The Midcoast, page 13
“And you’ll give me the facts?”
“I will.”
“And you have the facts?”
“I do.” She uncrossed her arms and pulled her phone from her pocket, reading a message or checking the time, I couldn’t tell, and then she asked if I could come to her house the next day.
I said I would have to check with Maeve, but probably, yes, and Steph turned and walked away, leaving me on the turf. The mist now looked more like sleet, and it was falling through the stadium lights, turning as bright and white as paper snow in a stage production. Something about the way she left, walking through the gate in the chain-link fence, reminded me of the first time we’d ever met, when she rode away from the lobster pound on the stern of her father’s fishing boat. She’d worn a faded stoner hoodie that day, peeled it off when the sun got warm. Now she wore a jacket, one of many, I’m sure, that would have cost more than my laptop.
How had she paid for it? Any of it? This had always been the question, even when Steph could claim it shouldn’t have been, that she and Ed had simply strived their way to the top. She still insists that she didn’t know what Ed was doing, that her schedule kept her too busy to notice, and while it sounds like a convenient excuse, I can attest that no one was more invested in our community than she was. I’m sure she really did have a lot on her plate. Keep in mind, too, that Ed had explained away their fortunes by the rising price of lobster and his willingness to work long hours, a version of their story that Steph had told often enough to turn it into her own kind of gospel. And we bought it. Why wouldn’t we? Just look at the small empire they’d built by the time Maeve and I moved back to Maine: the landscaping outfit, the Pound, the apartments, the boats, the commercial vehicles, all of them painted gray, stenciled with the Thatch name in yellow-and-blue reflective paint.
But what about Ed? How much did he think about his family’s place in the world? Well, I know he was proud of it. This was made clear at almost every one of our lunches. He enjoyed paying for me. I saw it even if he never said it. The symbolism. To some extent, I get it. When your head is down, and you’re trying to outrun your past, your upbringing, anyone who’s ever doubted you, I can see how you might round a bend and enter a straightaway and realize, or fail to realize, that no one’s giving chase anymore, that you’re the only one still running. Ed was trying to give Steph the life he thought she deserved, and he believed deep down that she deserved everything, so of course he was bound to keep going until he’d acquired all there was to acquire, or until Steph told him, very clearly, that he’d given her enough already.
Take Ed’s lobster boat. What it became. Were the changes vital to the family’s well-being? Probably not. Ed had converted it from a workboat into a pleasure cruiser. He wanted Steph to be comfortable, he said, to be able to sit on something other than a folding hunter’s chair in a boat that smelled like something other than bait and motor oil. The project took two years to complete, and one of the first trips they made on the new and improved Miss Stephanie was to Southport for the party Ed had thrown in tribute to their marriage (just because Steph had made an offhand remark, during an argument about saving for Allie’s education, maybe even a wedding reception someday, about how Ed and Steph had never really had their own wedding reception, only a poorly attended ceremony in Damariscotta’s municipal offices), and on the way to the island, he kept saying, “See? Ain’t you happy I fixed her up for you?” even if Steph had never seemed to care all that much about the boat. She was prone to seasickness. She didn’t even like going past the end of the river.
It was Ed who wanted to show off the work. At the party in Southport, he brought a half-dozen men and Chief Hunt down to the dock (nearly simultaneous to my smoking the joint on the cliffs) to admire the Miss Stephanie’s new look. Most of the others hailed from up-peninsula: Ben Thatch, an attorney named Jamie Kerry, Steph’s Pilates instructor, and Allie’s former pediatrician. Ed had painted the hull, made her more of a regal argent than the old battleship gray, gutted the cabin and installed a V-berth and a proper head. He had done all the woodwork himself, lining the wheelhouse in glossy teak over the previous two winters. He had installed two captain’s chairs, one for him, one for Steph, upholstered them both in white sea-proof leather, and special-ordered matching drop-down seating to go in the back where the bait barrels used to stand. He had ripped out the hydraulic winch and replaced the pulley that hung above the helm with a brand-new stainless-steel model. That and the pink-and-yellow buoy atop the wheelhouse were all that remained to mark the boat as one that had, back in the day, been used for real commercial fishing. “It’s impressive,” Jamie Kerry said of the boat. “Can’t believe what you’ve done here, Ed. Congrats.”
“Real fancy,” Chief Hunt said.
“It’s beautiful, Ed,” the pediatrician said.
There were more compliments paid, but after fifteen minutes or so, once they had run out of boat parts to name and alcohol to consume, the men headed back up the stairs, returning to the bar. Only Ben, Chuck, and Chief Hunt stayed behind.
“Hey, Ed,” Chuck said, thumbs hooked in the waist of his pants, bolo tie dangling over a short-sleeved shirt. “Isn’t EJ supposed to be taking summer classes?”
“Yuh,” Ed said. “He’s just down for the weekend.”
EJ was enrolled as a parks, recreation, and tourism student at the University of Maine, or at least he lived in an apartment near campus with his girlfriend. It wasn’t clear how often he was making it to the lecture hall.
“Seems like he’s been getting plenty of sun,” Chuck said.
“They get sun in Orono.”
