The Silver Boat (25 page)

“I will,” Pete said.

Driving out to Chilmark, he felt as nervous as if he were taking someone out on a date. He pulled into the driveway, and his mother stepped out as if she'd been waiting and watching. She wore a blue dress and low black heels, a white cashmere shawl over her shoulders, and the dressiness of her outfit broke Pete's heart a little. He jumped out to help her into the cab, shut the door carefully behind her. Dar waved from the kitchen window, and his mother waved back.

They had a long drive, but he'd allowed for plenty of time. Knowing his mother, he expected her to talk the whole way, covering everything from his father to trouble with the farmhouse buyers and their lawyer to Pete's own troubles. She'd grilled him for days, wanting to know what he'd taken, whether he'd seen a doctor, whether he'd been tested for AIDS, when his drug-taking had started. He'd done his best to answer every question as patiently as possible.

Uncharacteristically, on the ride to Vineyard Haven, his mother didn't say a word. She stared at the dashboard clock, watching it tick toward noon. Pete began to feel nervous about the silence, so he turned on the radio. Andy had it tuned to the island station, and they were playing the Arctic Monkeys.

They finally reached Vineyard Haven, got into a little traffic heading toward the noon boat. His mother pulled the visor down, saw there wasn't a mirror, opened her purse to remove a compact and check her lipstick.

“Oh God, I'm sweating,” she said.

“Here, Mom,” Pete said, handing her some napkins from Andy's door pocket.

“I'm not sure I belong . . .” she said. “Are you sure you want me?”

“Yeah, I do,” he said. “It's an open meeting.”

He was afraid to look at her, to see how unsettled she seemed. But he looked, and she was, so he took her hand. It didn't matter that they'd talked about what to expect, that she'd asked a million questions, and he'd answered the best he could. They got a good parking spot on Woodland Avenue, just around the corner from Williams Street. She stayed in the truck, waiting for him to help her out. He could feel her jangling nerves, just as if they were his own.

It had always been so hard for his mother to see him as he was, as somebody much less than perfect. He'd grown up hearing his father yell, “You're not living up to what we expect!” His mother had gone the opposite way: praising him for the smallest, most insignificant things, always encouraging him. It had made him sad, seeing her get her hopes up, always knowing he was going to dash them.

Now, seeing the mess drugs had made of his teeth and face, she couldn't pretend nothing was happening.

“Honey,” she said, as he came around to open her door. “Let me wait here for you. It's private, what you're doing here.”

“Are you afraid someone will see us going in?” he asked.

“No, it's not that,” she said quickly. But he saw her look around. He felt how ashamed she was of all this, and was ready to drop it, just drive her home. But then she smiled, gave a quick shake of her head, and jumped down from the truck's cab.

As they walked up the sidewalk, she held tight to his hand, just the way she'd done walking him to the first day of school. He wanted to tell her to look at the white and purple lilacs, blooming all around. But she kept her head down, still worried that someone would recognize her and her son going into the meeting. He remembered that feeling.

Grace Episcopal Church was old-school: weathered wood with a chimney on one roof and a cross atop a small white tower. Stained-glass windows caught the midday light.

“You know,” she said, “when I was really young, Catholics weren't allowed to go into other faiths' churches. It was a sin we'd have to confess.”

“Don't worry, Mom. You won't be sinning,” Pete said, leading her around back to the Parish Hall. AA and NA meetings were held here, and he'd been careful to choose one that was open to anyone, not just alcoholics or addicts.

“Sweetheart,” she said, stopping on the sidewalk.

“Are you okay?”

“Why do you want me here, Pete?”

“I don't know,” he said. “I just do. I need you to see me in all this. I know you want me to be someone better, a different kind of son. I've put you through hell. I want you to see me trying for a change.”

His mom gazed up into his eyes, and suddenly he knew she got it. She looked ferocious. He'd seen that look in the face of a Kodiak bear. “You've put
yourself
through hell,” she said. “And if this will help you come back from it, I'm with you. Come on. I'm ready.”

