The Night Swimmer (16 page)

When I went back to the bar with my plates, Sebastian turned and offered to buy me a drink.

Like a bit of the hot whiskey, yeah?

Ariel sliced a lemon and made pinwheels with cloves stabbed through the sections, a shot of Jameson and a packet of sugar, topped with hot water, stirred with a cinnamon stick. We clinked glasses.

For the chill.

We drank.

So you know what I'm
not
doing here, Sebastian said, what about you?

Quite similar, I said. Except I'm mostly swimming rather than walking.

He cocked an artful eyebrow. I could smell the sweet cloud of whiskey and sugar on his breath.

You takin' the piss?

I'm not, I said.

Where? How?

He signaled to Ariel for another round.

These drinks are futile, I said. This single measured shot business you have in the UK is bullshit. The free-pour system, like in the US, that's the method.

This was something Fred had said once in a pub in Cork. Christ, I thought, suddenly I'm incapable of original small talk?

Right you are, Sebastian said. But there's a remedy.

He turned and called out to Ariel, raising his hand like a student in class. He was wearing a pin-striped oxford shirt under his mack. Birding in a dress shirt?

Make it a treble for the lady, he said, cheers.

I became aware, just for a moment, of the other people in the room. We clinked glasses again, mine spilling over the top. It was delicious. Sebastian was leaving on an early ferry to head back to Cambridge. He said he'd return, soon enough. He came to the island all the time.

So say that again, he said. Where you have been swimming.

The ocean, I said.

Sebastian stared at the bottles behind the bar, his mouth slightly slack.

You are havin' me on. That water's too fucking cold and rough.

Nope.

I'll be buggered.

He turned on his stool to face me fully. His top lip formed a single arch, without the normal dip and curve under the nose, the bottom lip thin like a turtle's. His eyes were clear and bright, the pupils flexing and expanding, his glasses speckled with dust. I looked right at him, and it seemed like he was vibrating. Or maybe it was me. There was a singular focus of attention that I had forgotten. Either way, I realized then that I had been thinking about his hands on my body.

Yep, I said. It's true.

*  *  *

Back in Baltimore there was a note from my mother to call. My sister Beatrice was pregnant again.

She seems deliriously happy, my mother said. But of course your father and I are concerned.

She didn't say anything about the father and I didn't ask.

She's still in Delaware, my mother said. Anyway we're hoping she'll come back here, to have the baby and all.

I told her to tell my sister that I was happy for her and that if she needed something to let us know. I'd fly back in a second.

Oh, my mother said, you know Beatrice. She won't ask for anything, then she'll let us know how we let her down. Again. Be careful, okay? Take care of yourself.

When I told Fred he whooped and picked me up in a bear hug, carrying me across the bar and out onto the sidewalk into the bright November sunlight, boat motors humming in the harbor. We kissed there on the street, Fred swinging me from side to side.

That's fantastic, Elly, he said. Oh, wow. That's gotta be wonderful, right?

I hung on to him and kissed him, hard.

It's a good thing, he said, right?

*  *  *

The next night I crouched at the bottom of the steps and spat in my goggles. The waves of the Ineer washed up over my hips then sucked away, pouring over the mossy stone. A few lights on the northern hillside, the Waist and the pub, Bill's place up behind me, but these small embers were dwarfed by the full grace of the moon, so bright I could see my shadow on the water. In the center of the Ineer the water was nearly flat, the moon rippling streams of light down into the water like a giant searchlight. The shaft of light illuminated the bottom of the bay, creating a golden bowl of water.

I dove in and swam to the middle of the bay, then porpoised down, equalizing pressure once, twice, three times, to the bottom and held on to a piece of jutting rock. At the open end of the bowl, a deep black slot, the darkness of the open ocean. A few small forms flitted about, coming into the light and disappearing. The smash and bubble subsided in my ears and was replaced with the deep thrum and crackle, and I looked up to the surface, allowing myself to slowly rise, pulled by the chest, the air in my lungs, my head back and arms trailing like a puppet with cut strings.

