The Pickle Boat House (6 page)

When Van came back into the living room Ryan was studying the collection of pictures she had on the wall above her couch.

He turned as she entered. “Daguerreotypes. These are amazing and in good condition. Are they family? I really like this one,” he said, pointing to the picture of a man and a woman, both dressed in black, gazing solemnly at the photographer.

“Yes. I love genealogy. I’ve done a lot of research, quite a few pictures, but these are my favorites, especially that one. It’s my great-great-great-grandparents, William Seagle and Eliza Kline. They look so young! They were married in 1850. I’ve always wondered if this was their wedding picture.”

“And the man in this one,” Ryan said, picking a picture up off the table. “Who’s this? He looks familiar. I think I know him from somewhere.”

“Him? I don’t think so. That’s my husband, Richard.”

“Oh, you’re married? You never mentioned that little nugget of information. Perhaps I should go.”

“No. Richard and I have been separated for a while. I just filed separation papers. When I have fulfilled legal separation requirements, I’m filing for divorce. Our life together is over and has been for a while.” Van shifted uncomfortably on her feet and flipped her hair back behind her ear. “Look, I’m not in the habit of spilling my life story to men I meet on the boardwalk, even if they do buy me ice cream. Is that enough information for you?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I do appreciate your honesty. I just don’t want to be the cause of any friction between you and your husband. As far as I know, I have never intentionally gotten involved with a married woman.”

“I can assure you that won’t be the case. I really just need a friend right now. Is that possible?”

“Sure,” he said, with a little laugh, and set the frame back on the table. “I’m pretty certain I’ve met your husband before. Wait,” he said, silencing Van with a finger to his lips and standing silently a moment. The blank, receptive look on his face gradually turned into a frown. “I wish I could say, but right now it escapes me. I’ll think a while on it.

“And who’s this?” he asked, turning his attention to the picture of a skydiver in free fall. “Awesome picture.”

“That’s my son. I love that picture. When he was a little boy he used to say he wanted to fly, but not like a plane, like a bird. He always wanted to go skydiving. That was taken the day after he turned eighteen. We took him skydiving for his birthday. She laughed. “It could be anyone under those goggles and helmet.”

“No, I can totally connect to this,” Ryan said with a quizzical look on his face. “I get almost a vicarious rush just looking at the picture. How old?”

Van was momentarily at a loss for words and wished she could take back the ones she had already spoken. “He’s gone. Six years after that picture was taken he was dead, killed in a freak accident right after law school.”

The mood in the room changed as a note of awkwardness hung in the air. She looked up at him with pain in her eyes but no tears.

“I’m sorry. You must think I’m an insensitive lout. It seems like all I ever do is apologize to you. How long ago?”

“No, it’s me. I should watch what I say. It makes it awkward. It’s been two years.”

“Still terribly hard, I imagine.”

“Very much so. The guilt and the longing. There are so many things I’d like to go back and … It’s overwhelming at times. I don’t like to think of him as a memory, you know? I think of him as something I’m moving
toward,
not away from. It’s not so much what he would have become or the potential he had; it’s what he was. I miss the essence of him, most of all talking to him. Does that make any sense? He was such a smart, interesting, funny person. That’s what I miss.” Van walked over and took the picture frame from Ryan. “I miss all the times he would bring his guitar into my room and play for me something he was learning. I miss the way he laughed, and I miss the way he always gave me thoughtful opinions on what I was wearing when I asked. I miss …” Van closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath.

“You know what really hurts? I never got to say good-bye. When my mother died I sat and held her hand and watched her life slip away, her breathing slow down, and her heart stop. I told her I loved her, and I was able to let her go. Not my son. He slipped away without a good-bye, and there will forever be the last time together I didn’t get, the last ‘I love you’ I didn’t get to say. He died wet, cold, and alone.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she blinked. “There is no closure. He haunts my daydreams and my nightmares. It’s difficult talking about him, but at the same time it’s hard to just dismiss him from my life.” She put her head down. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that. I don’t even know you.” Van studied Ryan’s face and smiled. “You are easy to talk to. Another time, maybe I’ll tell you about him.”

