Good Harbor (18 page)

Joyce walked from room to room. Frank kept a clean house without her. There were no
dishes in the sink, and the bed was made; only the overflowing hamper testified to
his bachelor life. She closed the door behind her without even listening to the messages
on the phone machine. Nina’s camp had both numbers, and Frank told her about anything
that really needed her attention.

On her second trip to Belmont a few days later, Joyce felt less like a thief and more
like a ghost. The outside of the refrigerator had been cleared of last season’s soccer
notices. The inside was empty except for a collection of Chinese take-out containers.
She started to write Frank a note: “Hi. I was here,” but stopped. What did she want
to say?

“Where are you? Don’t you think it’s strange that we haven’t seen each other for two
weeks? Should we make a date for a movie — or with a lawyer?”

She crumpled the paper and stuffed it into her pocket. She left the radio off on the
drive back to Gloucester and wondered whether they really were heading toward divorce.
She wished she could talk this through with Kathleen, but she was too exhausted by
her treatment. Joyce needed a walk; this didn’t seem like something she could bring
up on the phone, especially since they hadn’t talked about their husbands yet.

Maybe she should stop over there, Joyce thought as she drove over the bridge, or maybe
that would be pushing it. Kathleen was battling cancer, after all; how could Joyce
whine about her marriage? Joyce went home.

That night, a loud crash startled her awake with a jolt that had her sitting up in
bed before she could even open her eyes. Trembling, she saw the digital clock click
4:24. Goddamned raccoons.

She lay down. The darkness was not quite solid anymore, but it would be hours before
she could start painting.

A bird trilled outside, too early for the sun. Maybe it was singing in its sleep,
she thought, pressing her palms over her eyes. Maybe birds dream of singing and sing
in their dreams.

She stood up, remembering Kathleen’s story about Halibut Point at sunrise. She pulled
on a sweatshirt, pants, and sneakers, reheated the remains of yesterday’s coffee,
and headed out to the car.

The quiet was so thick, she could almost smell it. Joyce stopped before opening the
door and held her breath. The Madonna’s veil gleamed in the streetlight. The perfect
mother, she thought, and walked over toward the statue. Not me. I get all pissy because
Nina doesn’t want to go to the movies with me. She put a finger to Mary’s lips. What
do you know, anyway, Miss Mary? Boys are easier. Everybody says so.

Joyce reached the main road without seeing a single car. Yawning, sipping her coffee,
she drove under the speed limit, until a pickup truck roared up behind, and then passed
her. Music blared through the open windows, and she could feel the bass from the truck’s
radio vibrate in her chest.

“Asshole!” Joyce yelled, her heart pounding. She straightened up and paid closer attention
to the road all the way into Rockport center, which seemed completely asleep, except
for the sudden smell of frying potatoes.

I’ll come back for breakfast, Joyce thought. I’ll sit at the counter and chat with
the waitress and tell Kathleen about that, too.

Starting up the hill past Rowe Point, Joyce pushed down on the gas pedal, racing past
churches turned into private homes, past inns and modest Capes and granite walls,
past condos, a ramshackle hotel, houses she’d coveted for years.

Do I even know where I’m going? she wondered, then spotted the small brown State Park
sign. She winced as the brakes squeaked and the tires squealed into the silence. But,
hey, here she was, pulling up beside the padlocked parking lot. Or maybe I should
go home.

Joyce was, she knew, a fundamentally timid person. She talked a brave game, but even
as a teenager she had been afraid to take risks. In college, she’d never dropped acid
or even once gotten stupid drunk. The idea of hitchhiking through Europe with her
roommates had been too scary, the dangers much too vivid.

She talked herself into stepping over the chain at the entrance to the park. What
would the headline say?
Middle-Aged Woman Caught Trespassing
.

She walked slowly, squinting at the ground to avoid roots and ruts. A flashlight would
have been a good idea, but she could manage. The air under the trees was green and
loamy. Little rustling sounds in the bushes startled her. Mice, she supposed.

What if it’s overcast and a rotten day for a sunrise?

What if there’s a rapist on the beach?

What if she just relaxed and kept walking?

The forest ended abruptly and the sky opened over a low landscape of scrub and sand.
The sharp salt breeze hit her face and cleared her head, and now she could hear the
ocean.

Gravel scattered as she followed a narrow path through beach roses and poison ivy.
A huge mountain of granite slag rose on her left, ten stories of rubble from long-abandoned
quarries.

You did it, Joyce congratulated herself, and started out across the black-and-white
moonscape of slabs and boulders. She placed one cautious foot at a time, careful of
crevasses that cut down to dark, wet pools below. At least it was easier than climbing
Salt Island.

And it was just as magnificent as Kathleen had said. Every time Joyce walked a few
yards or moved her head, the shape of the world changed altogether. The random architecture
of crags and croppings, smoothed by water and time, framed a perfectly flat ocean,
barely distinguishable, in this light, from the sky.

It must be unbelievable in a storm, Joyce thought. But this horizon was flat and empty.
Not a gull, not a cormorant, not even a lobster pot in view.

It was empty, but not silent. She listened to the endless wet smooch and sigh of the
tide breathing beneath her, breaking through to slap against the infinite in-and-out
of the shoreline. Seawater smacked and sucked between stone, on stone, breaking stone
into sand, eventually. Forever and ever.

The light was stronger now, but still colorless. The day was dawning in the clouds.
What kind of painting could you make out of all this gray? she wondered, scanning
the coast as far as she could see. It was all gray light, gray water, mottled-gray
rock. And me in gray sweatpants and gray sweatshirt and gray funk.

