Thomas Prescott Superpack (27 page)

Chapter 62

It’s been two weeks and the four of us are drinking beers on the deck of
The Backstern
. Caitlin isn’t with us. She relocated to a state that started with an A. She said she didn’t want it to be too difficult if I did decide to seek her out. Oh, and she wasn’t pregnant. Private Prescott hadn’t slipped into Fort Dodds after all. At least that’s what she told
moi
.

The first magazine came out yesterday, it was
Time
. Tristen and Conner’s faces split the cover underneath the caption “The Maine Catch.” This wasn’t a coincidence, and yes the size of my hook has grown into something of a legend. The details of the story were rough and dry, the four of us were keeping the juicy stuff confidential, only to come out in Alex’s sequel later in the year.

Alex still wanted to call it
Encore in October
. I was rallying for
The Thomas Prescott Apology
. Lacy was lobbying for some stupid play on words about her blindness, like
Unforeseen
. And Caleb, (yes, Caleb had somehow clung to life and scrambled onto the rock formation we’d collided with. We found him the next day asleep with a certain pug, don’t ask).

Caleb was in favor of
Autumntrocity
, which after everyone heard, decided to second. Well, everyone but me. I thought
The Thomas Prescott Apology
had a nice ring to it, but Lacy made the point; it sounded like I was the one doing the apologizing. I guess it still needed some tweaking.

The four of us clinked beers to being alive, Tristen and Conner being dead, and the beautiful autumn day. I descended to the cabin and grabbed a second cooler of beer. I had the boat cleaned, two thousand dollars’ worth to be exact, and a monument of sorts erected in Kellon’s honor. I figured if I live in a house that has dealt with death; I can
notsail
in a boat that has done the same. The monument was a bench seat much like the one before, with a cushion enshrined with Kellon’s name and the quote, “Sailing’s the best thing in the wool-wide-wuld.”

I flipped the cushion up and pulled out one of about fifteen kites. I decided I would hand out the kites to the kid who successfully docked Captain Dipshit’s schooner.

That tradition, however, would start next year.

Author’s Note

I wrote this book when I was 22.
I can’t believe this book has been out for ten years already. I feel like I was just a kid when I wrote it. Anyhow, I know it is a bit crass and the ending is a bit rushed, but I wouldn’t change a single word. This is my baby. That being said, I have come a long way in the past decade. Hope you enjoy
Gray Matter!

Nick

GRAY MATTER

nickthriller.com

Chapter 1

The phone rang. It rang again. It rang a third time. The answering machine kicked in halfway into the fourth ring.

Click.

“
Hello, caller. I’m going to be gone for the next couple weeks. I’ve set out to find the guy who coined the phrase ‘It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all’ and blow his brains all over the sidewalk. You can leave a message if you want, but odds are I’m either in jail or dead. Happy holidays. Live long and prosper. Jesus loves you. The pen is mightier than the sword. Vote yes on 3B. Always compare to the placebo. Seat belts save lives. Freedom
.”

Beep.

A voice gave an exasperated sigh, then started. “Nice message, Thomas. Very eloquent. I would tell you that you’re an idiot but you already know that. I know you’re home. In fact, I know you’re lying on the couch with your blue comforter. There’s probably a jar of peanut butter, the jelly, a loaf of two-week-old bread, and about ten juice boxes sitting on the coffee table.”

I lolled my head to the left and peeked at the glass coffee table.
Skippy Extra Creamy. Welch’s raspberry preserves. Sara Lee Golden Honey Wheat. And six boxes of Tree Top apple juice.

I guess Lacy knew me pretty well.

“Do me a favor and get off your pathetic ass and pick up the phone.” She was silent for a second then started back in. “Fine. If you want to self-destruct, isolate yourself from the world, then that’s your problem. Have fun.”

I will.
Thank you.

“Just remember there are those of us who still love you.
Even when you’re acting like a huge baby.”

Ouch.

“Well, I just wanted to call and wish you a happy Thanksgiving. Sorry I couldn’t be there for you. I hope you find your way to some pumpkin pie.”

A Pumpkin Spice latte from Starbucks would suffice.
I hoped they delivered.

“I know I’ve said it a hundred times already, Thomas, but she doesn’t deserve you.
You’re too good for her. It’s been almost six weeks. It’s time to get on with your life.”

Wrong.
I didn’t deserve
her.
She was too good
for me.
It’d only been
41 days
. And it was time
to
wallow.