“So, let’s say we change the subject,” Ryan offered. His eyes lingered a moment longer on the photo as Van returned it to its proper place on the table. “This is a nice old house. I got a comfortable vibe as soon as I walked in the door. Lived here long?”

“Five generations of my family, every one adding character wrinkles, but no big changes over the years. It’s a great old house full of memories. Like the teething marks my father left over there on the windowsill—just big enough to totter around and get into trouble. Or the scratch marks on the cast-iron spindles of the railing on the steps heading upstairs. Every kid who ever set foot in this house learned that they could slide the little round decoration up and down each spindle. And every one of ’em got yelled at for scratching the spindles. Or the hatch marks on the door frame in the bedroom to measure how fast everyone grew. It’s all here.

“There have been a few unwanted changes, but not many. Had to cut down the big oak next to the house last year. That was hard. My son and his friend used to sneak out at night climbing down that tree. They thought we didn’t know, but it’s hard for kids to sneak around in a town this small—twenty sets of extra eyes keeping track of them. We always knew where they were and what they were up to. We let them think they got away with it. Why spoil a harmless childhood secret, right? Sneaking out is an ageless rite of passage.”

Ryan chuckled. “I think it’s a boy thing. Speaking of family, where do you find your genealogical information? Are there many records online?”

“People know I’m interested in genealogy, so they give me old things. Like those boxes over in the corner—Mrs. Morgan, my neighbor, gave them to me before she moved. I haven’t even looked in them yet. Some records are online, some down at the courthouse. They say if you want to trace your family, just follow the land. I’m constantly in land records.”

Ryan’s interest piqued immediately. “Does your courthouse here have land records? Of course, that would be easier, having them close by,” he added quickly.

“Yes. Just about all the records for this area are located right here. I’ve never had to leave Nevis to hunt down what I need.”

Ryan looked away as something moving outside the window caught his attention. “Did you know half a dozen people are outside taking pictures of your house? Is there something I should know—be heading out the back door, maybe?”

Van walked over and flipped open the curtain. “Tourists. Today it’s the oriental crowd. Relax. I don’t think you have to bolt just yet. The county welcome center has my house listed on the summer house tour. You know, drumming up business—any business. If only there was something here for them to spend money on.”

“No protection for the locals?” He chuckled.

“None,” she deadpanned. “Total victims. Welcome to the human aquarium.”

“What’s so special about the house?”

Van stood there looking at him for a moment, trying to decide whether he really was interested or was merely being polite. “It’s the last of the pickle boat houses. My great grandfather was a pickle boater, and he built and lived in this house. There used to be a lot of them strung out along the shoreline, but they’ve all since vanished, all but this one. Victims to time and progress. The residents of Nevis are proud, and their memories are long, and almost everyone in town has some memory or association wrapped up in this house. It’s like a living symbol of our shared heritage. It’s an everyman kind of house.”

“Like I said, I can feel it. It has an odd way of making me feel right at home. But I have to ask, what’s a pickle boater? I thought you
grew
pickles, not fished for ’em.”

Van laughed and shook her head in disbelief. “That’s right, I forgot. You’re a city boy. Technically, you grow cucumbers and pickle them to make pickles. You can’t actually grow a pickle.” She laughed, and her mood began to lighten. “We’re talking fish. Nevis wasn’t always known for its breezes and boardwalk. They say years ago there were so many fish in the bay, you could almost walk across their backs to shore. Can you imagine the water teeming with them, all glittering silver in the sun? This little nothing town was once very well known for its pickled fleet. They brought up the rear, content just to provide a good life for their families. Do you know anything about fishing in this area?”

Ryan shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Shad fishing was a thriving industry here. Fishermen lived in little bungalows, just like this one, plying their fishing trade. Farther up north, the bay narrows and the salt water mixes with fresh. In the spring, great schools of shad would come in from the sea and head north to spawn in the shallow fresh waters at the head of the bay. They say fishermen could go out with their little boats and gill nets and bring in enough profit in one season to tide them over for a year. Boats brought their hauls in and pickled them right here in Nevis. It was a good living for people … Unfortunately, success was also their undoing. They overfished and decimated the shad population until none of them could make a decent living. Progress wasn’t a friend to this town.

