The Silver Boat (13 page)

“Yes. Still just the answering machine.”

“Well, let me know what happens,” Delia said.

“You know I will. Love you.”

“Love you,” Delia said.

By then Dar had pulled onto the sandy road that led to Andy's house. Gold moonlight streamed through the thick salt pines. She and Scup got out of the truck; at the sound of the door slamming, Andy came to stand outside.

Barefoot, Dar walked up the steps. She put her arms around him, and kissed him for a long time. Scup stood by, wagging his tail. After a minute Andy pushed her back just enough to see into her eyes.

“You said you wanted to be alone tonight.”

“I thought I did.”

“I was pretty sure you didn't,” he said.

There were already bowls of water and dry dog food in the kitchen corner. Scup walked over and drank happily and sloppily. Andy's kitchen was small and efficient. Dar smelled something good simmering on the stove, but Andy led her into the living room.

It was about the size of the farmhouse mudroom, and gave into an even tighter bedroom. This had once been an old icehouse, and Andy had preserved the rough-hewn walls and timber beams. A curved whale jaw embraced an eight-pane window, looking out over the fields and trees in back.

Dar realized how rarely she'd been inside here. Usually Andy came to her. She touched the whalebone.

“What kind do you think it was?”

“A young sperm whale,” he said. “My great-grandfather caught it.”

She nodded. The Mayhews were an old Vineyard whaling family, just as the Daggetts, her maternal grandfather's family, had been.

The rest of the room had a green couch and lounge chair, nature books and birds nests of all sizes on shelves he'd built. Dar glanced into one finely woven nest of brown twigs and was surprised to see it lined with black hair.

“Came out of your lilac bush a few years back,” he said. “After the babies had fledged and the mother had abandoned the nest.”

She kept looking around, and found a photo he'd taken—on a hike last September, around the Aquinnah lighthouse and down to Lobsterville. It showed her smiling, sun glinting as she tried to shield her eyes. But you couldn't miss the affection she had for the man who'd taken the shot. She stared at it, barely able to realize that her mother had been alive at that time.

“So much has happened since then,” she said.

“It hasn't all been bad,” Andy said, standing beside her.

“No, it hasn't.”

She stared at his collections of seagull and osprey feathers, an owl pellet, quahog and razor clam shells, a tobacco tin holding old rusty lures he'd hooked while fishing—she remembered him telling her about hauling in a fifty-two-inch striper, finding three other lures hanging from his lower lip.

Twisted driftwood, sea-polished and sun-bleached, picked up on beach walks. She felt his hands on her shoulders and turned toward him. He kissed her hard, and she pressed her body into his. He led her to the bedroom.

It was dark, the only light coming from the other room. They knew each other's bodies by heart. She reached down, felt how hard he was, lay back on his bed. Eyes closed, she felt his mouth on her, making her writhe. He was on his knees, and she held his head in her hands, arching her back.

She could have come right then, but she needed him inside her.
“Andy
,
”
she said. She tugged at him. Her knees fell open even more as he slid up the bed, and she felt him hot inside her. She felt his hips banging into hers, harder and harder. He reached down between their legs, touching her, and she shuddered and thrashed, and so did he.

A long time passed. She fell asleep. When she woke up, she felt him behind her, arm across her chest. He'd covered them with a quilt.

“You awake?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Waiting for you to be.”

“Should I go to Ireland?” she asked.

“You could,” he said.

“But not now, right?” she asked. “I should wait till after the closing, and go then.”

“You could do that,” he agreed.

Her heart tipped over. She wanted to stay here forever. She and Scup and the cats.

He turned her around, pushed the hair back from her face, kissed her so tenderly she felt it in her toes.

“Darrah McCarthy,” he said.

“I don't want to go.”

“I think you have to. You and your sisters, or whichever one can pry herself loose from life with the family, go over to Ireland and turn over every damn stone till you find your father, or what happened to him.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” Andy said, staring into her eyes. “You know you have to, and I know you want to.”

She nodded, knowing she'd just made the decision to go to Ireland. She pressed herself against Andy's body, closing her eyes tight. He felt so warm; she wanted every inch of her skin to be touching him. Invisible threads connected them, holding them in a private world that existed whether they were together or apart.

O
ver the next days, Dar called her sisters to check in and talk about the plan. They'd both hoped to accompany her, but now Delia needed to stay home and wait for Pete. Rory had called on Jonathan to take the kids and Sylvia for a week or two. He lived within their school district, so nothing would be interrupted.

“What about Alys?” Dar asked.

“Jonathan is actually seeing reason on this. He wants the kids so badly, he's telling her she has to move out until I get back.”

“Good for Jonathan,” Dar said.

Morgan Ludlow was out showing properties when Dar phoned, so she left word that she would be in Ireland for a few days. Morgan could contact her by phone or e-mail. Meanwhile, she could deal with the same real estate lawyer Dar's family had always used—Bart Packard, in Edgartown.

Andy said he would feed Scup and the cats. It was mid-afternoon, and he'd come by to drive her to the airport. But the sun was beating down, making it hard to tear herself away. She looked around the yard, saw all the spring chores that had to be done.

“You don't know how much I'm going to miss pulling weeds,” she said. “I know every single one that comes back every year.”

“You'll find other weeds,” he said.

“But I don't want other weeds. I want our weeds.”

