His eyesight dimmed. The ship spun in a dizzying vortex. Eli gripped the wooden deck, pressing his face against its slick surface. He was going down, spinning in a circle. “I should have gone into the afterhouse,” he thought dully. The afterhouse would have kept him safe.

His last thoughts were of his wife. He wondered how she was going to manage without him.

Cold Spring Harbor, winter 2014

he snow eddied and swirled down onto the pristine surface that glowed in the backyard. Remy Galway’s thin shoulders shuddered as the cold seeped into her bones. She shifted from one foot to the other, regretting that they were bare. She briefly thought about climbing the narrow steps to get her ratty-looking slippers but felt too lazy. The wind whistled through the eaves, and she looked up, wondering if the three-hundred-year-old shingles would hold. “Well, they really aren’t all three hundred years old,” she thought. The landlord had replaced most of them when she’d rented the house the previous last fall.

Her father had offered to buy the place. He had insisted. He wanted her safe and happy. She absolutely refused. She had taken enough from him and her mother and was determined to stand on her own two feet, the way Dad had done it himself. He was a big bear of a man, with wind-whipped cheeks and a full head of white hair. Her parents were comfortable, both retired, with healthy pensions and a roster of activities that kept them busy.

She was an only child, born to them late in life, the apple of their eye. Though there was a big age difference—her mom was well past forty, her father approaching fifty when she was born—they maintained a wonderful relationship. Growing up, they gave her everything they could, exposing her to ballet, yoga, the arts, white water rafting, and traveling the world. Her parents were much older than most of the other parents, and as a result, she didn’t develop many friendships. She was a lonely child, dependent on them for company. They filled her life with pleasant memories, and for the most part, she had a picture-perfect childhood.

Remy enjoyed their company, her father’s gentle humor, and her mother’s insightful wit. She was closer to them than many of her contemporaries were to their parents, and she remembered her dismay when they didn’t appreciate the man she chose to marry. It was nothing they could put their finger on, they told her, just a feeling. “Couldn’t you wait a bit, and get to know him better?” her mother had asked.

Remy met Scott in Cancun, her last spring break of college, and fell head over heels for his vibrant personality. He was daring and funny, filled with great ideas for an exciting future. Her quiet and retiring nature was opposite to his freewheeling personality. Weekends were filled with parties and road trips—thrilling adventures for a sheltered girl. She was part of a couple, and Remy loved it.

Fresh out of college, they moved in together, searching for a business they could build from the ground up. Scott hated the idea of traditional jobs. They found an
inexpensive food franchise. It was the newest trend—a lunch bistro. It was promoted as a sure thing, and Scott insisted it was perfect for them. It was not your average deli but a gourmet sandwich shop and very French. They studied up on the product and spent a week at the headquarters in South Carolina, learning every aspect of the business. They borrowed from her father, pouring their hearts and souls into the budding business. It was hard work, with long hours, and they made plenty of costly errors. They were smart and learned from those mistakes.

The shop did moderately well. They had chosen to rent space in a tiny strip mall that catered to an office complex situated behind them. Scott pounded the pavement, dropping off menus, shaking hands, giving out samples that built them a solid foundation of steady customers. Money got easier, but instead of repaying her father, Scott talked him into putting in more money for two additional sandwich shops. He made inquiries into buying an old food truck for a fleet that would bring their brand to all parts of the island. Scott worked all kinds of hours and stayed out for meetings with new investors. It was after they opened the third shop that Remy discovered she was pregnant. Her parents gave them a quiet wedding on the lawn of the house they’d built twenty-five years earlier overlooking the sound in Eastern Long Island. They didn’t like Scott, she knew. They thought she was making a terrible mistake.

The night before her wedding, her dad spoke to her in her old bedroom. He sat on the bed, his face grim, his hands resting over hers. “It’s only money,” he said. “Remy,
if you have the slightest doubt, we can call it off—no problem.”

Remy shook her head. “He’s fun, Dad. He makes me stretch myself, think outside the box.”

Her father had an answer for everything. Brian paced the room. “You are so creative, bubbly. Any guy would be lucky to be with you. I can’t put my finger on it, Rem. I just don’t like the guy.” Her father sat beside her, taking her small hands in his own. “Can’t you see what a catch you are? Don’t throw yourself away on someone who doesn’t deserve you.”

Finally, she whispered, “But I love him. I really do, Daddy.”

Her father sighed sadly, got up the next morning, put on his best blue suit, and escorted her down the flower-strewn paper aisle on the lawn. Olivia came seven and a half months later, bringing great joy to Remy’s aging parents. She admitted her father had tried with Scott but found him immature, and they had nothing in common. At first, she blamed the generational differences, but time and Scott’s temper proved her parents right.

Things changed after Olivia’s birth. Scott started staying out later and later for meetings with people that seemed not to yield anything. The food truck idea sizzled out. Scott was inconsolable. He blamed Remy for slowing down, not taking on enough responsibility in the restaurants, not working to her full capacity. She tried, but between the baby, her housework, and running from shop to shop, she was exhausted. It was hard. She forgot to order cold cuts. The house never was clean enough. He
wanted her to drop Olivia at child care more often and for longer hours. They disagreed on parenting styles. Their time together became argumentative and filled with friction. Forget about the romantic part; who had time for that? She worked herself sick, getting a stomach flu that nearly killed her. Scott didn’t even come home to help.

It seemed like Scott never got tired. His energy irritated Remy. He found fault with everything she did, and even minor tasks started becoming an issue. A cold war developed in their home. While Scott was attentive to Olivia, Remy felt ignored, abandoned. Revenue slowed down inexplicably. Scott stopped paying back the loan to her parents, as well as the mortgage on the ranch they had bought with their wedding money. Remy didn’t even know they were in foreclosure until well after she found out Scott had been lying to her about more than their finances. It started with calls, hang-ups, followed by stores calling to confirm purchases she had never made. Mail with another woman’s name on it arrived at her home. Once the lights were turned off, she knew they were sliding into deep trouble.