Stay (8 page)

the stairwell. She wasn’t what I imagined at all. At
all
. She was

maybe only thirty—black hair falling in long, loose curls down

her back, deep black eyes, thick brows. She wore jeans and a

white shirt, a denim jacket with the cuffs rolled up. “Roger, you

are a naughty, naughty boy. Why are you always jump on the

guest? You must not do that, Roger.”

She had an accent. An accent that made me think of another

accent.9* Italian, though. Her name came to me all at once. Sylvie

Genovese. She scooped up Roger the dog. She put him on her

shoulder and held him there with one hand. He seemed to like it

up there. He seemed used to it. He was smiling.

“Ms. Genovese?”

“
Mrs.
”

9 Sylvie Genovese is not the second person in this story with an accent, but the third.

My mother was French, and although hers had mostly faded away, I remember her

voice sounding different when she was angry or excited. Accents are funny in that they

have this odd draw for us, yet we forget we have one, too. No one is without an accent,

but the one you’ve got seems like oatmeal to their caviar.

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“I’m Clara Oates? I’m inquiring about the job?” She was the

kind of person who made you put question marks after the things

you said. And made you use words like,
inquiring
. Imposing.

And not because she was old and shriveled like I’d imagined, but

because she was strong and beautiful.

“You will fill out an application, then.” She walked past

me, into the gift shop. Roger’s little behind rode high on her

shoulder. When she got to the counter, she set him back on

the floor with one hand. He had calmed down now and only

sniffed my sandal.

“All right.”

“I need a few hours in the mornings and no more. I like to go

out fishing and such then. Sometimes a tour bus stops . . .” She

waved her hand to indicate what a nuisance it all was.

“That’s fine,” I said. She slid the paper across to me. Slapped

down a pen.

“Only for the summer,” she said.

“We’re only here for the summer.”

“We?”

“My father and I.”

She fussed around the shop while I filled out the form. I

could feel her watching me. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to work

there. It seemed as empty and isolated as home. Lonely here or

lonely there, though I guess lonely here meant being paid. But

then I stopped at the end of the form. I didn’t know why we

hadn’t thought of it before.
References.

“It asks for references . . .” I said. My voice sounded loud in

there.

* 57 *

Deb Caletti

“Is it a problem?” She shoved her hands down into her jean

pockets and looked at me in challenge.

“I worked at a bookstore every summer for three years.”

“Put it down on the paper,” she said.

“You can’t call them,” I said. I didn’t know why I was telling

her this. I should have just gotten out of there. I should have told

Dad his mistake, made a new plan. I could read through the clas-

sics. Write some journal. Whatever.

She was back behind the counter. She held a pen in her

hand. She was tapping the end just like Dad always did. “I can’t

call them.”

“No.”

“And why not I can’t call them?”

“My old boyfriend got a job there,” I said. “He can’t know

where I am.”

She looked at me for a long time. Her eyes were a deep black,

but suddenly kind. “Yes,” she said. She thought. “I see. You need

to be away from him. They will speak to him, you think.”

“He finds out things,” I said.

“You cannot trust anyone,” she said.

“That’s how it feels.”

She nodded as if we suddenly understood each other.

“Come tomorrow,” she said. “I will teach you what you need to

know. The people who come—they like a small tour sometimes.

I will tell you exactly how do you do. They ask questions. I will

give you a history book.” She bent under the counter. “Damn

it, where is it? No. Shit. One moment. Here it is.” She straight-

ened. Handed me a thin book. It looked well used. Water had

* 58 *

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spilled on it once—the pages were bunched and wavy.
Bishop

Rock: History or Legend?
“Read the chapter on Pigeon Head.

Head of a pigeon?” She made her eyes wide at the ridiculous-

ness, held her hands out as if there was nothing to be done

about it. “It is crazy.”

“I know,” I said. It
was
hard to believe. “Anyway, thank you.

I’ll read it.” I knelt down and petted Roger. He was sitting so

nicely and staring up at me. “He’s so sweet.”

“A little fiend,” she said. But you could tell he was her baby.

“True, he has some fine qualities, yes. He does not bore you with

his religion beliefs. He does not speak on and on about the pain

of his childhood.”

I looked down at Roger. He looked so simple. He stood and

wagged, as if he knew he was being discussed. He made me

smile.

“Thank you,” I said again. I wasn’t completely sure I should

be grateful. I started to head out. Something occurred to me.

“Does it work? Is it a working lighthouse?”

“Of course,” she said. “Standing there looking so pretty is not

enough.”

“And do you run it?” I was thinking of Mr. Genovese, I guess.

“Well, I am the keeper, yes?” she said. “I am the one here to

make certain that the boats do not crash into the rocks.”

I went back to the car. I got in and shut the door, but then I

realized how early it still was. Dad wouldn’t be out of his trance

until later in the afternoon. I got back out of the car again, hoping

she wasn’t watching me. In and out—Sylvie Genovese wasn’t the

kind of person to be indecisive. I walked over to the lighthouse

* 59 *

Deb Caletti

and looked up at it. The fog had moved on, and now it stood in

all its glory. It couldn’t just stand there and look pretty, but it was

pretty. Beautiful and protective.