Joyce felt as if she were at the end of the earth. She reached up, arched her back,
and stretched, with her hands reaching wide above her head. She sighed, turned, and
saw him.

A hundred feet away, on a cliff that hung over the water at a seventy-degree angle.
He was barefoot, wearing cutoff jeans and a long-sleeved work shirt. He stood very
still, a cigarette in his mouth.

Joyce was so startled it took her a moment to be afraid. Should she walk away? Had
he seen her? What was he doing out here? What was she doing out here?

He watched her take notice of him and flicked his cigarette into the sea. He raised
his arm and waved in a big, goofy, side-to-side motion, as if he were hailing an ocean
liner.

“Halloo,” he called.

Probably not a murderer, she thought, and waved back.

He started toward her. She looked around, hoping to see someone else, but there was
no one. In a moment, he was at her side.

“Not a maniac, are yeh?” he said to her, a beautiful smile showing small, crooked
teeth.

“Not me. My friend Kathleen recommended the view at sunrise, and I couldn’t sleep.”

“I’ve a sister named Kathleen.” He was Irish.

“The raccoons woke me up. I couldn’t fall asleep again.”

“What about your husband?”

“He’s in the city during the week.”

“Poor fella.”

Joyce shrugged. “Do you come here often?” She winced at the cliché.

“First time,” he said, smiling again. “It’s a grand view. Reminds me of home.”

“Ireland?”

“Yeh.”

Black hair pulled into a scant ponytail at his neck; he was fair-skinned, smooth at
the knuckles and wrists. In his thirties, Joyce thought, but she couldn’t tell if
he was four years younger than her or ten.

“Any other questions?” he said.

“Aren’t you cold?” she asked, horrified again at the suddenly maternal tone of her
voice. What was wrong with her?

“You must have a little one at home.”

“Well, I have a twelve-year-old daughter. She’s at summer camp.” So now he knew she
was on her own.

“You miss her.”

“Yes.”

“I miss my little girl, too. But not her mother.”

“You’re divorced?”

“Never married her.”

And now Joyce knew that he was on his own.

A gull appeared. Together, they watched it trace the horizon. The black-and-white
scene had turned sepia. Low clouds on the horizon turned out to be a fog bank, which
was filtering toward them, shrouding the water, and exhaling mist into their faces.

“A mysterious morning, isn’t it?” he said, and shivered. “And I am a bit chilled.
Shouldn’t have left my shoes in the truck. I could use a cup of coffee.”

“Sorry. I didn’t bring any.” Joyce clapped her hand over her mouth. He must think
I’m an idiot.

He laughed. “Would you join me for a cup? There’s a lovely diner down the road a bit.”

“Sure.” Joyce wondered what her hair looked like as they started back.

She paused to negotiate a three-foot gap between two boulders, and he reached out
a hand to help her across. He held on for an extra split second after she jumped over.
Joyce let him break the hold.

As she got into the car to follow him to the diner in Lanesville, she thought about
turning left instead of right. She could tell Kathleen about meeting a handsome Irish
stranger at dawn at Halibut Point, flirting a little, and disappearing into the morning.
That would be a good story and a good place to end it. The man might be a sicko who
lured women to their death.

But Joyce didn’t really think he was dangerous. He had a sweet smile, and the way
he looked at her was . . . It was like water in the desert. His hand was soft. She
wanted to know his name. And it was just a cup of coffee in a public place. It would
make an even better story.

The diner was a cheerful-looking hole-in-the-wall she’d passed a thousand times, always
meaning to stop. It might have been the same place Kathleen had taken her boys.

He smiled at her as she opened the door. His name was Patrick. They ordered eggs and
toast and drank cup after cup of coffee as he smoked and talked. He’d been in the
States for six months, working for the cousin of a friend who ran a messenger service.
He drove nights and sent earnings home to his two-year-old daughter, Clare. He sent
the money orders to his mother, though. Not to Elizabeth, the girlfriend. He spit
out her name like a curse.

Patrick had grown up outside of Dublin, dropped out of high school but got a night
school diploma. He wanted to go to university to study geography. “Geography?” Joyce
asked.

“Yeh. And poetry.” He reeled off a list of his favorite modern Irish poets, with names
that sounded like a sonnet of beautiful nonsense syllables: Padriac, Ciaran, Donagh,
Nuala. She watched as the words dropped from his mismatched lips — the lower more
generous than the top.

He offered her a Marlboro and she took it. She hadn’t smoked since college, but it
was an excuse to touch his hand as he lit her cigarette. Her arm warmed from the contact.
His eyes were almost indigo blue.

Patrick threw a crumpled $20 onto the counter as they left. Outside, Joyce stood against
the cab of his panel truck, letting the cool damp of the metal seep through to her
back. Patrick leaned over her, propped on a hand he placed beside her cheek. Five
foot ten, she guessed. His breath smelled of tobacco.

“Why did you drop out of school?” Joyce asked.

“That’s a story.” Softly, almost whispering, he told about how he’d gone, one Saturday
morning, to fix a window in his math teacher’s room. She was waiting for him, a woman
in her first year on the job. Young, black hair, brown eyes. “A tall girl. Tall as
me. Pretty.” They thought they were alone in the building, but they got caught in
the cloakroom and he never went back.

Joyce stared at his mouth. He leaned down and kissed her gently.

“Can I see you again?”

Joyce nodded.

“Meet me for lunch here, tomorrow?”

She nodded again and he took her phone number.

He walked her to her car and kissed her hand. Joyce realized that she wouldn’t be
telling Kathleen about her morning at Halibut Point, after all.