I thought about Fred, sitting on a stool behind the bar, a glass of bourbon in front of him, the ice nearly melted. Was he thinking of me? Was he watching the harbor, the shapes of the islands to the west, hoping that I might come up the road and through the doors? I had a sudden longing for the feel of his body on mine, his arms around me, and as I ascended through the water my loneliness felt like a place of habitation, a comfortable room that I could enter and
stay. It was as if I was inside my own loneliness. It wasn't the panic of absence, rather the contentment of safety, like I could rest in this place without worry.

On the surface the howl of the wind and the immensity of night sky was like poking my head through the skin of a world of giants. The faint orange stripe of Fastnet swept across the hills creating quick images of windswept grasses, twisted gorse, and crumbling fence lines. There was a flash of white, a shape in the grass, and as the Fastnet light came around again I could see a figure standing at the edge of the field, looking down into the harbor. Miranda. Watching me swim.

I floated on my back, rising and falling with the push of the sea, looking up into the fullness of the moon.

I
spent a week at the pub, trying to relieve Fred, but he insisted on staying behind the bar and serving customers. He had Crock-Pots of French onion soup going in the back and fresh rolls, and he moved among the tables like a dervish when we had a crowd. He'd announce the ferry departures in a booming vaguely Irish-accented voice and had developed the knack for carrying three pint glasses cradled in each hand. A group of English birders came in and after a couple rounds gave him “one for yourself.” Fred dramatically poured himself a whiskey neat then capped off a Murphy's pint and slid the beer down the bar to Dinny.

And one for Dinny!

Dinny neatly caught the beer in his mottled hands, gratefully lining it up with a couple other full ones. He and Fred raised a glass and silently toasted.

The Murphy's is still free, he told me when I gave him a look. They fronted sixty kegs. Besides, Dinny deserves it.

He was almost belligerently trying to stay true to his word about me not working in the pub. I told him to forget about it, that I didn't mind pouring a few beers, but he was adamant. I made some sandwiches and generally cleaned up. The regular pub patrons of Baltimore consisted mostly of men covered in brine and bottom mud, farmers bringing in manure and the green sheen of grassy fields, people who had recently been handling livestock and fishnets, bird-watchers back from their long slogs on the Cape, and the occasional tourist trucking in all manner
of shite from all points, everyone wading through puddles and bogs in the gale season, which meant the floors always needed mopping. Fred was developing a tendency to let such things go.

We made a deal, he said. This was my idea, my plan.

It was
our
plan, I said.

Despite Fred's relentless efforts we had little repeat business and mostly subsisted on whoever strolled in on their first visit to Baltimore. Fred may have been pushing it, his type of overbearing interaction failing with the sullen-faced locals who shuffled around the harbor. When we walked around town, it felt like we were totally alone. It wasn't like we were ignored or shunned, but there was this curt indifference, a willingness to pass by without a nod or look. It wore on Fred especially.

Fred sat on the barstool in his T-shirt and flip-flops, sipping a Murphy's and milling through a pile of rocks in a tin bucket, tapping them thoughtfully with a small hammer, scratching them with his fingernail, making notes in a spiral notebook. He'd been collecting samples from hillsides outside of town. The end of the bar farthest from the door was turning into a kind of satellite office, covered with books, papers, rock shards. I didn't say anything about it. The few customers gave the arrangement some strange looks, but nobody seemed to mind. This was a part of Ireland where it wasn't unusual to see a blind, mangy dog sprawled on the floor, a wet pile of boots and slickers on the bar, or an old man sleeping in the corner with a piece of buttered toast in his fingers.

Okay, I said. What can I do?

I just want you to swim, to enjoy yourself. I want you to be happy.

I shrugged and began wiping down the tables. I wanted
us
to be happy. I wanted to say
I just want to be with you.

*  *  *

The next morning I came downstairs with my bag to catch the morning ferry and found Patrick sitting at the bar, inspecting one of Fred's rocks in his delicate hands. He was wearing a blue blazer and boat shoes, like he was heading to a yacht club social.