“Bye. I love you.”

I hit my head backwards on the pillow three times, then threw off the comforter. I snagged the remote from under the couch and blindly turned on the television. The parade filled the screen and I mentally gagged. This had the potential to be the most depressing day in the history of time.

On screen, a giant Snoopy floated by.
Followed by a giant Charlie Brown. I waited for Woodstock, but he never came. An overly joyous woman commented on the procession, each affected syllable steaming the cold New York air as it left her mouth.

I pulled on my bear paw slippers and padded to the window.

If it was cold in New York then it was
freezing
in Maine. The sky was a dark gray and the earth looked frozen, the dew brittle, tundra-like, the land preparing itself for the long onslaught of winter. The first big snowstorm of the year was expected to start in the late afternoon, early evening. Then everything would be white for the next five months. At least until late April. Old Man Winter wasn’t very friendly in the Northeast. In fact, he was one mean old sumbitch.

I made my way to the sliding glass door and peered out on the bay.
By bay, I refer to the Penobscot. The last body of water before the Pond, silent
e
’s, and bad teeth.

Anyhow, it was early, around eight, but even so there were a couple brave souls in their sailboats getting one last ride in before the snow began to fall.
The water was three shades darker than the sky and lapped idly against the rocky shore. Just off center was the Surry Woods Lighthouse. The old, tattered lighthouse’s light was still visible, a reflective coin on the drab horizon.

Sort of made you want to catch the red-eye to the Bahamas.

On that note, I went into the kitchen, cranked the heat to Bahamian, and opened the freezer.
There were five boxes of waffles; Regular, Buttermilk, Cinnamon Toast, Blueberry, and Strawberry. I know, I have a problem.
Hi, my name is Thomas and I’m addicted to waffles. Hey, leggo my Eggo
.

As my waffles toasted, I started a cup of water heating in the microwave.
I opened the front door and scampered the ten steps to the paper. It was already half drizzling, half snowing, and I had a feeling the storm was six hours ahead of schedule.

I sat down to the waffles and a cup of steaming apple cider and read the paper.
You can tell a lot about a person by the way they read the paper. I was a comics, sports, weather, front page, Dow Jones, Jumble, kind of guy. Alex had been a front-to-back kind of gal. Maybe that’s why it hadn’t worked out.

I retired back to the couch and turned on football.
Detroit and Minnesota. One of them was winning. I was looking forward to John Madden’s Turkey Leg awards, but it turns out he wasn’t doing the game this year. Shucks.

I picked up a different remote and hit the stereo.
Some stupid Shania Twain song was playing (You know the one,
The One I Want for Life
) and I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even think. I almost—I stress
almost
—started crying. And I’m fairly certain if there had been a gun in the house I would have shot myself through the heart. I turned the stereo off.

So there I was about an hour into my thirty-third Thanksgiving and it had already proved to be the worst yet.
Well, the first one after my parents’ death was awful, but this one was giving it a run for its money.

I packed a bag, turned the heat off, hit all the lights, and recorded a new phone message.
When I pulled the front door open, I was hit by a wall of cold. It was officially snowing now and everything that wasn’t made of concrete was white. I took two steps, then froze. I pressed my ear to the door
.
The phone rang three more times before the answering machine picked up. 

“
If this is Lacy, I’ll call you in a couple days. If this isn’t Lacy, stick the phone in your mouth and swallow it
.”
 
    

“Hi Thomas.
It’s me. Listen—”

It was Alex.

I panicked.
I couldn’t find my keys. Then I couldn’t find the
right
key. By the time I got the door open, Alex was long gone.   

I made my way to the answering machine and peered down at the blinking red light.
Time for a real gut check. I took a deep breath, picked up the machine, and threw it against the wall. I’d clean it up when I got back. If I
ever
got back.

Two hours later, I was at 37,000 feet.

Headed for Seattle.

Chapter
2

The cross-country journey from Bangor International to Chicago O’Hare and on to SeaTac took about seven and change.
But, I gained three hours during the flight, so when I landed the local time was just after three in the afternoon.

The weather was typical Seattle November: overcast, gloomy, with a light drizzle.
No blizzard in these parts. Old Man Winter in the Northwest had Alzheimer’s. He got lost a lot. Mostly in Canada.