“You're all right, Darrah McCarthy. You're all right.”

High praise from Andy Mayhew. He drove her to the Martha's Vineyard Airport, walked her into the terminal while she checked her suitcase. He stood right beside her, as if planning to go with her. She had a moment of panic, checking to make sure she had her passport. Andy stayed calm, holding her book bag open while she searched inside.

“Got it,” she said.

“That's good. You all ready now?”

She nodded.

“Have a great trip and find everything you're looking for.”

“Do you think he's there?”

Andy smiled and shrugged. She looked into his weathered face, the deeply scored lines around his eyes, saw love, excitement, and integrity. He was the best man she knew.

“You better go, Dar,” he said. “They're loading the plane.”

“Thanks for taking care of the animals,” she said.

“Don't worry about anything. They'll all be fine. See you when you get back.”

They kissed, and she gave the attendant her boarding pass and walked out onto the tarmac. She boarded her Cape Air flight to Boston; it felt strange. She hadn't left the island in some time. The props began to spin, and they taxied toward the runway.

Andy had walked out the other side of the small building and was watching her go. She put her hand on the window to wave to him. The engines revved, the plane sped along the ground, then lifted up, wobbling on air currents, gaining altitude and leveling off, then straight north to Boston.

When they landed in Boston, she hurried through the concourse to Aer Lingus. Rory was already there, having driven up from Old Lyme. She'd stopped at the food court, bought sandwiches for dinner.

“How was your flight?” Rory said, hugging her.

“Short. Fine. Are we really doing this?”

“We sure are. I wish Delia could be here,” Rory said. “But she's home, waiting for Pete. Standing by the kitchen window, watching for his headlights, I suppose.”

“He's not home yet?” Dar asked.

Rory shook her head. “He needed his parents to wire him money to get his truck fixed. Delia knew how Jim would feel, so she did it herself.”

They found seats amid a large family of freckle-faced redheads. “Black Irish,” Dar heard the woman next to her mention to her husband.

Their flight was called, and they made their way onto the plane. Their seats were just forward of the wing. Rory had the window seat; Dar was stuck in the middle, next to a man speaking loudly on a cell phone. The plane filled up quickly, and soon the flight attendant was hurrying down the aisle, closing overhead bins. The door was closed, the man turned off his cell phone, and they started moving away from the gate.

“I feel as if we're celebrating,” Rory said.

“Our first time to Ireland.”

The pilot announced they were next for takeoff. He revved the engines and turned onto the main runway. Dar and Rory held hands.

“Kiss and fly,” Rory said, and they did.

The plane took off, banked hard right, and they were over the Atlantic. Dar leaned over as she and Rory stared down. Boston and soon the entire East Coast landmass receded from sight. Twilight was upon them.

Dar saw the endless white-capped sea spreading out to every horizon. It would take seven hours to fly across; it had taken her father a month to sail. She felt Dulse with her, ancient spirit of many sea voyages, and wished there were room in the cramped space to pull out her drawing things and start a new story.

Rory stared straight ahead, and Dar focused her gaze out the small window. The flight attendant brought the beverage cart around. Now they were above the clouds, the ocean invisible. Dar doodled images of Dulse on her napkin.

Rory brought out the bag of sandwiches. “Tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil on sourdough for both of us.”

“I'm not hungry,” Dar said.

“Yes, you are.”

“Rory . . .”

“We need strength for what we're about to do,” Rory said. “All of it. I won't even mention the Vineyard. But Dad . . . We have to stay strong to face whatever we find.”

“Either way, it's not good,” Dar said, turning to face her sister. “If he's alive, it means he chose to spend his life without us. And if he's dead . . . he's dead. We'll be mourning him all over.”

“We've never really stopped,” Rory said. “Isn't that how it goes when you just don't know?”

“It is.”

Rory sipped her double scotch. “I need fortification for what lies ahead.” She looked at Dar. “And behind. It's almost harder when Jonathan and I are getting along. We really saw eye to eye about Alys not being there with the kids.”

“That's great.”

“I don't want to be at war with him. I just want him back. It's a loop in my mind: Why did he have to leave me? We knew everything about each other. We were kids together. He'll never have that with her.”

“I know,” Dar said. “He must know it, too.”

“He does,” Rory said. “He hates what he's doing to me. But he wants out so bad, he can't seem to help it.”

“You seem calmer about it than you did at the Vineyard.”

“He and I have played on every inch of that island. I don't know. Maybe it's going to find Dad that's sobered me up. Maybe it's the magic of flying toward dawn over the sea. Time out of time.”

“It must be hard to make marriage last,” Dar said.

Rory shrugged. “I thought it was easy—you just loved each other. I'm worn down from wondering what I did wrong.”

Dar could almost see Andy back home, taking care of Scup and the cats. Had they lasted so long because they'd never moved in, never made it official?

Soon the movie started, and the flight attendant came around closing the window shades. Dar left theirs open a few inches so she could look out at the stars. Rory put on headphones, engrossed in the film.

It was too black to see the sea below. She imagined her father sailing in the dark, using the stars for guidance. Had he thought about Dar on his voyage to Ireland, the talks they'd had about constellations?

She gazed at the sky; a million stars seemed balanced on the end of the wing. They were guiding her to her father. She had missed and needed him for so long.

FROM “DEAR OLD SKIBBEREEN ,”
TRADITIONAL IRISH BALLAD