I walked to the edge of the bluff where my father and I had

stood the day before. I noticed a trail I hadn’t seen then, which

wound down to the beach. It was steep, and I had on crappy

sandals for steep, but I decided to go down there anyway. I did

that embarrassing edging walk you do down slippery slopes, that

sideways maneuver that involves clutching at clumps of grass,

and then finally I was down. The beach curved left for miles,

but to my right it ended not long after the lighthouse. The rocks

gathered and then gathered more until passing would be impos-

sible unless the tide was way out. I saw a motorboat up near the

lighthouse cliff that must have been Sylvie’s.

I went left. Took off my sandals, because that was an unbreak-

able Beach Rule, no matter how cold it was. I rolled up my jeans. I

walked in the soft, thick sand closer to land, moved past the beach

layer where all of the scary stuff collected, then headed down to

the hard, wet ground closest to the water. I could walk forever

there; I could even walk all the way back to the beach house if I

wanted. I could see Possession Point, our house tiny but visible

in the distance. I picked up a stick and dragged it behind me. I

tried out the water and found it freezing. I collected a few shells,

rinsed them off, and put them in my pocket. I walked past a

few houses, imagining that I could choose which one was mine.

Modern, with huge glass windows? Small but charming? The

houses were spread out here, your own bit of the endless beach

and the endless sea, and it was obvious these people lived a life

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that was aware of both of these elements. A statue made from

driftwood decorated one deck, a string of floats likely washed

ashore lined another railing. A rowboat was pulled up tight to one

small house, its oars stuck up in the sand.

And then I was at that shack I had seen from the shore before.

Maybe people just stored their boats there, or their garden tools,

or their whatevers. It was smaller than a one-car garage, made

out of shingles and planks weathered gray. Maybe no one actu-

ally
lived
there. Wait—it had a chimney, though. An even smaller

building stood off to the side. Wait—no. Was it an outhouse? Did

people have those anymore? Because it looked like one of those

outhouses you saw in the hillbilly movies.

You pictured a guy with no teeth. But then again, it had a cer-

tain charm. It had to, or it wouldn’t have kept me there so long,

looking at it. I started noticing things. Firewood stacked up. An

apple
tree? Could that be, there on the beach? Did this beach just

grow unlikely things? I saw plants in yellow pots on the window-

sill inside. A pair of orange gardening clogs.

“You’re not the tax assessor,” a woman said.

I startled. She came up from behind me, a woman with

gray hair cut just under her chin and a face with deep wrinkles

and a stern mouth. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt with short

sleeves. She was small, but her arms were roped with muscles.

She carried two tin buckets, one overflowing with what looked

like weeds.

“No,” I said.

“Not much other reason to stare, other than to assess value.”

“Just curiosity,” I said.

* 61 *

Deb Caletti

“It’s a curious place, isn’t it?”

“Do you live here?” I asked.

“I do. It’s my full-time home now, if you can believe it. I

had an apartment in New York, which I finally gave up last year.

Would you believe that either? We used to come here in the sum-

mers. But now it’s just me.”

“New York,” I said. “Wow.”

“You’re thinking how different it is there from here. Which

is the point. There, you get what you need only with much

effort. You can’t collect your grittle and snips for dinner, right

off of your own land.” She held up the bucket. I wondered if

maybe she was crazy.

“Well, thank you for letting me look,” I said.

“Annabelle Aurora,” she said. She set down the buckets, held

out a hand.

“Clara Oates,” I said. We shook.

“Summer visitor,” she said.

“Yes.”

“You can come by for dinner some time. Bring your father.”

I swear to God, my heart stopped. She’d shocked me, that

was for sure. While I was used to being connected to my father

in our own city, I hadn’t expected this sudden knowledge by some

unknown old lady with an outhouse on a beach. It seemed as

likely she’d know my father as I’d know hers.

“Tell him I have muscles,” she said.

I was sure she was crazy then. She had muscles, all right.

As tiny as she was, she looked like she could kick your ass to the

ground if you crossed her. But then she tapped one of the buckets

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with the tip of her shoe. I saw inside—a mound of curved black

shells. Mussels.

“I will. Thanks,” I said.

I got the hell out of there. It had taken me a long time to get

down that trail, but it took me no time at all to get back up. It

was stupid, but my heart was beating fast. She’d spooked me. I

remembered that feeling, possible danger, how it made you both

clumsy and focused in your need to flee. My hand shook as I tried

to fit the car key in the lock. I got inside and locked the doors

around me and I sat there and calmed down. It was so stupid,

because somewhere inside I knew I had nothing to fear from

some old woman who lived in a shack.

See, though? This was where I was now. An old woman, a

branch scraping on glass, wind in trees that was only wind, any-

thing at all had the ability to fling me to that place where I was

so frightened, so, so frightened, and where his hand was around

my ankle at the top of those stairs. It was about that hand. It was

about car lights in my rearview mirror. It was about not knowing

what might happen next. It was not about an old lady with orange

gardening clogs.

And that was part of why we were here, I knew. Another part.

So that a tree branch and the wind and strange old ladies could

become only themselves again.

I bought Dad the funniest colors of taffy. The pink ones with blue

stripes. Yellow with green. Purple. The really gross colors. Our

mystery host with his fine taste would never think to have those

colors in the smooth wood bowl on his dining table. Perfect.

* 63 *

Deb Caletti

I was lying to myself, though, I knew. I didn’t come back to

town for taffy. I came back to circle around the idea of Finn Bishop.

I knew, because I brushed my hair and checked how I looked

before I got out of the car, and you didn’t do that for the ladies

at the taffy place. After I came out of the shop, I stopped at the