The Silver Boat (30 page)

F
or Pete, everything about it sucked. His mother had called to break the news to him about the house and to tell him how hard it was going to be for Dar. His mother had asked him to make sure to be at the family dinner with her and Rory, but there was no way Pete was going to sit at a table watching them break Dar's heart.

He had told his mother no, asked Andy for a couple of days off work, given a guy at the sober house a hundred bucks to let him take his car, and headed to the ferry. By leaving he was blowing his chance with Al, and he knew he'd have to move out when he got back. But still, he couldn't stick around while his family did that to Dar.

Driving north with no real destination, he'd felt some old familiar twinges. Not drugs, he told himself. He needed to get away from this sandy coast, head up to Maine where the air would have a tangy chill and the pine trees would grow on rocky promontories like they did in Alaska.

Driving straight through, radio on, he'd made it to Portland in record time, just kept hugging the coast and heading northeast. When he got tired that first night, he pulled over in a rest stop and slept a few hours. By first light, he was back on the road.

Maine looked good to him. He'd gotten used to the rugged beauty and hardships of Alaska. The colder temperatures suited him. He liked the scenery, and the sight of real working harbors. Just past Damariscotta he stopped at a diner, had blueberry pancakes and a lot of coffee. The thought of finding a meeting crossed his mind. But he pushed it away and started driving again.

The roads were pretty empty this time of year. He passed a few dingy motels that reminded him of where he'd lived in Dillingham. Slowing down past one, he took a long look. Junk heaps in the parking lot, shades down in all the windows, looked really downbeat and familiar. The crazy thing was, seeing that kind of place kicked off his craving.

Once it started, it was like a fever creeping up. His skin began to crawl, almost as if the physical addiction was back on him. Pete tried to stay focused on the road. He forced himself to drive about the Vineyard, figured the party would be over now. Trail of destruction back there, and he was glad not to be part of it. He imagined Dar, cringed at how she must be feeling. That thought made him want to use even more.

He stopped for gas across the bridge in Bucksport. Standing at the pump, he saw some guys in a pickup truck at the next island—commercial fisherman. The driver looked sort of like Andy, and he had lobster traps in the truck bed, so Pete walked over.

“Hey,” he said, nodding toward the traps. “How's it going?”

“Going okay,” the driver said. “After a lousy winter.”

“Yeah?” Pete asked.

“You fish?”

“I used to,” Pete said. “In Alaska.”

“Going after what?”

“Salmon.”

“You do okay at that?”

“Made my fair share,” Pete said. He noticed both guys were drinking coffee. They looked strong and healthy, about as far from drugs as Andy was. Talking to them made him feel grounded. The sleazy motel seemed very far away.

“Well,” the driver said when he'd finished pumping gas. “Nice talking to you. Have a good day.”

“You too,” Pete said. He went inside the convenience store, feeling ten times better. He bought himself a large coffee with lots of milk and sugar, then got back into the car.

The sky was bright blue, very clear. He had the idea that he would drive all the way to the Canadian border near Machias, then turn around and head home to the Vineyard. That would give Dar the chance to recover a little, so he wouldn't have to dread facing her so much.

Thinking of Dar, and how much he loved her, made him start to feel like crap again. He'd looked up to her when he was a kid; she'd been so good to him, always taking him places, twice even drawing him into her graphic novels. She'd given him two cameos, not even changing his name. His friends had said the character looked just like him.

Of all the people he'd let down, other than his parents, Dar was the one that he most regretted. She'd even stayed close when he was at his worst, as if she had faith in him that he couldn't begin to understand. All that, and here he was, the craving creeping back, covering him like spiderwebs.

Maybe driving to the border was a little too ambitious. He started thinking of that motel back along the road. He'd passed plenty of bars, too, some of them definitely seedy enough for what he had in mind. He had a nose for meth, and the kind of places he could get it.

Suddenly he was back in the “should I, shouldn't I?” world of craving. It had always been the same thing: he'd make a promise to last a day, or an hour, or another ten minutes. But he'd break out in a sweat, just like he was right now, and all his promises would fly out the window.

He found himself pulling over, waiting for the chance to make a U-turn and head south, back the way he'd come. That motel might be the right place. He could get a room; he could use a decent rest. He didn't have to go looking for meth, but if it happened to be there, then he could make his decision.

The miles sped by so fast, he couldn't believe it when he saw the neon motel sign, all but two letters burned out. This time, instead of just slowing down, he turned into the parking lot. The motel was one story high, about twelve units. The roof was sagging, a couple of windows boarded up with plywood. The office had red curtains pulled across the windows.

One of the junkier cars was up on concrete blocks; they'd probably sold the wheels. Another had left since he'd first driven past, but as he sat there he watched it pull in behind him—a dented blue Chevy, one flat tire, heavy plastic duct-taped over the broken rear window. The car limped down to the last spot in the row. A woman got out, giving him a shifty look as if she thought he might be a cop.

Pete didn't indicate anything one way or the other. He'd seen that woman before, and a hundred just like her. She was rail skinny, greasy hair, animal eyes. She had two little kids in the back seat, and he knew that when they got out of the car they'd be lucky if she fed them or changed their diapers.

She stared at him, then slunk into the last unit. The older kid, about four, had to open the back door and help his brother, maybe two, out of his car seat. They walked to the door and it opened a crack and shut again.

Pete's hands shook. He held his cell phone, staring at it, wondering why he hadn't charged it before leaving. The battery was low, but he had enough to make a call. He punched in Andy's number.

“Hello?” Andy said.

“It's Pete.”

“Where are you?”

“Maine.”

Andy took a deep breath. “Okay. Are you all right?”

“Yes, but about not to be.”

“Tell me what's going on, Pete.”

