Shelter Me (33 page)

When Tug came back, he gripped two mugs by their handles in one hand and carried a canvas jacket in the other. He held it out to her. “You looked cold,” he said as he sat down. The inside of the jacket was lined in flannel. The corduroy collar rubbed up against her cheek when she put it on. And there was that look from Tug, that scanning-every-pixel-of-her look. “I never was crazy about that jacket,” he said. “It’s a lot more appealing with you in it.”

Janie’s heart started the painful throbbing again, and her first reaction was to run, as if she were being attacked rather than praised. Then there was a surge of anger. He knew it made her uncomfortable—it was rude, really. But that wasn’t right. She wrapped her icy fingers around the hot cup, gripping it like an anchor. “Tug,” she started to warn him, but her thoughts wouldn’t coagulate into words.

He nodded and took a sip from his mug. “I kind of liked it when you were sick.” His eyes had locked onto something far away, on the other side of the lake, perhaps. “You didn’t worry so much about me caring for you. You were just glad to see me.”

The heart thumping stopped. In fact, she couldn’t feel it beating at all for a few seconds. “I’m always glad to see you,” she said. It felt so true it hurt. He disengaged from the far shore and turned toward her. She forced herself not to flinch. “I’m sorry if it doesn’t show,” she said. “I don’t always…handle myself well.”

“We’re all just making it up as we go, I guess.”

“It feels so dangerous,” she told him. “Like there are land mines in every direction.”

“I’m not a land mine.”

She pulled air into her lungs, let it out again. “Maybe not. Maybe I’m the land mine.”

“Oh, I get it,” he smiled. “When you take time off from being scared for yourself, you spend it worrying about me.”

Maybe this was true. He deserved good things, and she knew he had struggled through some very…not-so-good things. The question was, to which category did she belong? “Can I ask you something? When did you stop being in love with Sue?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s not like I just stopped one day. I was thinking once that I’m like one of those trees that gets planted too close to a chain-link fence. Over time the trunk starts to grow around the wires. You can take down the fence, but a little part of it will still be inside the tree. You’d have to cut down the tree to get rid of that last bit.”

T
HE TEMPERATURE DROPPED SLOWLY
as they sat together talking, and the wind began to pick up, blowing in off the lake in short bursts, teasing them into thinking it had died down, when it was only recharging for the next gust. Janie pulled the corduroy collar of the jacket up around her neck, and crossed her arms tightly around her to keep from shivering. Tug showed no awareness of the cold. He toed off his loafers and propped his sock-clad feet up on the coffee table in front of them. His arms lay loose in his lap, moving only to pat her hand from time to time.

When her teeth began to chatter, he took her inside, apparently hoping the conversation would transplant itself onto the living room couch. There was a wooden figure of a lighthouse on the wall, painted in broad black-and-white horizontal stripes. Three brass-rimmed disks mounted in its body told the time, the tides, and the barometric pressure. Janie saw only the time: 2:13 a.m.

“I should get home,” she told him. “I have to get some sleep before I pick up the kids.”

“Okay,” he said, not hiding his disappointment all that well. “What’s on for tomorrow?”

“Not much really.” She saw him run a hand back over his head. “What?” she said.

“Well, it’s supposed to be a nice weekend. Warm, sunny.” He reached out to button her into his coat. “I had this thought maybe you and the kids might come down the Cape with me.”

“Oh…um…”

“We could just go down for the day. Or we could stay over if you felt like it. The second bedroom has twin beds for you and Dylan and plenty of room for a port-a-crib for Carly.”

Janie had not one thing planned for the next three days, other than weeding out some of the unloved toys and sending them to Goodwill. Of course, that was better accomplished when Dylan was at school and couldn’t defend his need for every plaything he’d ever owned. There was church with Aunt Jude on Sunday.
No one in their right mind would turn down a weekend on Cape Cod for that. “Okay,” she said, feeling slightly light-headed with fatigue. It had been a long, full day.

“Really?”

“Yeah, it sounds nice.” They made plans to head out at noon the next day and stay for one night. Or maybe two. Janie wasn’t sure. She’d think it through in the morning and call.

