Generation Loss (8 page)

"No,"
I said.

As
if by magic, the waitress appeared and set down two more beers and a glass of
red wine.

You
know you're not supposed to do that in here, Toby," she scolded.

The
bearded man smiled sheepishly, pinched out his cigarette, and stuck it back
behind his ear. His friend stood, silent, beside him. The sleeve of his suede
jacket had ridden up so that his wrist was exposed, the scar grayish in the dim
light.

I
looked at him uneasily. I hated that he'd seen me before I saw him. The sense
I'd had earlier, that overpowering taint of fear and damage—it wasn't gone, but
it was definitely subdued. I thought of how he'd jumped away and cracked his
head on the door.

I'd
surprised him. Now he'd surprised me. I picked up one of the beers and took a
long pull.

"I'm
Toby Barrett," said the bearded man. He picked up the other beer and
raised it to me. "I hear you're looking to get to Paswegas."

"How'd
you know that?"

"Everett
told me there was a lady looking to get over."

"Oh
yeah? Is he here? He fucking bailed on me when I called him this
afternoon."

"You
mean he wouldn't take you over in the dark?" Toby Barrett seemed amused.
"You're lucky he answered his phone."

He
pulled out the chair across from me and sat. "You're from away, aren't
you? Not me." Toby cocked a thumb at his friend. "Not him,
either."

I
finished my beer. "What about Everett Moss?"

"No.
Not Everett," conceded Toby. "Everett was squoze from a rock."

"You
know her?" His friend pointed to my bag beneath the table. "Aphrodite
Kamestos?"

"Yeah.
Sure I do."

He
stared at me coolly then smiled, his teeth white and uneven. "You're
lying."

I
set one booted foot atop my bag. He finished his wine, set down the empty
glass, and pushed the full one toward me.

"I'm
outta here," he said. "You can drink that, if you want. In case all
that Jack Daniel's isn't doing the job for you."

I
said nothing. He turned and walked away. I watched him hand a few bills to the
bartender then head for the door. He had an odd loping pace, his head thrust
forward and staring downward, hands shoved into his pockets.

At
the door he turned and stared at me. He smiled again, his mouth moving
silently, but I could read what he said.

Liar.

A
blast of cold air rushed into the
room as he disappeared outside.

"The
fuck," I said.

"I
beg your pardon?" said Toby Barrett.

"Nothing."
I desperately wanted to leave, but I didn't want to run into that guy again.
Whoever the hell he was.

"Gryffin,"
said Toby. "With a Y. Don't mind him. He's always like that."

"Like
what? Fucking rude? And who the hell names their kid Gryffin?"

"It's
a respectable old hippie name. He's not rude, really—"

"Oh
yeah? He just picked up my book and—"

"Well,
he didn't hurt it now, did he?" Toby's voice was low and calming. I
imagined he'd be good with fractious children or dogs. "That's just what
he does. He's a rare book dealer. What about you? You a friend of
Aphrodite?"

"Not
a friend, exactly. I'm seeing her on business. Assuming I ever do see
her."

He
looked surprised, then said, "Well, okay. We'll get you out to the island.
Don't worry." He finished his beer. "What's your name?"

"Cass
Neary."

"Right.
Well, Cass Neary, I'm off too. Got to get up at the crack of dawn. Nice meeting
you."

He
nodded and left.

I
paid my bill then went back outside. Three beers and two shots of whiskey did a
lot to neutralize the cold. Gryffin was nowhere in sight. I walked down to the
granite pier and looked out across the harbor. I could near the creak of boats
rocking, the thin rustle of wind in the evergreens. The northern sky arched
overhead, moon so bright I could read the names of the lobster boats:
Ellie
Day, Aranbega II, Miss Behave.

Somewhere
out there was Paswegas; somewhere beyond that a hundred other islands unknown
to me, unnamed. I heard a low thrum, turned to see the running lights of a
small boat cruising slowly along the shoreline. A green light on one side, red
on the other, like mismatched eyes.

Our
gaze changes all that it jails upon.

I
stood and watched it move through the darkness. Did people here fish at night?
Did they ride around in their boats for fun, looking for frozen lobsters?

My
eyes teared, from cold and strain. I rubbed them and looked out again.

The
running lights were gone, the outboard's thrum silent. Nothing else had
changed.

I
drove back to the Lighthouse. I went slowly; Id had a lot to drink, and the
road wound perilously between woods and steep hills where the shoulder fell off
into sheer rock that slanted down toward the sea. Then it was woods again. Even
driving slowly, the car seemed to lunge through the forest. Trees momentarily
shrank from its passage then loomed back into place. I gazed into the rearview
mirror, entranced. It was a spooky effect but also hypnotic. I looked back at
the road in front of me again.

A
black form stood in the middle of the tarmac. I swerved to avoid hitting it,
swerved again so I wouldn't plow into the trees.

A
deer,
I thought, my heart pounding,
and brought the car to a crawl. But it wasn't a deer.

It
was Mackenzie Libby. She had been walking toward Burnt Harbor, but now she
turned to stare at my car, her baggy pants flapping like wings, her face a
white crescent in the folds of a hooded sweatshirt. Her eyes caught the red
glare of my taillights and glowed like an animal's. Her mouth opened. She
yelled something I couldn't hear. It wasn't an angry sound, more questioning or
pleading. Then my car rounded another curve and she was gone.

Stupid
fucking kid!
I thought, but at least
the encounter had woken me up. I drove the rest of the way without passing
another car, or person, and reached the Lighthouse ten minutes later.

