down by tiers of gossip which swelled from village to county, from county to the state lines, then it went state to state. The “Kiss of Death” distinction required at least two husbands dying at sea; one alone didn’t earn the dooming label. If a woman lost two or more husbands at sea, she earned the title without question. That was that.
Rennie was known as the “Kiss on Aquidneck Island.” When
Good Morning America
broadcast live from Newport, they taped a story on the decline of the New England fishing industry. They heard about Rennie and asked to do a spot with her. They wanted to film Rennie on the widow’s walk at the Captain Whitehorne House. A publicist told Rennie that her story was a romantic fable.
“In a coon’s ass,” Rennie said to the ABC intern. “I never wear it on my sleeve.”
She stood over the bed and rubbed the heel of her hand across Willis’s sweaty hairline.
He didn’t want it. He grabbed her hand and threw it off. “Just shut the door on your way out,” Willis told Rennie.
She walked out of the room.
“And you.” Willis motioned to Fritz Federico.
Fritz was dismissed; he left the room without any hurtfeelings. Rennie stopped Fritz in the kitchen. “You can have a corn fritter, pan-sized, or your usual. Corn fritter or buttered johnny cake?”
“Either one?” Fritz said.
“Killer, you name it,” she said.
“Only two choices tonight?”
“Decide soon or I withdraw my invitation.”
Willis leaned back against his pillows. He was used to the weight of his cast, its steady pull. His arm tingled if he didn’t feel the weight, so he let his arm drop over the side of the bed. The stretching sensation kindled stabbing needles. These little needles didn’t bother him and he was falling asleep. Then he was awake.
He didn’t sleep. Before daybreak, Rennie came back into the room. “Here,” she told him. “Don’t you want these?” The foil card caught the hall light and glittered.
He told her, “No. I don’t want it.”
“You look horrible,” she told him.
“I’m driving a truck today.”
She said, “You are not. You can’t drive one of those monsters in your condition.” She placed the silver row of morphine in an ashtray beside the bed.
“Look,” he told her, “a honeymoon habit was all I wanted.”
“There was Morphine Sue and the Poppy Face Kid, climbed up snow ladders and down they skid—”
“That’s nice, Rennie, that’s real charming. You can keep your poetry rhymes to yourself.”
“I’m not finished.
Let me tell you about Cocaine Lil, she had a cocaine dog and a cocaine cat. They fought all night with a cocaine rat.
”
He turned on his left side and lifted his broken arm so the blood would run out of it and the throbbing would stop. Rennie patted his hip. Her tenderness was firm, no-nonsense; it eased him more than it irritated him. Rennie would have been quite willing to administer the rectal painkiller if he had allowed her to. Rennie seemed to find her own relief and comfort in these midnight acts of bedside service. Willis brushed her hand from his hip. “Go to bed,” he said. She left the room.
Whenever Rennie placed her maternal reins on him, he tossed them loose. That gossamer harness belonged in the hands of a ghost. His real mother was dead and he didn’t much like to watch Rennie wrangle with Wydette for the privilege. He wouldn’t give up Wydette; he wanted them both. Outside, the light was rising. A yellow warbler started to sing:
sweet, sweet, sweeter-than-sweet.
He listened to its tentative first phrases until the bird was rolling along and Willis was sunk in woolly, dreamless morphine.
Chapter Four
O n Saturday afternoon, Holly joined a crew of volunteers working on the oil spill. The Audubon leader instructed her: This creature is salvageable.
This
one is too poisoned to return to the sea. She fingered a coal-black scallop, rubbed it against the heel of her hand, but the grime was clinging to its notched
Rennie was known as the “Kiss on Aquidneck Island.” When
Good Morning America
broadcast live from Newport, they taped a story on the decline of the New England fishing industry. They heard about Rennie and asked to do a spot with her. They wanted to film Rennie on the widow’s walk at the Captain Whitehorne House. A publicist told Rennie that her story was a romantic fable.
“In a coon’s ass,” Rennie said to the ABC intern. “I never wear it on my sleeve.”
She stood over the bed and rubbed the heel of her hand across Willis’s sweaty hairline.
He didn’t want it. He grabbed her hand and threw it off. “Just shut the door on your way out,” Willis told Rennie.
She walked out of the room.
“And you.” Willis motioned to Fritz Federico.
Fritz was dismissed; he left the room without any hurtfeelings. Rennie stopped Fritz in the kitchen. “You can have a corn fritter, pan-sized, or your usual. Corn fritter or buttered johnny cake?”
“Either one?” Fritz said.
“Killer, you name it,” she said.
“Only two choices tonight?”
“Decide soon or I withdraw my invitation.”
Willis leaned back against his pillows. He was used to the weight of his cast, its steady pull. His arm tingled if he didn’t feel the weight, so he let his arm drop over the side of the bed. The stretching sensation kindled stabbing needles. These little needles didn’t bother him and he was falling asleep. Then he was awake.
He didn’t sleep. Before daybreak, Rennie came back into the room. “Here,” she told him. “Don’t you want these?” The foil card caught the hall light and glittered.
He told her, “No. I don’t want it.”
“You look horrible,” she told him.
“I’m driving a truck today.”
She said, “You are not. You can’t drive one of those monsters in your condition.” She placed the silver row of morphine in an ashtray beside the bed.
“Look,” he told her, “a honeymoon habit was all I wanted.”
“There was Morphine Sue and the Poppy Face Kid, climbed up snow ladders and down they skid—”
“That’s nice, Rennie, that’s real charming. You can keep your poetry rhymes to yourself.”
“I’m not finished.
Let me tell you about Cocaine Lil, she had a cocaine dog and a cocaine cat. They fought all night with a cocaine rat.
”
He turned on his left side and lifted his broken arm so the blood would run out of it and the throbbing would stop. Rennie patted his hip. Her tenderness was firm, no-nonsense; it eased him more than it irritated him. Rennie would have been quite willing to administer the rectal painkiller if he had allowed her to. Rennie seemed to find her own relief and comfort in these midnight acts of bedside service. Willis brushed her hand from his hip. “Go to bed,” he said. She left the room.
Whenever Rennie placed her maternal reins on him, he tossed them loose. That gossamer harness belonged in the hands of a ghost. His real mother was dead and he didn’t much like to watch Rennie wrangle with Wydette for the privilege. He wouldn’t give up Wydette; he wanted them both. Outside, the light was rising. A yellow warbler started to sing:
sweet, sweet, sweeter-than-sweet.
He listened to its tentative first phrases until the bird was rolling along and Willis was sunk in woolly, dreamless morphine.
Chapter Four
O n Saturday afternoon, Holly joined a crew of volunteers working on the oil spill. The Audubon leader instructed her: This creature is salvageable.
This
one is too poisoned to return to the sea. She fingered a coal-black scallop, rubbed it against the heel of her hand, but the grime was clinging to its notched
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