The Season of Open Water (9 page)

Bridge

Bridge can see the new turn in her brother's eyes, the quick new life. He begins to rub shoulders with the rich. Honey Lyons sets it up, hires him out. Luce gophers whiskey in to them, and in turn, he is invited to their parties. Lady Judith Martin's Dead of Winter party. Dick Wheeler's Spring Time Fling. In the summer, the parties become more frequent. He goes to lawn parties, supper dances, horseshoe matches and croquet. He will come home late, and the next morning he will tell Bridge the details of how he was introduced to one knot of them and then another. He laughs as he tells her how the women skirt him. He is a curiosity—a newly discovered, perhaps dangerous, token from the local underworld. They are careful at first, haughty, shy. They follow him with their eyes, then start to flirt, as women will. “Rakishly good-looking,” one says to another in a tone just loud enough for him to overhear. He teases them, and they blush and laugh, a little nervous; they look at him with some fear as if he might be a predator, as if they are unsure of exactly who he is— not one of them of course—but still . . .

He laughs as he tells Bridge about it, and still the invitations roll in. Once in a while, he'll try to coax her into coming with him.

“Come on. It'll be a big night. We'll have a fine laugh, fine food, music. You can be my date.”

She scoffs him off.

Halfway through the summer, he tells her that he has started up a small cottage operation of taking out the rich on his runs for a lark. “Idiot's work,” he calls it. “Joy rides for the money guys.” A few of them will book him for the night. He'll play the part and set the whole thing up like theater. He'll drive them out in the boat to Rum Row and the floating liquor stores. Occasionally he'll spice things up with a fake chase and scripted, preplanned danger. It is seasonal work. Summer work. He gets well paid.

One morning, the last week in August, he stops by the barn. Bridge is in the stable mucking out the stall. She has swept down the floor, raked the old bedding into the wheelbarrow, and dumped it outside in the manure pile. When Luce comes around, she is laying out the new hay with a pitchfork. He talks as she works. He leans against the doorway, his arms crossed, and tells her about a job he has coming up—on the last night of the month. He is taking out a few of the summer folk—Borden, you know him, don't you? He's got the knockabout beauty wife. Al Devereaux—the Frenchie—and another fellow, a friend of theirs, Vonn. Vonner. Some name like that.

Bridge stops for a moment, her hands gripping the fork, but Luce doesn't seem to notice. He is looking across the yard. “Sounds good enough,” she says.

“Well it is. But I need an extra hand.”

Bridge doesn't answer. She puts down the pitchfork and dumps a measure of oats into the trough. One of the stumped legs has broken off. She sets a block of wood under it to level the tray.

“It'll be a big night,” Luce says.

“You're a 'tute.”

His face reddens. “Hell I am. They pay a fine dime, Bridge.”

“And that's exactly it.”

“They're not all bad. Just rich, born into it. You can't hold it against them.”

“Which is funny coming from you since, of anyone, you do seem to hold it against them.”

He glares at her. “So that's a no, I take it.”

“Are all of them going out with you in the boat?”

“That's the plan.”

“I'll do it if I can go out too.”

“Out to the ship?”

“Yeah.”

“No, I need you on shore.”

She picks up the pitchfork again and thins out a clump in the hay. “Come on, Bridge.”

“Let me go out.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I have things set up.”

“That's not it at all,” she teases. “You're worried a girl on the boat's going to wreck your reputation.” She laughs.

He doesn't answer. The late summer light is weightless on his shoulders. His face is in shadow, and she cannot see his eyes. Behind him, in the tall oak, there is a flash of a yellow warbler through the leaves.

“Come on, Bridge,” he says again.

Her thoughts shift again to Henry. Then she leans the fork against the barn wall and brushes her hands off on her overalls. “Fine,” she says. “I'll do it.”

They meet at Albert Devereaux's house, down a gated lane off Horseneck Road. A young woman, the housekeeper, opens the door. She leads Bridge and Luce down a high-ceilinged hall, through a library and into a smoking room. Two men sit at a gaming table in blue plush gentleman's chairs. They are dressed in work clothes, dark jackets. There are caps and oilers in a pile on a chair. The work clothes sit oddly on them, and Bridge notices they are wearing dress shoes.

