like
that. His expression changed everything. I went back to the first photo and
skimmed through them all again, as though they might now make sense, offer up a
shared secret like a shell prised open with a knife.
Of
course that didn't happen. It would never happen. I knew that. They were
nothing but a bunch of snapshots of someone else's party. I would never know
who these people were, or where they were. I would never know what the man saw,
or who he was, or why he was in the motel room next to mine.
Only
he wasn't in the room next to mine. I was in his room. I glanced out the
window. The parking lot was still empty. I slipped the pictures back into the
yellow envelope, retaining a dupe of the man with that rapturous smile. Then I
stuck the envelope back into the computer case and left. I made sure the door
closed tight behind me, made sure no one saw me leave. I got into my car and
started it, sat for a minute and waited, just in case someone appeared who
might have seen me emerge from Room I.
No
one did. I turned the heat and defroster up to high and shoved the photograph
into my copy of Deceptio Visus. I waited until a black streak ate
through the frozen condensation on the windowsill, and I could see into the
darkness that surrounded me. Then I drove slowly away from the motel, out onto
the main road and down the narrow spine of the Paswegas Peninsula, until I
reached Burnt Harbor.
8
the
village consisted OF a handful of buildings perched on a rocky ledge
overlooking the harbor. Maybe it was beautiful in the daytime, in the middle of
summer. Now, in the early dark of a November night, it was as desolate as the
Lower East Side had been once upon a time. For that reason the place felt—well,
not exactly welcoming, but familiar. Like walking into a room full of strangers
in a foreign country then hearing them speak my native language.
..
. all that bleak shit you like? Well, this is it, Phil had told me.
He
was right.
There
wasn't much there. DownEast Marine Supplies, a lobster shack that was closed
for the winter. A streetlamp cast a milky gleam onto a broken sidewalk. On the
hillside above the harbor, lights glowed in scattered houses. There was a small
crescent-shaped gravel beach and a long stone pier that thrust into the water,
dinghies tied up alongside it. Farther out a few lobster boats and a solitary
sailboat. It smelled like a working harbor: that is, bad. I looked for a place
that might be the harbormasters office—a building, a sign—but found nothing.
There
was no mistaking the Good Tern, though—a tumbledown structure a fewyards
from the pier, gray shingled, with a torn plastic banner that read BUDWEISER
WELCOMES HUNTERS beneath a weathered painting of a seagull. There were pickups
out front, along with a few Subarus, and I could glimpse more cars parked
around back. The lid of a dumpster banged noisily in the wind.
I
parked, stuck the copy of Deceptio Visus into my bag, and got out. The
wind off the water was frigid. In the seconds it took me to run toward the building,
I was chilled again.
The
entrance was covered with photocopies advertising bean suppers, a used Snocat,
snowplow services. Yet another flyer looking for Martin Graves, the same faded
image of a young man in wool cap and Nike T-shirt. Wherever he'd run off to, I
hoped he was warmer than I was. I went inside.
The
open room had bare wood floors, wooden tables with miniature hurricane lanterns
holding candles, walls covered with faded posters advertising Grange dances. A
bar stretched along one wall, where six or seven people hunkered down over
drinks. No TV Blues on the sound system. Several couples sat at the tables, old
hippie types or maybe they were fishermen; rawfaced women with long hair,
bearded men. A man by himself reading a newspaper. One or two of them glanced
at me then went back to their dinners.
I
couldn't blame them. The food smelled good. A middle-aged woman wearing a
bright Peruvian sweater showed me to a table
that. His expression changed everything. I went back to the first photo and
skimmed through them all again, as though they might now make sense, offer up a
shared secret like a shell prised open with a knife.
Of
course that didn't happen. It would never happen. I knew that. They were
nothing but a bunch of snapshots of someone else's party. I would never know
who these people were, or where they were. I would never know what the man saw,
or who he was, or why he was in the motel room next to mine.
Only
he wasn't in the room next to mine. I was in his room. I glanced out the
window. The parking lot was still empty. I slipped the pictures back into the
yellow envelope, retaining a dupe of the man with that rapturous smile. Then I
stuck the envelope back into the computer case and left. I made sure the door
closed tight behind me, made sure no one saw me leave. I got into my car and
started it, sat for a minute and waited, just in case someone appeared who
might have seen me emerge from Room I.
No
one did. I turned the heat and defroster up to high and shoved the photograph
into my copy of Deceptio Visus. I waited until a black streak ate
through the frozen condensation on the windowsill, and I could see into the
darkness that surrounded me. Then I drove slowly away from the motel, out onto
the main road and down the narrow spine of the Paswegas Peninsula, until I
reached Burnt Harbor.
8
the
village consisted OF a handful of buildings perched on a rocky ledge
overlooking the harbor. Maybe it was beautiful in the daytime, in the middle of
summer. Now, in the early dark of a November night, it was as desolate as the
Lower East Side had been once upon a time. For that reason the place felt—well,
not exactly welcoming, but familiar. Like walking into a room full of strangers
in a foreign country then hearing them speak my native language.
..
. all that bleak shit you like? Well, this is it, Phil had told me.
He
was right.
There
wasn't much there. DownEast Marine Supplies, a lobster shack that was closed
for the winter. A streetlamp cast a milky gleam onto a broken sidewalk. On the
hillside above the harbor, lights glowed in scattered houses. There was a small
crescent-shaped gravel beach and a long stone pier that thrust into the water,
dinghies tied up alongside it. Farther out a few lobster boats and a solitary
sailboat. It smelled like a working harbor: that is, bad. I looked for a place
that might be the harbormasters office—a building, a sign—but found nothing.
There
was no mistaking the Good Tern, though—a tumbledown structure a fewyards
from the pier, gray shingled, with a torn plastic banner that read BUDWEISER
WELCOMES HUNTERS beneath a weathered painting of a seagull. There were pickups
out front, along with a few Subarus, and I could glimpse more cars parked
around back. The lid of a dumpster banged noisily in the wind.
I
parked, stuck the copy of Deceptio Visus into my bag, and got out. The
wind off the water was frigid. In the seconds it took me to run toward the building,
I was chilled again.
The
entrance was covered with photocopies advertising bean suppers, a used Snocat,
snowplow services. Yet another flyer looking for Martin Graves, the same faded
image of a young man in wool cap and Nike T-shirt. Wherever he'd run off to, I
hoped he was warmer than I was. I went inside.
The
open room had bare wood floors, wooden tables with miniature hurricane lanterns
holding candles, walls covered with faded posters advertising Grange dances. A
bar stretched along one wall, where six or seven people hunkered down over
drinks. No TV Blues on the sound system. Several couples sat at the tables, old
hippie types or maybe they were fishermen; rawfaced women with long hair,
bearded men. A man by himself reading a newspaper. One or two of them glanced
at me then went back to their dinners.
I
couldn't blame them. The food smelled good. A middle-aged woman wearing a
bright Peruvian sweater showed me to a table
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