“I want to pick up,” Pete said.

“Have you yet?”

“No.”

“Then you still have a choice,” Andy said.

“I fucked up. I left Al's, and he won't let me back in.”

“You going to let that be your excuse?”

Pete was silent. He saw the curtain in the last unit move. He wondered about those little boys. It had made him sick in Dillingham, to watch how meth heads treated their kids. What if he just stormed the place, took those boys away, brought them to the police station?

He thought of Vanessa. The kind of father he'd been to her so far, since she was born. He'd finally met her on the Vineyard; he'd held her, she'd called him Daddy. Again he glanced at that last unit, knew that was the loser life he'd have to offer her if he used again.

He thought of how he'd made this escape from the Vineyard to avoid seeing Dar be hurt. And he thought of himself, how hard it had been to stay clean for this many days. The idea of going back to this made his head hurt more than the craving.

“You there?” Andy asked.

“Yeah. My phone's about to die.”

“Then listen fast. Here's what you do. Drive away from wherever you are while you have me on the phone.”

Pete had his hand on the gearshift. It took everything he had to put the car into reverse, back around, pull out onto Route 1.

“Okay,” he said. “I'm driving.”

“Have you eaten? Have you slept?”

“I could use both,” Pete said.

“So head to the next decent-sized town. Find a meeting first thing. You know how to make the call, so make it. Be sure you put your hand up, let people know you're having a tough time. Stick around afterwards, see if they're going to the diner. Okay? Have something to eat. Then take a power nap, and get back here.”

“But,” Pete began.

“You start back down that old path,” Andy said, “and I'm afraid we'll never see you again. You know what you have to do, Pete.”

“Okay,” Pete said.

“I need you back here,” Andy said. “We still have work to do, to finish up.”

“How's Dar?”

Andy was silent. Then, “She'll be okay.”

Perfect timing: Pete's phone quit. By the time he got to Camden, the sun was going down behind Mount Battie. He pulled into a gas station with a phone booth outside. The thing ate money, so he had to buy some gum and get change. He clanked in two quarters, dialed information.

“Can I have the number for Alcoholics Anonymous in Camden?” he asked.

The operator said yes, and the computer voice gave it to him. Pete's finger was shaking as he pressed the buttons. How many times had he done this before? Usually his cell service would have been long cut off, he'd be sicker than a dog, drinking and drugs taking him to his knees, the local pay phone his only way out.

“Hello,” a woman said.

“I'm looking for a meeting in the Camden area,” he said.

“There are two tonight,” she said. “One in Camden, one in Rockland.”

“Which one starts soonest?”

“There's a Step meeting at six-thirty, St. Thomas's Church in Camden. It's at 33 Chestnut Street.”

“Thanks,” Pete said, and ten minutes later he was parking his car, saying hi to people, following them into the meeting. There was coffee, cookies, meeting lists. He took a list, stuck it in his pocket. Fixing himself a coffee, he said hi to two older bearded guys, looked like fishermen, old-school alcoholics, probably never took drugs in their lives, standing at the end of the table.

“How you doing?” one of them asked.

“I'm good,” Pete said. “How about you?”

“Good,” he said. “I'm Joe. This is Turner.”

“I'm Pete.”

“You new to the area?”

“Just passing through.” Pete paused. “I haven't been clean long, and I feel like using. Meth.”

The two fishermen clapped him on the back.

“I'm glad you told us,” Joe said.

“Come on, sit with us,” Turner said.

The meeting was about to start, and they walked him up to the table, sat on either side of him. Pete felt his shoulders sink down, the weight of something terrible starting to slide away.

 

 

The Hideaway was well named. Dar knew her grandparents had built it as a beach cottage, the name meant to be whimsical. But to Dar right now it was dead serious. She closed the door behind her, hid away from the world. She turned her phone off, disabled her Internet connection. She thought about hanging a sign on her door:
No Contact
. It killed her to realize that the sign would be aimed at her sisters.

The movement of air hurt her skin. Every sound seemed magnified, startling her. The earth had shifted, and she was afraid that if she moved, she might slide off the edge and never stop falling.

Andy approached her gently. She lay on the bed, facing the wall. She felt him standing over her, saw his shadow on the pillow.

“You have to eat,” he said.

“I'm not hungry.

“I'll make you toast.”

“Andy . . .”

“Darrah, it's all going to be okay.”

What would be okay? She felt she had lost her place, not just on the island, but in her family. So much love falling away, trailing off, impossible to hold on to. She trembled, so tired of tears.

“Please eat, Dar,” he said.

“I don't want to. I know how much you want to help, I do . . . I can't stand myself like this.” She rolled over to face him. “Just let me get through it, and I'll be fine. I promise.”

“You will be fine, but I'm not going to leave and ‘let you get through it,' ” he said. “Don't you get it?”

“I do. I know you mean . . .”

Andy shook his head. He touched her tenderly, but his expression was stubborn. “I don't mean well. Is that what you were going to say?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you're wrong. I don't mean well at all. I'm not doing a good deed.”

“I'm fucking miserable, and I'm bringing you down.”

He actually laughed. “You're ridiculous. Bring me down? I love you and want you and am not leaving till you eat toast.”

She heard herself laugh.

He smiled, stroking her hair. “That's a little better.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Can I ask you, I don't actually want to hear but I have to know, have my sisters told you when this whole thing will be final?”

“I have no idea,” he said. “I'm too busy trying to make you eat.”

She watched him cross the small space, walk into the sunny kitchen. He opened a brown paper bag, took out a loaf of bread. She saw him pop two pieces into the stainless steel toaster, find butter and jelly in the refrigerator. When the toast was ready, he carefully fixed it for her, cutting the bread into triangles and arranging it on a plate.