I hailed a taxi for the eighteen-mile trip north to Magnolia.
A bit of Magnolia lore here: in 1856 Captain George Davidson of the US Coast Survey named the southern bluff overlooking the Puget Sound for the magnolia trees growing along it. Had he been a better botanist, he would have clearly recognized the red-barked trees as madrona. The madrona is a shiny, dark green-leafed evergreen species that thrives on west-facing bluffs. The trees, which can reach heights of ninety feet, usually have a twisted, windblown shape. Anyhow, the surrounding community preferred the name Magnolia to Madrona and decided to keep Magnolia to identify the affluent, well-ordered, waterfront properties.

My parents’ house—I still had a problem calling it
my house
—was built on the westernmost bluff overlooking Puget Sound. It was too steep to build anywhere near the house, so there wasn’t anything within a quarter mile in either direction. The main concern was landslides. The wet soil building up over time; the vegetation slowly losing its tenacity in the soft earth. It was a miracle the house hadn’t slipped into the Sound years ago. As many of its brethren had.

The house was built in 1964.
It was a monolith then. A work of art. But then, so once was the Coliseum. When my parents bought it, they began a slow overhaul, gutting it from the inside. There had been plans for a total facelift, a new kitchen, hardwood floors, upgraded plumbing. But my parents never got around to it. Then it was too late.

The cabbie pulled up alongside the expansive wrought iron fence surrounding the large estate.
He wished me a happy Thanksgiving and I tipped him an extra twenty. When I’d said I’d packed a bag, I failed to mention I’d packed only a small carry-on of the essentials: contact solution, shampoo, conditioner, mouthwash, and a couple other things, all of which had been red flagged at airport security because some science wizard had decided three ounces was the magic number. Apparently three ounces of acid, anthrax, or whatever these zealots make in their caves wasn’t going to harm anyone, but four ounces—

So basically I had the clothes on my back—my favorite pair of jeans and a black T-shirt over a long-sleeve thermal—a rarely used cell phone, and my wallet.

I pushed through the rusted gate and ambled up the long drive. The once neatly manicured yard was overgrown with weeds and other debris. Dark vegetation sprung from every crack and fissure of the dilapidated drive. As for the house, the wet Pacific climate and harsh ocean air hadn’t been kind in my absence. The five thousand-square-foot Victorian was a combination of rust and sodium-lime deposits. Brown meets green. Almost as if some pesky kids had unloaded on the house with a barrage of aged avocados. Thick foliage had attacked the house from every angle, crawling up, around, and through the gray brick.

Vines spider-webbed across the front door like organic crime scene tape. I cut these away with my keys.
The door had warped to the frame, so I had to literally kick it in. It gave on the second try and a wave of musty air washed over me.

I took a step inside the foyer and stopped.
I hadn’t touched anything in the wake of my parents’ death. I’d just left. Fled. Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt where people wash their clothes, get sick from drinking the water, get bit by snakes, get eaten by hippos, contract malaria, west Nile, or worse.

There was a small table to my immediate left.
A pink vase was at its center, the remnants of a paper-thin stem silently listing over the porcelain edge. I ran my finger over the table, the years of dust coloring my finger a thick black.

I left the front door open and entered a small hallway.
I took two steps, my shoes sinking into the inch-long shag. Lowering down to my haunches, I dug my fingers into the long green tendrils. The carpet was reminiscent of the second cut at Augusta and when I was young, my father and I would take turns setting up golf holes throughout the house. Grab our nine irons, a putter, and a couple of those white plastic golf balls and proceed to drive my mom about insane. I stood up, the popping of my knees masking my deep exhale.

 
Walking forward, I traced my fingers against the eggshell brown walls, which had been an eggshell white last I remembered. I came to a set of two doors, one leading to the basement, the other to a bathroom. I poked my head into the bathroom and flipped the light. The two seventy-watt bulbs were clouded with dust and barely illuminated the small room. Evidently, someone—or some financial entity—was keeping up on the bills. The floral wallpaper had begun to peel in many places, its glue well into its late thirties. I heard a soft noise and peered down at the small sink. Water slowly beaded around the head of the faucet before giving way to a single tear.

I shook my head.
Those tears could have filled a swimming pool over the course of eight years.

I turned the faucet on.
After five seconds, a loud rattle shook the foundation of the large house. The pipes screamed and the house shuddered. I held onto the door frame.

It would be slightly ironic if I’d left for eight years, come back for less than an hour, and the house slid into Puget Sound.
Or would that just be a terrible coincidence? Or just unfortunate?

