Shining Sea (12 page)

ART

Back at the light station, I hurry down to the keeper’s cottage to look for another set of keys—Dad’s. He’s on a fishing trip and won’t be back until later. His truck is here because his buddies picked him up from the breakwater, something that freaks me out. The seawall isn’t a dock; one wrong move could ruin a boat. People could get hurt. Dad said not to worry, that no sane person would tie up to the seawall unless the tide was just right.

Keys in hand, a note is the next logical step. Dad definitely won’t be happy about me using the park service truck, but then again, if I can get home before him, he won’t even
see
the note. In the morning, I’ll tell him I took the truck. It’ll be too late for him to be angry.

Too late.

I glance at the kitchen clock.
Damn.
By the time I get there? OZI will be closed.

Where else can I find information about the Summers? I’ve already looked online . . .

Where I haven’t looked is at the Wayside, the ancient museum down past the harbor.

Hi Dad,

I borrowed your truck. Hope that’s okay. Going downtown to do research. Be back by dinnertime. Thanks!

Love, Ari

But then I realize—my backpack is in Alyssa’s car. Am I willing to risk driving without a license?

A half hour later I park in front of a rambling three-story Victorian, the museum’s current home. The house sits on a large lot well back from the street. The gingerbread trim needs painting, and the fanciful turrets lean with age, but it’s easy to see, like its overgrown gardens, the house had been elegant once.

Although most are shuttered or abandoned now, the neighboring houses, also on sizable lots, must have been lovely once too. Part of a long-ago seaside resort for the wealthy.

A banner flies from the white pillars of the museum’s expansive front porch. It has a conch shell painted at one end, a sailboat at the other. The words in between read:
S
HELLS
& S
WELLS
, J
UNE
1–S
EPTEMBER
24
. Today is the last day.

At OZI there’d be millions of papers to search through, but here, really, what do I think I’ll find? And at either place, where do I start?
Hi! The Summers family has been in this area forever, right? Do you have any personal information on them?

Feeling like an idiot, I head inside. If nothing else, museums are perfect places for procrastinating.

The grand entrance foyer is dark save the glow from a large computer monitor that’s probably the only thing from the twenty-first century for blocks around. Centered on an antique desk, the computer competes for space with piles of papers and stacks of exhibit catalogs.

“Hello?” The word echoes off the parquet floor and freshly painted gallery-gray walls. The museum is obviously preparing for its next exhibit, yet no one is around. At least a dozen doorways line the high-ceilinged hall stretching before me. “Anybody here?”

In the first two rooms, oil paintings of flesh-colored seashells take up entire walls. It looks like Georgia O’Keeffe decided to paint a shell collection and Julian Schnabel advised her on the size of the pieces. Schnabel is one of Mom’s favorite artists, made famous by his huge paintings set with smashed plates. I prefer his films.

Nautical scenes by Maine artists fill the next two rooms, but the following rooms are in transition. Now I look into a room where Neptune slash Poseidon is depicted with a trident and a flowing beard that becomes one with the water. Numerous watercolors show Aphrodite standing on a seashell. Looking at the last picture of the “Cyprian,” as Homer referred to her, I recall a piece of trivia I learned writing an eighth-grade paper on Ancient Greece. The Greeks considered Aphrodite both Greek
and
foreign. How exactly does that work?

The Wayside is great, but it’s for tourists, not someone looking for answers to questions that don’t make sense to begin with. Despite that, I continue on to the next room.

Endless shorelines, oceans reaching toward distant horizons . . . The walls are crowded with portraits of the sea and its surroundings. As I peruse the paintings, one thing becomes very clear—whether the land at the ocean’s edge is comprised of woods or raw cliffs, or whether it appears tame and civilized by villages or cities, buildings balanced on pilings black with creosote or steel girders offering false security—
this is a watery world
.

And water doesn’t give up its secrets.

Water—only takes.

Heaving a sigh, I turn to go, nearly tripping over a sign by the door, which informs me:

T
HIS ROOM HOUSES THE MUSEUM
’
S PERMANENT COLLECTION
. P
HOTOGRAPHY IS STRICTLY
—

My sharp inhalation is loud as a slap.

A large oil sits on an easel at the front of a nearby roped-off alcove.
In the picture, a darkly handsome man rises partway out of white-capped waves. He appears to be in pursuit of two women with terror-filled eyes who are running across rocks at the edge of the sea. But their flight is futile. A second man stands in front of them, a serpentine appendage splitting through the tangle of kelp draping his hips.

The silvery scales are painted so that they appear to be spreading upward—nearly reaching the young man’s waist, and also scattering down one leg. It’s as if the shimmering taillike limb is in the process of growing, of stretching toward the horrified girls.

The terrifying mermaids vibrate with energy—

In fourth grade, a redheaded boy named Scott told me he loved me, then punched me in the stomach. The shock is the same now—worse. I can barely breathe.