Walking in, he recognized nearly everyone in the place, standing in clusters around the room. He took his mother to the coffee table, poured her a Styrofoam cup, and offered her an oatmeal cookie.

“Well,” she said, sounding calm. “I know people here.”

“They're here for the same reason I am,” he said.

“That's good,” she said.

The chairs were set up in a circle, and they found seats together. Pete heard his mother say, “Hello, Rose,” and “Hello, Steve.”

“Hey, Delia.”

The group leader took her seat, asked someone to read “How It Works,” someone else to read from “Daily Reflections.” Pete stared at the window shades hung on the wall, noticed his mother reading the Steps intently, wondered whether they made any sense to her.

After the readings, Judy, the group leader, asked if anyone was celebrating an anniversary. There were three: Buddy with one year, Karen with fifteen years, and Roy with thirty-five. The room went wild.

“Is anyone counting days?” Judy asked next.

She called on everyone with their hands up; when she got to Pete, he said, “I'm Pete, alcoholic-addict, and I have twenty-one days.”

The room erupted in applause, as it always did. Pete glanced at his mother, saw her clapping as loudly as anyone.

Judy glanced around the room, smiling.

“Do we have any visitors?” she asked.

Pete held his breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his mother raise her hand. Judy gestured, calling on her.

“My name is Delia,” Pete's mother said, her voice unsteady. “And I'm here to support my son Pete.”

Everyone in the room clapped for her, and Pete saw the smile of love and pride begin to spread across her face.

S
pring's peace and serenity on the Vineyard gave way to Memorial Day: festivities, crowds, and the unofficial start of summer. Dar had worked in the farmhouse garden every day, clearing the perennial beds, planting annuals, sprucing up the vegetable gardens with tomato, pepper, cucumber, and squash plants, creating a border of white ageratum around the herb garden, replanting the rosemary and sage plants they'd brought inside for the winter, as if keeping her hands in the earth could help her hold on to the family home she couldn't bear to let slip away.

A woman Delia had met at Pete's AA meeting had suggested Delia give Al-Anon, the group for friends and families of alcoholics, a try, so Dar had started going with her. They'd sit together, sipping their coffees, listening to people tell their stories, share about what was going on, hair-raising and agonizing stories about loving someone who couldn't stop drinking or drugging.

Delia was still shy, but she'd found an Al-Anon sponsor: Dana Bickerton, a woman Dar respected for her kindness and strong sobriety. Sometimes Pete and Andy would meet them afterwards, and they'd all wind up going out for “the meeting after the meeting” at local cafés and ice cream shops.

Dana was kind and encouraged Delia to share her story with her. It wasn't easy, but Delia made a beginning; she knew this part of her journey meant facing her own demons, the guilt and grief she felt about having a son addicted to drugs and alcohol.

Andy wasn't spending as many nights with Dar as usual. She knew he was working hard to finish the millpond house, and she had her own work to do. The trip to Ireland and all its aftermath had caused her to be late on a deadline. So she'd stay up drawing half the night, windows open so the summery air could flow through.

As always, Dulse's life reflected hers. Having learned the truth about her father, Dulse understood that he had entered the afterworld, a place of ghosts and spirits separated from the living only by a veil finer than silk. They stayed close to this world and those they'd left behind. They lived in mirrors and shallow bodies of water, and could gaze through the glass or shimmering surface into the eyes of those they loved, letting them know that they were never far away.

Many of the farmhouse mirrors were antique, mottled with age. Dar would stare into her own eyes, hoping to get a glimpse of her father or mother. Sometimes she had to remind herself that Dulse's world was invented. But since it seemed to come from a place so deep down inside herself, couldn't it possibly be true?

