wondered if she owned a house in Seal Cove. I asked MaryBeth to call me back in the morning.
When I signed off, I saw that I’d gotten a text message from Sarah: “UR late 4 dinner.” This adolescent infatuation of hers with texting was not one I could imagine sharing. It was true that certain gadgets—my GPS and vehicle laptop—made aspects of my job easier, but in general the WiFi age could go to hell, as far as I was concerned. Why did we need to be in constant contact with each other all the time? Whatever happened to enjoying the privacy of one’s own thoughts?
I reversed course for home. The cigarette stench from the Driskos’ trailer had penetrated through my pores. Maybe if I bathed in tomato juice, the way you wash skunk spray off a dog, I might emerge cleansed.
I found Sarah rushing around the kitchen, trying to do five things at once in preparation for Charley and Ora’s visit. The house smelled pleasantly of the salt pork and onions she’d used to start her fish chowder.
“What kept you?”
“I got caught up in that deer/car thing from last night. I’m still trying to track down the driver. But I think I know who stole the deer.”
“Can we talk about it later?” She gave me a repulsed look. “You stink of cigarettes.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Get out of your uniform, for one thing. Maybe you should hang it outside. Then help me figure out how we’re going to get a woman in a wheelchair up the front stairs.”
Ora Stevens was paralyzed from the waist down, the result of a plane crash that had left her husband—a seasoned pilot, who’d been teaching her to fly at the time—largely uninjured. Though Ora had been at the controls, Charley blamed himself for her injury. On several occasions, I’d seen him watch his wife wheeling herself around, and there was no doubt in my mind that he was reliving that terrible day for the thousandth time. Even those glacier green eyes of his couldn’t hide his abiding guilt.
By the time I’d showered and changed, Sarah had moved from the kitchen to the bedroom. She was standing in her underwear in front of the open closet—filled from end to end with dresses, blouses, pants, sweaters, and shoes—and chewing on a cuticle. She’d been a competitive diver in high school and still had taut muscles in her shoulders and thighs. “What should I wear?” she asked.
“I’m happy with what you’ve got on.”
“Be serious, Mike.”
“It doesn’t matter. Charley and Ora aren’t exactly what you would call formal.”
She turned, giving me a peek at her flat stomach. “Sometimes I’m stunned about how little you know about women. Of course it matters.”
“How about jeans and a nice sweater?”
She waved her hand at me and went back to studying the closet. “Get out of here. Go scrape the ice off the porch steps or something.”
Charley and Ora drove up in their van two minutes before six o’clock. Mainers of their generation are, I believe, the most punctual people on earth.
Although we’d spoken on the phone, the last time I’d seen them was on the day of Charley’s return from the hospital. He’d been wounded in the arm and leg, and his skin had been marbled with bruises from his ankles to his shoulders. Coming home for the first time since his accident, he’d shaken off all my offers of assistance and made his way on crutches up the ramp of their cabin with a look of iron determination on his face. “I’ve always been a bear for punishment,” he’d said.
Now, in the phantom light of my porch, I watched him hop out of the driver’s side of their Dodge Caravan. “Hello, there!” he called, a big smile cracking his weathered face. He looked hale enough, but he came at me with a new limp that couldn’t be disguised.
His grip, as we shook hands, was as strong as ever. “Good to see you, young man.”
“How’ve you been, Charley?”
“Fair to middling. I’m still doing the physical therapy, you
When I signed off, I saw that I’d gotten a text message from Sarah: “UR late 4 dinner.” This adolescent infatuation of hers with texting was not one I could imagine sharing. It was true that certain gadgets—my GPS and vehicle laptop—made aspects of my job easier, but in general the WiFi age could go to hell, as far as I was concerned. Why did we need to be in constant contact with each other all the time? Whatever happened to enjoying the privacy of one’s own thoughts?
I reversed course for home. The cigarette stench from the Driskos’ trailer had penetrated through my pores. Maybe if I bathed in tomato juice, the way you wash skunk spray off a dog, I might emerge cleansed.
I found Sarah rushing around the kitchen, trying to do five things at once in preparation for Charley and Ora’s visit. The house smelled pleasantly of the salt pork and onions she’d used to start her fish chowder.
“What kept you?”
“I got caught up in that deer/car thing from last night. I’m still trying to track down the driver. But I think I know who stole the deer.”
“Can we talk about it later?” She gave me a repulsed look. “You stink of cigarettes.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Get out of your uniform, for one thing. Maybe you should hang it outside. Then help me figure out how we’re going to get a woman in a wheelchair up the front stairs.”
Ora Stevens was paralyzed from the waist down, the result of a plane crash that had left her husband—a seasoned pilot, who’d been teaching her to fly at the time—largely uninjured. Though Ora had been at the controls, Charley blamed himself for her injury. On several occasions, I’d seen him watch his wife wheeling herself around, and there was no doubt in my mind that he was reliving that terrible day for the thousandth time. Even those glacier green eyes of his couldn’t hide his abiding guilt.
By the time I’d showered and changed, Sarah had moved from the kitchen to the bedroom. She was standing in her underwear in front of the open closet—filled from end to end with dresses, blouses, pants, sweaters, and shoes—and chewing on a cuticle. She’d been a competitive diver in high school and still had taut muscles in her shoulders and thighs. “What should I wear?” she asked.
“I’m happy with what you’ve got on.”
“Be serious, Mike.”
“It doesn’t matter. Charley and Ora aren’t exactly what you would call formal.”
She turned, giving me a peek at her flat stomach. “Sometimes I’m stunned about how little you know about women. Of course it matters.”
“How about jeans and a nice sweater?”
She waved her hand at me and went back to studying the closet. “Get out of here. Go scrape the ice off the porch steps or something.”
Charley and Ora drove up in their van two minutes before six o’clock. Mainers of their generation are, I believe, the most punctual people on earth.
Although we’d spoken on the phone, the last time I’d seen them was on the day of Charley’s return from the hospital. He’d been wounded in the arm and leg, and his skin had been marbled with bruises from his ankles to his shoulders. Coming home for the first time since his accident, he’d shaken off all my offers of assistance and made his way on crutches up the ramp of their cabin with a look of iron determination on his face. “I’ve always been a bear for punishment,” he’d said.
Now, in the phantom light of my porch, I watched him hop out of the driver’s side of their Dodge Caravan. “Hello, there!” he called, a big smile cracking his weathered face. He looked hale enough, but he came at me with a new limp that couldn’t be disguised.
His grip, as we shook hands, was as strong as ever. “Good to see you, young man.”
“How’ve you been, Charley?”
“Fair to middling. I’m still doing the physical therapy, you
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