I
wanted to be nowhere near Gryffin. I considered asking Merrill Libby for
another room, but that seemed a little paranoid, even for me. Plus the office
lights were off. I hopped out of the car and ran across the empty lot. I
entered my room on tiptoe, locked the door and drew the curtains, then angled
the room's single chair beneath the doorknob. Security didn't seem a high
priority at the Lighthouse—there was no deadbolt, only a flimsy-looking chain.

And,
of course, no telephone. But my choices were limited to staying there or
sleeping in my car. I'd probably freeze to death if I did that. So I made sure
the heat was cranked as high as it would go and got ready for bed.

It
was only when I switched the light off that I realized there was no clock in
the room and, natch, I had no travel alarm.

I
checked my watch. It was just after nine. The last time I'd turned in that
early I was ten years old. At least I'd get a good night's sleep and wake in
plenty of time to meet Everett. I lay in bed, listening to the plastic crackle
every time I moved, half expecting to hear a knock at my door or on the few
inches of sheetrock that separated me from Gryffin. But there was only the
sound of wind, and mice scrabbling in the ceiling.

The
alcohol had done its job. I was drunk and exhausted. But I couldn't sleep. I
kept listening for the sound of a car pulling up outside. The thought of
Gryffin in the next room wouldn't leave me, like that sick rush when someone
else's pain lingers like the aftertaste of blood. It wasn't even him I was
thinking of, but the photograph of him, that unguarded, reckless eruption of
joy on the face of a total stranger.

I
switched the light back on and fumbled for the copy of
Deceptio Visus,
took
out the photo and stared at it.

A
happy man at a party. Sun, bougainvillea, and a champagne flute. That was all.

Our
gaze changes all that it falls upon.

I
looked around the motel room. Nothing had changed here in forty years. I slid
the photograph back into the book and turned out the light. At some point I
fell asleep; I at some later point woke, to the noise of car wheels on gravel
just outside my room. I lay there listening to a car door opening and closing,
and then as the door to the next room slammed shut. I held my breath. Would he
be able to tell I'd been in there? For a few minutes I listened as someone
moved around on the other side of the flimsy wall. There was the sound of a
flushing toilet and, finally, silence. I huddled beneath the blankets, telling
myself that my anxiety was meaningless, that nothing was different, and that at
any rate by the morning I would be gone. Only the last of these was true.

9

I
woke with a blistering headache, reached for my watch then sat bolt upright.

Seven-ten.
I was supposed to meet Everett at six.

I
stumbled out of bed and pulled on my boots—I'd slept in my clothes—grabbed my
bag and ran out to the car, my boots sliding on a sheen of ice. Sunlight
streamed across icy puddles; the grass glittered with frost. The Volvo that had
been in front of Room I was gone.

The
door to my car was iced shut. I scraped at it with my room key until I could
finally pull it open. Inside, I jammed on the defroster and started backing up
without waiting for the windshield to clear. I pulled over by the office, ran
inside, tossed my room key onto the desk then raced back to my car. As I
started to drive off I saw Merrill Libby yank open the office door.

"Hey!"
he shouted. "Did you—"

"I
can't," I yelled back. "I'm late—"

He
stumbled down the steps as I roared off, his face bright red. Maybe he was mad
I didn't stay for coffee.

The
road was slick. I drove as fast as I dared until I got stuck behind a
schoolbus. By the time I reached Burnt Harbor, it was seven-thirty. I drove to
the waterfront and hopped out of the car.

I
saw no one. A few pickup trucks were lined up at dockside. Gulls circled above
the water, keening loudly. The lobster boats were gone.

I
shaded my eyes and looked across the harbor. I could see the islands clearly
now, bathed in morning light. The nearest one was a slaty blue, its jagged
headland softened by golden mist. A small white shape churned toward it from
the harbors mouth.

I
hoped that wasn't my ride. I turned and headed for the Good Tern.

It
was more crowded than it had been the night before. A different waitress
hurried between tables and gave me a brusque nod. "One?"

"I'm
looking for Everett Moss." I scanned the room, trying to figure out which
burly man in a Carhart jacket and gimme cap might be the harbormaster. "Is
he here?"

"Everett?"
The woman frowned. "He was here earlier, but I think he went out. Hey,
Toby—"

She
called to a man sitting alone at a table by the window. "Where'd Everett
go?"

Toby
Barrett looked up from a plate of eggs and bacon.

"Everett?
He left a while ago." When he saw me, he blinked. "Oh. It's you. You
know, I think he was waiting for you—"

"Well,
he didn't wait long enough," I snapped.

"Have
a seat." Toby nudged a chair toward me with his foot. "You want
coffee?"

"Yeah,
sure."

I
slumped into the chair. Toby paid me the courtesy of turning his attention back
to his food. He was wearing the same clothes as the night before, with the
exception of a faded T-shirt commemorating the 1975 solar eclipse in Boze,
Montana. After a minute the waitress brought me coffee and a menu.

"I
can't eat," I said. I held my head in my hands. "God, I can't believe
this." I picked up my coffee, grimacing. "So where the hell is
Everett's office, anyway? If I had been able to find him?"

"His
office? That would be it, there—"

Toby
gestured out the window to a red GMC pickup.

"His
truck?"

"Yup.
He give you his home number? That's the best way to get hold of him, unless you
radio him on his boat. Not much cell reception up here."

I
drank my coffee miserably, hoping I wouldn't get sick. "I overslept. But I
thought he’d at least wait."

"He
did. For a while, anyway. He was in here for breakfast—he's here every
day." Toby speared an entire fried egg and ate it in one bite. "But
then he got another paying customer, so he left."

"Will
he come back?"

"Not
for a while. He'll make his delivery. Then he'll probably be out hauling
traps."

"Shit."

I
finished my coffee. The waitress set a fresh pot on the table, along with a
plate of toast. I picked up a piece and ate it slowly, fighting nausea.