“He’s got a face full of red everywhere except the eyes. I went up to him and said, ‘Where’d you get them Oakleys?’ You can still see the lines. He looks like a pink raccoon.”
Hunt laughed.
“You ain’t one to talk,” Ed said to Chuck. “That’s how you look every time we get off the water.”
“Yuh, takes one to know one,” Chuck said, “and I’m pretty sure EJ’s been spending some time on the water, too. Jason Page told me EJ helped him with that run up near Bar Harbor.”
“EJ did?”
“Yuh.”
“He’s not supposed to help.”
“I’m aware.”
“The boy’s always wanted to pitch in,” Ben said.
“Don’t involve him,” Hunt said.
“He’s not involved,” Ed said.
The wake of a distant ferry arrived and started rocking the Miss Stephanie against the dock, the lines groaning, the fenders squeaking.
“Ed, here’s the thing,” Chuck said. “He’s already involved. You can only put so much lube back in the tube. At this point, EJ’s seen a lot. You might think about bringing him all the way in.”
“We don’t need him all the way in,” Ed said.
“Amen,” Hunt said.
Ed glared at her. “Or maybe you could use some help.”
“With what?”
“Whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing.”
“You get what you pay for.”
“That’s your sales pitch?”
“If you’re dissatisfied with my work, Ed, you can put a call in to the Association of Amenable Cops and log an official complaint. Until then, I’m all you’ve got.”
“Speaking of all I’ve got,” Ed said, “ ‘fancy’? What was that all about?”
“I was just saying.”
“How is this fancy?”
“Just is.” She had something in her mouth, a piece of ice maybe. “Look at it for Christ’s sake.” Ed did look at the boat, if only to appreciate it again, finding nothing to apologize for. The boat was classy, sure, but not fancy. He turned back to Hunt. She had been his “head of security” ever since she called Ed on her second day with EJ, making vague threats but giving Ed a way out, demanding a cut, promising that if she were on his side, Ed would never, ever receive serious pressure from the law, not when she could warn Ed before the trouble came. Ed had asked her what kind of trouble they might have to face, and as she stumbled through an answer, Ed realized that she didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. She had nothing on him—or very little anyway. But then he started to consider the possibilities. He could use someone on the other side of the law. If she was willing, why not? Since then, Ed had been paying her a steady retainer, some of which she spent on a white-hulled fishing boat, some of which she spent on—well, otherwise, Ed couldn’t say what she did with her money. Or what she had done, exactly, to earn the money. He didn’t like that she had resumed drinking soon after brokering the deal. He felt duped by that. One of her primary tasks was to make sure none of their products ever made it back to Lincoln County, and for the most part their neck of the woods had indeed stayed clean, but Ed had demanded the same assurance from everyone else he did business with, in addition to forbidding his crew from breaking into any homes on either side of the river. They had kept this stretch of the Midcoast safer than anywhere else in Maine, but if anyone deserved the credit for that, it was him, not Hunt.
“It’s a workboat,” Ed told Hunt.
“Ha,” she said. “Not anymore.”
“Ed’s a successful business owner,” Ben said. He coughed and removed a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his blazer.
“Wink-wink,” Hunt said.
Ben shook his head, holding the rail of the Miss Stephanie to keep himself upright. He stood with a stoop now. He was nearly eighty years old. Discolored spots were spreading across his scalp. “No, no,” he said. “Ed has a source of steady income and no reason not to own a few nice things. It would be almost more of a red flag if he didn’t own anything nice. As long as he doesn’t go overboard with it, and I don’t think the boat’s overboard—I think it’s in good enough taste—he’ll be all right.”
“This gin’s in good enough taste,” Hunt said, gazing at the bottom of her empty cup.
But by then Ed had stopped listening. He had caught sight of Steph at the rail by the gazebo, looking in their direction. This was the scene I witnessed from the cliffs, the moment that marked the end of my good time. I remember Ed raised his hand and waved. But Steph didn’t wave back. Instead she turned and walked away.
* * *
—
That night, after they had retired to their suite in the inn, Ed lay on the bed in his suit pants and undershirt, watching Steph take off her earrings and makeup. She was still in some kind of mood, but he made no effort to decode it, which only made the mood more pronounced. The room had a deck that overlooked the ocean, the sliding door jammed open. Outside, the waves were smashing against the rocks and the younger guests were laughing by the firepit.
“Some party,” Ed said.
Steph didn’t respond right away. She was fiddling with the clasp of her necklace, looking in the mirror.
“I said that was some party.”
“Uh-huh,” Steph said. “This clasp keeps getting stuck in my hair.” Finally she was able to unhook it. Then she took off her dress, went into the bathroom, started to pee.
“Wonder what Allie’s doing,” Ed said.
“What?” Steph said from the bathroom.
He said it again, louder, but Steph didn’t say anything back. Instead she flushed the toilet and started running the faucet.
“So you don’t care?” he asked.
“Care about what?” Steph asked through the open door.
“Allie.”
“Oh,” she said. “I couldn’t hear you.”
“But what do you think she’s doing?”
“I don’t know—nothing. Having fun.”