He walked her out to her car. Before she could open the door he hugged her, pulling her in close and holding her for a few extra seconds. He smelled of wool and shirt starch and very vaguely of chocolate. He was warm and strong and she felt comfortable supported there in the circle of his arms. “Happy Thanksgiving,” he whispered into her hair.

And it was.

A
S SHE RODE HOME
through the darkened streets of Pelham, the car seemed to steer itself, like a horse trotting instinctively back to its own paddock. Janie rubbed her cheek against the upturned collar of Tug’s coat. It was the middle of the night and the town seemed abandoned, with no other vehicles, no pedestrians strolling down sidewalks, no lights but the solemn glow of a single fluorescent tube from a storefront.

But there was movement in the distance, indistinct at first, like a shadow moving across the walls of buildings. As she came to an intersection, she stopped for the red light and saw a figure waiting to cross, stationary though somehow also in motion. As her headlights hit the reflector tape on his running suit, she saw that the person was jogging in place.

Her light turned green, and she proceeded slowly through the intersection, her eyes drawn to the familiar shape by the crosswalk. His head turned toward her as she neared, and she looked straight into the gaze of Father Jake Sweeney. Her foot released itself from the accelerator, and the car slowed. It was him, the real him, her onetime friend, and it had been three full months since their paths had intersected.

How are you?
she wanted to ask. The very question she’d spent the past ten months dodging.
Really, how are you?

She stopped the car right there in the middle of Route 27. But he turned away and ran past her, plunging himself into the darkness beyond the traffic lights. She understood completely.

W
HEN
J
ANIE ROLLED OVER
and squinted at the clock the next morning she couldn’t believe it: 10:05. When was the last time she’d slept later than six or seven? Years, it seemed. She picked up the phone to call Aunt Jude, and the dial tone stuttered, indicating a voice mail message. Janie ignored it and placed her call. The kids were fine, slept late, and were now eating toaster waffles with honey. “I had no idea I was all out of syrup!” said Aunt Jude. Janie asked for some extra time, and Aunt Jude was happy to have the children a while longer. She had her Gentle Joints exercise class at noon.

“I’ll be there by 11:30,” Janie promised, as she loaded up the coffee maker.

In the shower, her thoughts ran to nothing more complicated than,
The Cape…I love the Cape…which eave is the port-a-crib in?
A comfortable sluggishness remained with her while she packed, as if she were still just a little bit asleep. She eventually remembered to call Tug. “Should I bring any food?”

“Nah, the house is stocked. Plus I went out this morning and picked up a few things.”

She loaded the car, locked the house, and went to pick up the kids, humming along to the radio as she drove.

“I might not be around for Mass on Sunday.” Janie mentioned her plans to Aunt Jude as the kids scrambled around the car.

Aunt Jude was startled. “The whole weekend,” she said.

A twinge ran up Janie’s neck. “It’s just two days,” she said. “It’s the Cape.”

T
UG WAS TOSSING A
small duffel bag into the back of the truck when they pulled up. Dylan barreled out of the car and threw himself at Tug. “What’s a cod?” he asked breathlessly.

“It’s a kind of fish,” said Tug, thumping him gently on the back. “Want to try and catch one?” Dylan did a little happy dance around the driveway.

“We’re taking the truck?” asked Janie. Another twinge. Not driving her own vehicle. No getaway car.

“It’s a four-wheel drive,” he said. “We need it for the outer beach.” Apparently there were two seats tucked behind the main bench. Tug had the kids’ car seats set up before she could think of any reason to stop him. When she returned from taking Dylan to the bathroom one last time, her bags had been stowed and the motor was running.

C
ARLY WAS SOON FAST
asleep, the all-business hum of the truck’s powerful engine and the snug quarters into which her car seat was wedged conspiring to lull her into an openmouthed, head-hanging torpor. Dylan spent a good deal of the trip studying and murmuring to the pack of baseball cards Tug had picked up at the grocery store that morning. “Swing, batter, swing, batter…no don’t swing, that’s a bad one…,” he muttered as he flipped from one card to the next.

“It’s warmer down here,” commented Tug. “Midfifties.”

“Too cold to swim,” said Janie.

“Maybe for some.”

“You’re not going in the water.”

“Might,” he said. “Did you bring your suit?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Do I sound like I’m kidding?”

“Mom,” chimed Dylan, “are we almost close?”