Albert Devereaux stands up as Luce and Bridge enter the room. “Hello there,” he says. Bridge can see that he is nervous. “Here you are then. So we're ready. This is Borden. Will Borden.”

Luce nods. “You have guns?”

“Guns?”

“Each man needs a gun.”

“I didn't realize—”

“That's how it is,” Luce says coolly as he walks around to the couch.

“I might have pistols,” Albert says. “Would that be adequate?”

Luce smiles. “A gun's a gun.”

“I didn't realize we would need—”

“Oh hell, Al,” Will Borden breaks in. “Don't be such a chump. Go dig around and see what you have. Where did Henry get off to?”

“Here,” says a voice from the doorway. Henry Vonniker comes into the room. He doesn't seem to see Bridge at first. He doesn't seem to register her presence. She stands by her brother, just behind Luce's shoulder, her face shadowed by the brim of her cap.

“Luce, this is Henry Vonniker,” Will Borden says. “ ‘Our Henry,' as my wife Alyssia has named him. I suppose we all assume some ownership. Henry, may I introduce Luce Weld, our host for tonight's escapade.”

Henry extends his hand. Luce takes it. Their eyes lock for a moment. Bridge can see that Luce is sizing him up.

“I'm not going tonight,” Henry says quickly, withdrawing his hand. He offers an affable smile.

Luce shrugs. “Fine.”

“I apologize. Just before you arrived, I was informed my friends gave you my name, signed me up as it were, but I can assure you I would be no use out there.”

Luce takes a long look at him. “Are you the one who works in the mills?”

“Yes, that's correct.”

“See much of the strike?”

“No,” Henry says. “The mill where I work did not cut wages. We're still in operation.”

“But you must see it. The strike, I mean. Driving through the city. I hear it's been bad.”

“I don't actually know,” says Henry. “That particular area of the city is not on my way to work, so in fact, I really haven't seen much of the strike at all.” He doesn't mention that he has gone out of his way not to see it. He keeps himself removed. He avoids what he can to the extent that he can. He drives a roundabout route to the mill so he does not have to pass through the strike zone. The details that he does take in—either from the papers or from what he overhears—he notices only from a distance, from one corner of an eye, the way he might observe early light gathering at the edges of the marsh, spilling through the tall grass on an incoming tide.

“Henry works in Bowes's mill,” Will Borden says.

“Oh right,” says Luce. “Bowes. Isn't he the one stepping up production—making a profit all summer while everyone else's workers are out on their bread lines?”

“Where did Al get off to?” Henry asks Borden.

“He's gone to get guns.”

Bridge, who has been watching Henry, sees him flinch.

“I hear you were in the war,” Luce is saying now.

Henry nods. “I was.”

“Where?”

“France.”

“At the front?”

“For a time.”

“Must have seen some big things over there.”

Henry hesitates for a moment, and when he speaks his voice is measured, composed. He fingers a line of piping on the sofa. “War is like anything else,” he says. “You see what you see. Do what you do. You adjust.”

“Like anything else?” Luce asks wryly.

“Like anything else.”

They are standing on either side of the sofa, facing each other. They are close to the same height, Henry a shade taller. Luce studies the other man's face, and Bridge can feel a small envy, a small hatred rippling off her brother. It is something no one else in the room might notice, but she can feel it. Her eyes shift again to Henry. There are dashes of light sweat at his temples.

“I hear you're a doctor,” Luce goes on.

“I was a doctor.”

“Ever work on a brain?”

Devereaux comes back into the room. “I could only find one— a pistol. Will that do?”

“We'll have to scare up one more,” says Luce, still looking at Henry.

“You won't really need guns out there, will you?” Henry asks.

“Might. Never know what you might need in this business. Might need a doctor.” Luce smiles. His teeth flash, rapid, white through his dark face.

“Anyone for a drink?” Borden says.

Luce turns away from Henry and sits down in one of the gentleman's chairs. He runs his hands down the upholstered arm, leans back, stretches out his legs.