The trip to Ireland had raised questions too large for Dar or even Dulse to answer. Frequently Dar found that her character was wiser and braver than her creator, as if in Dulse, Dar could travel through her family's psyche and return with spiritual truth.

But this time Dar felt exhausted, dragged down by all the uncertainty. After a flurry of connection with Raymond and Jack, they seemed to be holding back until the document and its provenance were legally authenticated.

Morgan called one morning; Dar saw her number on caller ID and hesitated a long moment before picking up.

“Hello?” she said.

“Dar, it's Morgan. Well, the Littles have officially backed out of the deal. He called me last night and said he's tired of being strung along. He wants their deposit back, so I'll write the check from escrow today.”

“I'm sorry for all the trouble,” Dar said. “I know you worked hard to put all this together.”

“I'm not giving up!” Morgan said. “Property like yours comes on the market so rarely, I have a waiting list.”

“Oh, Morgan,” Dar said. She would have liked to tell her the property was no longer for sale. But there was still so much uncertainty; taxes would need to be paid soon.

“I know it's hard to jump right back in,” Morgan said. “But I'm sure people will be making offers right away. You can slow it down, take your time before accepting anything.”

“That's good to know,” Dar said. “Thank you.”

One day, uncovering the third post along the eastern boundary, Dar heard tires crunching up the clamshell and gravel driveway. She peered over her shoulder and saw Harrison park his blue panel truck. He came lumbering toward her.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey yourself!”

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Uncovering these posts. Four hundred years old.”

“Holy shit,” he said. “Andy told me. Very cool.” He gave the third post, excavated nearly a foot down into the ground, a long look. Then he tapped Dar's shoulder. “Got food?”

“You're hungry?”

“Totally,” he said. “I had to deliver an antique Martin guitar to a big house in Aquinnah, and they were just sitting down to lunch, and do you think they'd invite me in? Looked really good, too—leftover roast beef.”

“Well, I don't have that,” Dar said. “But I could use lunch, too.”

They walked the path from the farmhouse to the Hideaway. Scup had been lying in the shade, but he struggled up and followed them through the tall grass. Every so often one of the old cats would pounce at their feet, then retreat back into the grass forest, green and filled with wildflowers.

“So, what do you hear from Rory?” Harrison asked as they settled into rocking chairs facing the ocean and she served lemonade and tuna fish sandwiches.

“She's home in Connecticut, busy with the kids.”

“Is she coming out soon?”

“Well, they have school, and activities on the weekend. It's not so easy for her.”

Harrison wolfed down half his sandwich, chewing furiously as he stared out to sea. Dar sipped from her lemonade, gazing at him. Like Dulse, she saw people's essences more than their outsides. She could see how tender his heart was, as clearly as if it were beating outside his skin.

“Is she still fucked up over Jonathan?” Harrison asked.

“Yes,” Dar said.

He ate the rest of his sandwich in two bites. She heard the porch floorboards creak beneath his rocker. “Why doesn't she get over him?” he asked. “He doesn't deserve her.”

“I think she's working that out,” Dar said.

“You mean getting over him?” Harrison asked, snapping his head to look at her.

“It's hard for her. They have children together. They've been together since they were so young.”

“A lot of people have loved her since she was young,” Harrison said.

Dar gazed at him, saw overwhelming love in his eyes. “I know you have,” she said.

“I don't mean just me.”

“Rory loves you,” Dar said.

“She told you that?” he said quickly, his chair stopping midcreak.

“Isn't it obvious? No one means more to her than you, Harrison. But I'm not sure she can ever really take her heart back from Jonathan. Or at least she's not ready yet.”

He resumed rocking, gazing over the field with hooded eyes.

“She never saw me that way,” he said. “She loves me, I know. The way you all do, like a big brother. She'd never even guess. Besides, I'm not like tall, dark, and handsome fucking Jonathan.”

“You're better,” Dar said. “Ten times better. And she would.”

“Would what?”

“Guess,” Dar said. “The way you feel.”