Hey, Elly.

He stood up, straightening his coat, giving me his awkward smile. He pointed at my bag.

You're headed to Clear.

I am. What's going on?

Fred offered to help us out with a delivery. I'm picking up. Wanna ride over together?

Fred came out of the back room cradling a small pallet and a couple bundles of peat sticks wrapped in plastic. Patrick opened the front door and retrieved a dolly and helped Fred ease the packages down.

Just a couple more boxes, he said. Make sure you have everything.

Fred reached down and worked a couple small boxes out of the plastic wrap and handed them to Patrick.

Don't forget these. I'm sure the old blind man needs his moisturizer and chocolate sprinkles.

Fred wiped his hands and gestured with his thumb at Patrick.

This dude's buying some gifts for some lady friends.

Patrick flushed and tucked the boxes back into the plastic.

We thought the sprinkles would help with ice cream sales, he said.

Whose idea was that? Fred said. And the bottles of facial moisturizer?

Patrick sighed and put up his hands.

What do you want me to say?

Fred punched him in the arm.

I'm just messing with you, bro! Loosen up.

When Fred ducked back into the kitchen Patrick pulled a wad of bills out of his blazer pocket, held it up to me, then went over to the cash register, punched the register open and dropped the money inside.

He said he wasn't going to take payment, Patrick said. We don't work that way.

We helped Patrick trundle the dolly down to the quay where the ferry sat idling, a few passengers already aboard. The harbor was
busy with craft, and the air was thick with diesel and gut bait. A couple Corrigans, conspicuous in their safety jackets, stood at the end of the pier. They watched Patrick and Fred struggle with the pallet of canned goods, stowing the parcels on the slippery boat deck. Patrick did not hide his displeasure.

Anybody else, he said, they'd be helping out.

He looked at the pilothouse and held out his arms. The man inside gazed at us calmly, bringing a cigarette to his lips.

Bastards, Patrick said.

It's not a big deal, Fred said. We got it.

While Patrick tied down his packages, I asked Fred when he started buying stuff for Highgate.

They got fucked by the Corrigans again, Fred said. They needed some basic supplies. I figured I'd help 'em out. The rate we get with our Murphy's supplier is way cheaper and faster now with the car.

Fred hitched up his shorts and gazed out toward the islands.

You know, he said, they're running that farm on nothing. I'm amazed that old man is still chugging along.

Yeah, I said. I know. I'm sure Highgate appreciates it.

Yeah, Fred said. Well, have a good time.

He kissed me on the forehead and gamboled up the hill to the Nightjar, the wind whipping his T-shirt.

On the ferry Patrick and I huddled under the lee of the cabin. I asked him about what Fred had said about the Corrigans.

It's complicated, he said. And then again it's not.

He told me that with the creation of the European Union came a raft of new regulations for food production. Highgate figured no one would concern themselves with such a small, remote operation, and for years no one did.

Last week, Patrick said, we get a surprise visit from an EU inspector, out of Cork. Says it was a normal random sweep of local businesses. Didn't check a single other business on the island, or in Baltimore. Somebody reported us.

Patrick told me that the inspector found the farm in violation of several statutes. The equipment and work necessary to be in compliance
would cost at least twenty thousand dollars. This was of course impossible.

We're shrinking the operation, Patrick said, down to seven milkers.

They could produce only a few products: milk, ice cream, and kid meat that would be shipped and processed on the mainland. Patrick nodded toward the two Corrigans who slouched against the side of the pilothouse.

We all know who reported us, he said. Probably Eamon there, the one with the black hair and bad teeth. Kieran's little brother. He does a lot of the dirty work.

The Corrigans saw Patrick pointing at them, and one grinned a gap-toothed smile and gave us a wink. He nudged the man next to him and they both stared at us with their hands thrust in their pockets.

They can't control Highgate, Patrick said. They're afraid of him.

Eamon Corrigan muttered something, and the two men laughed together for a moment. Then Eamon turned to me and with a forefinger pulled down his bottom eyelid, then spat overboard.