“Look, Albert,” Henry says, “I've got to get going.”

“Oh, come on, Henry, stay for a drink,” Will Borden says, pouring out whiskey into four tumblers. “A drink for your girl, Luce?”

“Sure, I suppose. She's a good girl.”

And Henry looks at her then, takes her in for the first time. She sees the flash of recognition and something else she can't quite name.

“You sure you don't want to go with us, Doc?” Luce says to Henry, without looking up from the chair. But Henry doesn't answer. His eyes are on Bridge, and she can see then that he does not know who she is to Luce. He does not know she is his sister. He has made the first assumption, the easy assumption, that she is his girl, his companion, his wife.

“Good whiskey,” Borden says. He drains his glass. “Is this your stuff, Luce?”

“Not mine. I just slob it in. I'm the nothing guy.”

Albert and Will Borden laugh.

“How did you put it just then, Doc?” Luce goes on. “You see what you see—was that it? Well then, here's to what you don't see.” He raises his glass. The two other men join him, still laughing. Henry is looking at Bridge, but Luce has not noticed. He is turned away, toward the low fire in the grate. Then his eyes play through the room, over the black iron fire tools, across the mantel, the gold-rimmed sea-clock with the jet face, the silver candlesticks, the inlaid mahogany card table, the Chinese lamp on the rat-foot pedestal, a blue and white china vase, a jade figurine, a Waterford crystal bowl. Bridge sees him do it. He is making his inventory, setting down a file of these objects in his brain. It is simply how he looks at the world—how he always has, perhaps how he always will—assessing the value of fine things, weighing their worth.

Luce drinks off his glass, stands, and straightens the collar on his coat. “We'll be off then. Don't want to miss the tide.” He turns toward Henry. “So are you in, Doc?”

“No.”

“Don't like boats?”

“Boats are fine.”

“Don't like liquor?”

“Like I said, I'd be no use to you.”

“Not even a fluty champagne?”

Henry doesn't answer him. “Are you going out with them?” he asks, addressing Bridge.

“No,” she answers.

“Sure she's going out,” Luce says sharply. “She's my mate. Why? Does that change your mind?”

Henry shakes his head. “I have no intention of going out.” “What is it? You don't like guns?”

“I don't like guns.”

“Funny thing,” Luce says, “you of anyone, a big guy in the big war.”

“Exactly.”

“You aren't any good with a gun, then?”

“Drop it, Luce,” says Bridge.

She thinks of him on the ride out. It is a rough ride, a wind-chopped sea. The boat spanks the waves, and the damp night air stings her face. Just after midnight, they arrive at the ship, a Canadian bark, the
Dara Lee.
Bridge waits in the boat alongside as Luce and the other two men board. She watches the rum-ship crew. They are bunched together at first, but when they see her brother and recognize him, she notices that they begin to thin across the deck. She can see they don't quite trust him. Their beards are unruly, grown out over the long days at sea. She sees two men off to the side. One points to Albert Devereaux's dress shoes, bright, newly polished, poking out from under his oilers. They snicker, then catch her watching. They look away. The deck is piled with liquor, hundreds of cases and bursacks of whiskey, rum, gin. The rank, sharp smell of alcohol and the sweat of men is mixed in the cold salt air, and she notices suddenly that there is nothing in the scene that intrigues her. What she is witnessing is like any other trade of goods for cash. It is a business, like any other business, work like any other work. She smiles. She finds herself looking back toward land, thinking about Henry Vonniker. He is somewhere behind her in that darkness, beyond that paler skim of light that marks the shore.

She says his name quietly to herself and feels a small trip in her heart. He had left the house when they did. He had stood with Bridge in the drive as Luce and Will Borden checked to see that they had everything they needed in the truck. They were waiting on Albert who was still inside.

“You don't have to go with them, you know,” Henry had said to her in a low voice. He was standing near her and she could smell his skin—a fresh clean scent. He avoided her gaze, looking straight ahead. The light off the truck's headlamps played over his face. She marked the deep forks at the corners of his eyes and she could sense a brokenness in him as the darkness spun around them and they stood together on the smooth dirt drive in a soft imperfect ring of light.