The rattling slowly began to subside and after what seemed like a full minute, water spurted from the faucet.
It was brown. I turned the water off.

I spent the next half hour reacquainting myself with the old house.
Pick your cliché.
I took a ride down memory lane. Home is where you hang your hat. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. You can’t put toothpaste back in the tube.
Even a blind squirrel finds an acorn every once in a while. Too many chiefs and not enough Indians.

Okay, so maybe those last few weren’t exactly relevant, but you get my drift.

I made my way into the kitchen.
There were a couple cardboard boxes strewn about the linoleum. A roll of packaging tape and a black Sharpie rested on the island centering the small kitchen. Just above the stove was a round clock. I’d bought it for my parents for Christmas three years before they’d died. It was from Brookstone. Kinetic
.
The hour hand was halfway between the four and the five. Let’s see here, plane landed at just after three, half hour drive, hour or so poking around. Yep, I’d say that was the best thirty bucks I ever spent.

I pulled open the refrigerator, picked up the milk, and read the expiration date: 13APR02.
It was green and it said, “Where ya been, Thomas?”

I’m lying, of course. The fridge was empty.

I rummaged through the cabinets.
There was a lot of canned stuff, lots of nonperishables, and lots of other things you see in those Thanksgiving donation barrels. I picked up a can of beets and pondered the irony of the situation.

Anyhow, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and turned it on.
There were only a handful of people—and by handful I mean less than five—who had my cell phone number. I believe the last call I’d made was to my dean at the university telling him I wouldn’t be returning to work the following semester. That call had been sometime in early June. In the months since, I’d had all of five missed calls and three voice mails. I scrolled through the five calls. They were all from Alex. Two calls were in October, two in early November, and the last, just hours earlier. Being that I was once a detective—albeit a second-rate one—I deduced the messages were also from Alex.

Still got it.

As for Alex, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to hear what she had to say.
As much as I loved her—and I still did—I could never take a girl back who’d dumped me. It’s a pride thing. But maybe that isn’t why she’d called. Maybe she wanted her
Fried Green Tomatoes
DVD back.

I picked up the black marker off the center island and wrote on my palm, “She dumped you for a fucking stockbroker.”
Underneath this I scribbled, “toothpaste” and “contact solution.”

I located one of the old phone books and after a couple unsuccessful attempts, found a pizza joint still in service.
I inquired if I was the only person to order a pizza on Thanksgiving. The guy informed me that there were a couple others.

At five the pizza came.
 

I grabbed a slice and headed out to the narrow balcony off the kitchen.The sky was a
deep gray, from which a light drizzle steadily dripped. The sun was preparing for its descent in my right viewfinder, undressing layers of pinks and oranges behind the clouds’ satin curtain. A distant island was thinly traced into the horizon on the far left and I remember my father telling me it was Japan. I’m still not sure if it was or wasn’t. Straight down was a thicket of tall, windswept madronas, then black rock, then rippling Sound. It was all very melancholy if you ask me.  

I rested my elbows on the railing, ate pizza, and watched the sun lower its landing gear.
There was a port a half mile south and I watched as a colossal freighter made its lackluster final stretch. It rode high on the black water, inching across the gray horizon. The ship had traveled thousands of miles and here I was witnessing its last steps. Such is life. I spent the next couple minutes thinking deep philosophical thoughts brought on by a stupid boat. The
SS Aristotle.
I thought about where the
SS Prescott
was in its voyage. And what freight it would carry. How it got here and where it was going. I thought about Alex. Was she cargo? Or was she one of these rogue waves I kept hearing about?

A vibration in my pocket startled me out of my rumination. Staring at the screen, I fought the urge to flip the phone open.
It pulsed four times then relaxed, then pulsed again two minutes later, notifying me I had a new message. Must be some message. But then again, Alex
loved
Kathy Bates.

I stared at the phone for a solid minute, then reared back and hucked it at the setting sun.
For a brief moment I thought it would reach the rippling black water. But it lost velocity, splattering against the rocky shore, its ashes quickly swept away by the incoming tide.

Bye, Alex.
 

I rubbed my right shoulder and peered over the edge of the balcony,
then I leaned down and squinted hard. Something was floating in the water. It would hit the black rocks then be sucked back into the channel with each ebb and flow. The white water receded into the black rocks, and I was granted a quick glimpse of arms and long black hair.

It was a woman.