“I saw her talking to Dougie Page earlier.”
“So they ran into each other.”
“He wasn’t invited though.”
Steph turned off the light in the bathroom and came into the suite, wearing only her underwear. She leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms. She started to say something, then stopped.
Ed waited a moment, hoping Steph would drop whatever was on her mind, but she kept staring at him, making it clear that he was supposed to acknowledge the unacknowledged. He exhaled heavily. “Might as well say what you’re gonna say.”
“Fine,” she said. “I will. Chief Hunt was in the Schooner the other night. Refused to pay her bill again.”
After a moment, Ed said, “That so?”
“Yup, and here’s the thing,” Steph said. “It’s like she doesn’t expect to be asked. Like it’s a real affront to her sensibility.”
“So what—you want me to talk to her?”
“You’ve asked me that before.”
“Just trying to help.”
Steph studied him for a moment, then said, “I saw you with her and your brother and Ben on the boat.”
Ed pretended to think back. “Yuh, we went down there cuz they wanted to see the changes I made for you.”
“For me?”
“Yuh.”
“Classic.”
“You don’t like the boat?”
“I like the boat,” she said. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“You’re talking about seeing us down there.”
“And not for the first time.”
“Not for the last.”
“What?”
“Won’t be the last time, I bet.”
“That makes zero sense, Ed.”
“Steph,” Ed said, “you want me to count all the times I seen you talking to more than one person tonight? That’s how a party works. Folks congregate.”
“Listen,” she said, standing straight, pointing at Ed. “If I saw it, someone else could have seen it.”
“So? I was showing em a boat. People wanna watch us looking at a boat? Let em.”
“Okay,” she said after a long pause. “Fine, Ed. But I’m telling you—I don’t like being in the dark. Or getting lied to. Chuck’s your brother. Ben’s your cousin, or close enough. But Chief Hunt? Hunt’s the one I don’t understand. And other people are gonna feel the same way. How do you even know her? Why is she hanging out with you, Chuck, and Ben? It’s a little odd, don’t you think?”
“It’s a small town, Steph.”
“Exactly.” She peeled the coral-print duvet back and slid under the sheets. “The other night, after Chief Hunt was done getting blasted, do you know what she said when I gave her the bill? She said, ‘Give it to Ed.’ She said you would take care of it. That’s what I don’t fucking understand: Why you of all people would be the one to take care of it.”
* * *
—
The following spring, Ed drove from Bremen to Damariscotta on a rainy day, the clouds hanging low over the river in forlorn communion with the water, lights blazing in all the stores other than Ben’s. He was in hospice by then, and the store had been closed for months. On more than one occasion, Steph had remarked that the dark space presented an eyesore and was bad for the whole town’s business, but this was her domain, not Ed’s. She had an awareness of such things and had turned herself into one of the most vocal members of Damariscotta’s town meetings, an advocate for preservation. And modernization. Her plans for the town were what she worked on in the mornings, in her office, with blueprints, notepads, and sketch paper spread around her like the charts of a fifteenth-century explorer. She authored a plan to bring in tourism, homeowners, and tax revenue, and projected a new village full of modern amenities and welcoming storefronts, with green space on the one side, parking on the other. She’d presented this vision to the chamber of commerce in a series of PowerPoint slides, but her audience was hesitant. This was because they were cave dwellers, Steph told Ed, afraid of the outside world. They balked at the proposed budget, even after Steph assured them that the project would pay for itself down the road by expanding the tax base. One of the chamber members worried that the town might become unrecognizable to itself, and in response Steph had blurted out, “Fine!” and the room went silent. As soon as Steph realized her mistake, she tried to take the interjection back, or to explain what she had meant by it: In order to stay solvent, the town had to stay relevant, and in order to stay relevant, it had to adapt with the times. But the damage was done, motion defeated. The next motion she submitted was one to change the town bylaws and allow candidates who weren’t residents to run for town manager, but this proposal wasn’t likely to pass either. She needed more votes, she told Ed. She needed more people who really understood the complexities of the issue, more people who had seen the world beyond Damariscotta.
Ed was not one of these people. To him, downtown Damariscotta looked pretty much the same as it always had, with everything you might want: a gas station, a post office, a couple restaurants, a couple bars. Actually, it used to have more. It used to have a hardware store and a grocery store. But to miss these things, Steph would say, was to indulge in the type of nostalgic, sentimental thinking she had no patience for.
Over the bridge Ed followed the old, familiar drive past the convenience store, around the softball field, half-covered in snow. He parked in the lot across from the high school gym, walked to the glass doors, and peered inside. He saw boys playing baseball on the far side of the court, lacrosse on the near side (I was in there somewhere, tearing up my practice plan and dodging errant rubber balls). Ed wouldn’t have had any way of judging how good or bad the lacrosse was. He had never seen the game before, only was aware of it through infrequent highlights on SportsCenter, thought it was a game for college boys like me. He was surprised to see it played in his old high school (it hadn’t been a sport Lincoln offered in his day), and he was disappointed to find that softball tryouts had finished early. He’d been hoping to catch a glimpse of Allie in action.