“When I was little we spent summers here. Every Sunday, we’d get dressed up and march ourselves down to Granddaddy’s pier, and he would take us to church by boat. The church sits back from the water, but there’s a dock right out front. Beautiful church. All the stained-glass windows tell stories about the sea and sailing, like Jonah and the whale, and Noah and the ark.

“I was my granddad’s favorite—followed him everywhere. If he was tuning up the car or working on the boat engine, my head was right in there beside his. My grandmother would call me into the house, yelling, ‘Vannie off the pickle boat!’ I was always bringing up the rear—the last to quit and come inside, too busy making mud pies on the front steps, chasing lizards in the rhododendron bushes, or tying the cat to one of the big porch posts. Me in my little jump suit, cowgirl boots, and a wild mass of dishwater-blond curls. I was the daydreamer, and I always dreamed that one day I would live in this house.

“So many good memories,” she said with a faraway smile. “I like to think this house represents everything that’s good and decent about people like my grandparents. They were honest, hardworking, and didn’t ask for more than they needed. They were at peace—settled and content with their lives. That’s how I would like my life to be.” She paused, then said, “If you’re up for a little field trip, I’ll show you around Nevis.”

“Madam, I am up for anything you suggest.” He grinned. “Lead the way.”

They headed out the back door to avoid the gaggle of tourists still photographing the house.

CHAPTER SEVEN
ONE MAN’S TRASH

Van and Ryan walked along the sunny boardwalk, admiring the town and the bay. Off to their right, the street ran parallel to the shore as far as they could see, before curving around a building and out away from the bay. Tall oaks lined the street and bordered a wide-open grassy space where a scampering herd of kids played tag. Every so often, a break in the curbing served as the sole reminder of an old driveway to a house long since disappeared. Pausing at one of the lookout points, forearms on the railing, Van and Ryan gazed out across the water. Haze lingered on the horizon as if in defiance of the beating sun, and the steel gray water looked like glass in the still air.

“Look, in the distance,” said Van, pointing across the water. “See the opposite shoreline? That’s Kent Island. Some days you can see trees. If you’re ever back this way, I could take you sailing … if you’d like. We could go over that way. It’s beautiful.”

“No, no, I’ll pass on that one,” Ryan said, putting his hands up. “I have a healthy respect for the water. I don’t even swim. You tell me about it while we’re standing on dry land. Not that I’m averse to coming back,” he added, quickly looking at Van. “Show me a pickle boat.”

“Can’t. They disappeared decades ago.”

“Well, so what are these boats pulled up along the dock here?”

“Those are oyster boats. Come on, I’ll show you what a pickle boat looked like.”

Across a sandy parking lot sat a solitary building of faded yellow clapboard trimmed in rusty red. An old train station, it must have been quite a looker in its day. A mansard tile roof and traces of fish scale siding on the dormers hinted at its bygone glory. The big windows, and what looked like a little ticket window, had long been boarded up. Uneven paint suggested that a huge porch had once stretched across the entire front of the structure, though now only cinder blocks stacked against the foundation gave access to the front door.

Van pulled a jingling ring of keys out of her pocket and popped open the padlock on the door. “Watch your step,” she said. “The porch was rotten and we had to pull it off.”

The old red door groaned a little as it opened, and the smell and feel of old, dusty air hung heavy, greeting them the moment they walked across the threshold and onto the old narrow-planked floor.

“Wow, what is all this jun—er, stuff?” Ryan asked, stepping in behind Van and peering into the gloom. At one end, the space was stacked nearly to the ceiling with boxes and papers. Clothes were neatly organized in one corner; newspaper clippings hung in old frames on the walls; and in a far corner, a life-size carousel horse with muted red, white, and blue embellishments stood still attached to its faded barber-striped pole. The stallion’s once fiery eyes now gazed back with a vacant, slightly dazed look—a sad reminder of a simpler, more innocent time. In between the more organized stacks were heaps of items piled haphazardly one upon another, their purpose and provenance indiscernible to the casual eye. An old-fashioned counter held flat trays of jewelry, and an antique cash register brooded under drapes of faded bunting.