Bo is a mermaid.

As insane as it sounds, it has to be true! Not that Bo shares the creatures’ dark beauty—but he shares their
aliveness
. And—I stare at the eyes now, the creatures’ sea eyes—
their eyes
.

Tearing my gaze from the painting I peer into the dark recesses of the alcove, then duck under the velvet rope. Paintings similar to the one at the mouth of the deep niche fill the small space. Variations of the men—the creatures—loom and leer from the walls.
Beauty is a beast.

Strikingly sensual, the images of the mermen cling to my imagination
—or perhaps I cling to them—as I almost knock over the stanchions in my hurry to get back to the entrance of the museum.

A girl with cropped hair is sitting at the computer now. My words spill over her.

“Excuse me, can you tell me about the—the really intense oil paintings—”

“Oh!” The girl startles. “I didn’t know anyone was here. We’re closed, actually. We close at two on Saturdays.” She blinks up at me. “How did you get in?”

“The door was open. Please. I need to know, the paintings—”

“The mermaids? Everyone asks about them. They were donated years ago—”

“So you think they’re mermaids?” My tone is urgent, accusatory.

“Well, yeah. Aren’t they?”

“Yes. I guess. I don’t know. They’re . . .”

“Scary, right? The tails?”

“Tail” is a ridiculously insufficient term to describe the distortion. “Who donated them?”

“You look really pale—are you okay? Do you want some water or something?”

“No, I don’t want any
water
,” I nearly shout. “Where did the paintings come from?”

The girl cringes. “Professor Julian Summers, founder of OZI. They’re the oldest things in this place. They should be in Portland, in a climate-controlled facility, but . . .”

Her words fade as she peers up at me, probably wondering what my problem is.

I just stare dumbly at her for a moment. Then I thank her. And go.

Outside, twilight paints the streets of Rock Hook purple—the sky, periwinkle.

Was I really inside that long?

Long enough to learn the truth about Bo.

Blue shadows cast by a tall stand of pines behind the Wayside shift and stretch—darkening fingers following me to the truck. Unable to shake the feeling that I’m being watched, I shove the key into the ignition.

My thoughts turn over, along with the engine.

But unlike the engine, they won’t catch.

Mermaids don’t fly.

Yes, but they swim.

But then—

What about the wings?

NETHERWORLD

The park service truck doesn’t have anything more than a radio. Trying to ease my anxiety as I drive through the Victorians, their faded colors ashen in the half-light, I sing along with the only decent song I can find—which happens to be about an angel—and get spectacularly lost.

I end up on the coast road—driving in the wrong direction, of course. The dying light tells me that. Specter-like rays thrust themselves out from behind lead-colored clouds, heavy-looking masses that appear as though they’d do damage if for some reason they fell. In another moment, they take over the sky.

The road narrows, becoming a winding passage between sea and stony outcroppings. There’s no good place to turn around.

Finally, I make a left onto a road that runs east–west and drive through a silent neighborhood lined with rickety fishing shacks and weather-beaten cottages. The small houses give way to cleared lots where scrubby dune grass and new pines are trying their best to reclaim the land.

The northern end of the peninsula is home to the now-closed canneries, and though I haven’t made it that far, I must be close, must have missed Smith Street, which runs—albeit crookedly—the entire length of the long neck of land that is Rock Hook.

The air inside the cab grows scented with wetlands, the odor slightly sulfurous. I’m probably close to the bay. Which means I’ve gone too far west. Above the sound of a sudden gust of wind, I swear I hear music. Less than a minute later, the back road I’m on dead-ends.

In front of me a row of shadowy cabins crouches in the darkness. Opposite the cabins is a two-story building. Long and boxlike, the obviously new structure has been painted a shiny black, with cyber-yellow trim. Bar? Restaurant? No sign to tell me.

Though it’s early, the large pine-ringed parking lot is crowded with cars, and now the door of the boxy building opens. Music spills out into the evening, along with several black-clad boys with guitars.

The music is indie. Alternative. Dreampop. Whatever you call it—it’s good. And it’s
live
. Maybe I’ve just found a place to play.

Right now, though, I don’t have the time or the desire to go inside. I have no idea where I am, and I need to get the truck back. I’ll check it out online.

Following the road back toward the ocean, I figure sooner or later I’ll run smack into Smith Street. I half expect to hear Lilah’s voice, making fun of my “direction impediment” as she used to call it. Although after yesterday . . . I’ve finally allowed myself to recall everything I know about her accident—and maybe that will make a difference. Maybe I won’t hear the voice anymore—
her
voice, her dark advice, the twists of sarcasm. I miss Lilah horribly, but I don’t want her voice in my head. I want mine. Turning up the radio, I press the “Seek” button.