“No, honey, we’ve got a while to go.”

“Hey, Dylan,” said Tug. “Pretty soon we’re going to see a huge bridge, the Sagamore. When we cross over, we’ll be on Cape Cod.
Can you watch for that bridge? That’d be a big help, because I don’t want to miss it and end up in Rhode Island or something.”

Janie could feel Dylan’s breath by her ear as he peered around her headrest. “Is that it?” he asked as the totem pole at the Plymouth Information Center came into view. Though it looked nothing like a bridge, it was foreign to Dylan, Janie realized. Maybe in this strange new world of trips to the Cape, that tall, pointy carved thing could be used to traverse a divide.

“Nope,” said Tug. “The bridge we’re looking for is a lot bigger than that.”

When the Sagamore Bridge rose up in front of them like a metal giant looming out of the scrub pines, Dylan screamed in Janie’s ear, “I SEE IT!” It set off a ringing in her head that didn’t clear for a few minutes. She could still feel it clanging like an alarm as they drove over the huge bridge high above the Cape Cod Canal.

Tug was telling Dylan something about the canal, how the Cape was really an island now because of it, but Janie only caught snatches of the conversation. The ringing in her ear and the panic she was now feeling as she looked through the seemingly endless row of gray bars that encased the bridge made her dig her fingers into the seat cushion.

What is wrong with you?
she scolded.
Cut it out!
But all she could think was that she’d brought her children to a distant place, in someone else’s car, with no exit strategy.
What if I hate it? What if the kids can’t sleep? What if Tug and I get into a fight about something? I’m trapped. Trapped on Cape Cod.

“You alright?” murmured Tug.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “I just all of a sudden felt kind of…weird.”

“Have you gone anywhere since January?”

Janie sucked in a huge lungful of air and let it rush back out of her mouth. “Does Natick count?”

“Janie, girl,” he chuckled. “You need to see the ocean.”

They didn’t even go to the house first. Tug drove straight out Beach Road to Nauset, the lavish blue of the ocean expanding before them as they came over the Heights. The parking lot was speckled with vehicles, most with Massachusetts plates, but one from as far away as Canada. All irresistibly drawn here by the last good Cape weekend of the year.

Carly woke when the truck stopped, and Janie freed her from her seat. Dylan climbed out and Tug went around to the truck bed to gather up some things. They followed the main boardwalk out to the shoreline, where the waves crashed relentlessly and the seagulls circled overhead. They hiked down the beach a little ways, and Tug spread out an old frayed quilt. Carly practiced walking in the sand, falling over, and pushing herself back up. She studied the sand grains stuck to her fingers. Dylan pulled off his sneakers and socks and ran to the water’s edge, chasing the sea foam that surged out from each spent wave and then retreated into the ocean again.

Janie sat on the blanket and watched them while Tug cut slices from a hunk of cheese with his jackknife. He handed her a piece on a cracker, watched her take a bite. His eyes lingered idly on her, and she looked back at him, feeling drawn in, as if at any moment she might lean over and kiss him.

“I meant to bring back your jacket,” she said.

He shrugged. As if a jacket mattered.

T
HE HOUSE WAS SMALL
and squat and covered in weathered gray shingles that curled up at the edges like split ends. Inside the walls were white and the floors were bare.

“Used to be all kinds of god-awful wallpaper, but I took it down to the studs about ten years ago and pulled out the carpet.” One of his nieces was allergic to mold, and the place was damp. If you could make money off mold, he told her, Cape homeowners would be millionaires. “Course, some of them already are.” He had gutted it and installed insulation, new wallboard, and a dehu
midifier in the basement. It was winterized now, and it smelled a lot better.

The large kitchen had old wooden cabinets with wrought-iron pulls and a shallow white enameled sink. In the middle of everything sat a 1950s-style table with metal legs and a yellow Formica top. The metal chairs had matching plastic-covered yellow seats. He’d never bothered to update the kitchen, he said, because he liked it “Cape-y.”

His bedroom had a large bed with a cranberry-colored down comforter on it. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a dark wood dresser with a huge oval mirror attached above, the glass speckled with age. The other bedroom, just past the tiny bathroom, had two twin beds, both with trundles underneath. There was a long, low chest of drawers covered in yellow antiquing paint.