Many minutes later, after finally turning onto Smith Street, I let out a sigh of relief as I pass the intersection where the causeway meets the peninsula. The radio goes berserk all of a sudden—I shut it off with a snap, but as soon as the sound fades to silence, my eyelids begin to grow heavy. It’s not late, yet I’m so tired . . .
Only twenty more minutes—stay awake.

Streaks of purple run alongside the white lines of the road as it dips down—the ocean rolling on my left. Not much between the sea and me . . . just a strip of granite . . . My thoughts wander dreamily.
I’d like to watch the waves for a while . . .
A sweet sound seems to surround me, and I long for the music of Bo’s voice . . .

Then, I hear it. Or, I think I do—

Something white streaks in front of the windshield. I sit up straighter.

There it is again. A whirl of motion—

Bam!
I almost let go of the wheel as the truck rocks sideways—

Kshh!
The driver’s side window shatters. The seat belt grinds into my hips as my body arcs toward the passenger side. Dark woods loom on my right as I stamp on the brakes—

Unintentionally sending the truck into a sickening spin.

The truck slides fast toward the side of the road where the surf slams against the rocks so hard it shoots up into the air. Frantically I spin the wheel, jamming my foot on the brakes again and again. The truck bucks but continues sliding out of control. Still skidding, it turns, hood pointed straight at the water. Waves rear up in front of me—in another second I’ll be in the sea—

The front tires hit the rough along the edge of the road. I squeeze my eyes closed—

The truck judders to a stop.

My torso whips back and forth— A sharp pain travels up my neck.

My eyes fly open to the strangest sight:

The ocean is receding.

No.

The truck—is going backward. Is being
pulled
backward, slowly, by—something.

The engine whines in protest—

I scream—

Then it’s just me, screaming, as the truck comes to stillness, sitting sideways in the center of Smith Street.

Out of nowhere Bo appears at my window. “Arion, can you hear me?”

The scream dies in my throat.

The glass gone, Bo reaches through and touches my face.
Warmth.
I look down at my hands where they lie locked together in my lap, fingers intertwined in some kind of complicated prayer.

“Are you okay?” he asks as he opens my door. “Slide over.”

Unclasping the seat belt, I do what he says. “How did you—?”

The engine is still running. Bo begins to drive.

“You st-stopped the truck.
How?
” Fingers shaking, I try to fasten the passenger-side seat belt.

“Brakes, Arion. You hit the brakes.”

Right. I
did
hit the brakes, over and over, but . . . My neck aches. So does my head.

“How do you feel? Do you want me to take you to the hospital?”

“No!” Hospitals. The funereal smell of too many flowers.
Lilah.
“I hate hospitals. No.”

“Okay.” Bo glances at me. “No hospitals.”

Finally I get the belt buckled. “What happened? Bo, I wish you’d—”

He begins to sing softly.

I wish nothing.

The sea of his song . . . sends me somewhere else . . . I drift . . .

In some kind of netherworld, I listen to him sing. Wind, water, longing . . . love. The lyrics are like poetry. His voice slides up into his falsetto range, then drops down, becoming an urgent whisper. The low notes are dark, and rough, the breath at the back of his throat raw and sensual. Desire, craving, control . . . death. I don’t move, wonder if I even can. The smell of crushed grass mingles with the scent of the sea. The conclusions I reached today are crazy and—
Oh, the truck!

I open my eyes. We’re between the lighthouse and the small outbuilding. My limbs feel weighty, loose. I’m stretched out on the damp grass. My head is in Bo’s lap.

He stops singing and draws his hand back from where it rests close to my face. “We should get you inside. You’ll probably feel the whiplash tomorrow, but I think you’re okay. I wouldn’t have let you sleep if I thought you had a concussion.”

Sleep? Is that where I’ve been?

His light hair hangs down around his face. I want to touch it.

“You might want to go see a doctor tomorrow, but you didn’t hit your head or anything.”

Or anything. Right, I didn’t
hit
anything. Why didn’t I hit anything?

“Bo—”

“Look, before you start with the questions . . .”

But I
am
looking. Looking at his lips. Staring, actually. I reach up—

He dumps me off his lap unceremoniously and stands. “Are you going to keep ogling me like that? Because, really”—he glances toward the sky—“it’s not attractive.”

“I-I’m not interested in
attracting
you,” I manage to get out, climbing to my feet.

“Oh no? Well, that’s too bad.”

Scowling with confusion, I start around the side of the lighthouse. Bo follows me, watching as I struggle with my key, and then with the door, which feels impossibly heavy. Finally, he reaches around me, opening the door easily, holding it as I walk through. Looking up into his shadowed face, my thoughts tangle, but at least I have
one
answer now. It just doesn’t make sense. Because mermaids don’t fly—everyone knows that.

But I can’t deny I saw the wings again tonight.

And Bo had been right there.