The winter ocean forced dark swells into Seal Trap Harbor. The few lobster
boats in port strained at their lines. Men in yellow and black slickers huddled
at the end of the wharf. Some were calloused salts who had long ago embraced
fate like a drinking buddy. Others were young marrieds, already staying out
late and looking to run. Together the men braved the cold gusts, facing the
sea and sending up a silent prayer for the Coast Guard to arrive on time.
From his booth in the Dockside Restaurant, Thomas Preble Scott watched the
snowfall thick and fast under the streetlight. Strings of holiday lights
winked against the restaurant’s black window. His mind was set. Right after
New Year’s, he would tell Lindsey he wanted a divorce.
“Evening, folks,” the waitress said. Her name tag read Edna. A lion’s
roar rattled the window. “Wind’s pickin’ up. They say
we’rein for it.” She held her pen aloft. “What’ll you have?”
“What I always get.” Tom snapped the menu closed. “Lazy Man Lobster,” he
said. “What do you say, Mom? Make it two?”
Grace shook her head. “Trapping or eating, nothing lazy about lobster
that I ever saw. Give me a minute.”
“Lindsey?” Tom eyed his wife’s profile. After ten years and
two kids, she could still send a zap to his chest, but last year, Sonya had
joined the Brunswick field office. Sonya ripped through him like lightning.
Lindsey decided. “I always wanted to try mussels. Tonight’s
the night.”
“Linds? You hate clams and refuse anything in a shell. You think you’ll
finish these? They’re like rubber.”
“Mussels.” Lindsey raised her voice, but the waitress was staring
out the front window. “Excuse me? I’m ready to order.”
“I’m so sorry, hon. We’re all in a state. One of our lobster
boats, the Sally B, is taking on water other side of the Point. Coast Guard’s
on its way with a helo. That’s what the commotion is down on the pier.”
“Not too late for a rescue then?” Tom asked. “Can they do one
of those airlifts?”
“Don’t know, in this weather.”
“What happened?”
“Skipper misjudged and caught a rock before they rounded the Point. Not
the first time, won’t be the last.”
“Mussels, definitely,” Lindsay said.
Edna pursed her lips and scribbled on a pad. She bent toward the fluffy
white head of Tom’s mother. “What did we decide, young lady?”
“Don’t know about you, but it’s stuffed flounder for me.” Grace
said. “Wonder if it tastes as good as I remember?”
Edna hooted. “Honey, when you find something that does, you come tell
me.”
Grace adjusted her glasses. “Lindsey, want to put your purse over
here with my shopping bag? Plenty of room on this side. Too much.”
“I’m good.” Lindsay hoped Cynthia, the new sitter, would understand
if the boys shut themselves in the closet to hide from the storm.
“A whole empty seat next to me here. I’m still not used to the room.
Dad would crowd me quite a little in these hideaway booths. He spread out
so with his elbows.” She demonstrated, flapping her sweatered arms
like a pet bird. “So what’s going on outside? Who are those
men, catching their death on a night like this? Don’t they know enough
to come in from bad weather?”
“They’re waiting for a boat that’s in trouble,” Tom said. “Didn’t
you hear the waitress?”
She lifted her chin. “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.”
“Turned off your hearing aid again, didn’t you?”
Grace arranged her mouth in a tight line. “Why should I have to follow
every conversation in the darned restaurant?”
“I’d be happy if you followed just this one.” He sat back,
satisfied. “Didn’t
you like that last place we visited, Mom? Roomy apartment, but not too big.
Maid service twice a week. A button to press for medical help. Very manageable.
The whole layout was top of the line.”
“I didn’t like it.” In the candlelight, Grace’s eyeglasses
gleamed with defiance.
“The gym impressed me,” Lindsey said. “All those treadmills,
Grace. You know how you like your daily walk.”
“I like to go at my own choosing, not ride a conveyor like a bag of groceries.”
“That woman manager was so friendly. Did you hear her talk with that woman
about her cat? ‘How is Snuggles?’ she asked.”
Grace said. “Her cat? I thought that was the woman’s name. It
suited her. Such brassy hair.”
Lindsey nudged Tom in the side.
Tom edged away. “The dining facility at that place was great.” Tom’s
voice was high and thin. “Did you see the menu they had posted? Shrimp
cocktail? Lobster bisque? All you can eat. The entrée listed for
tonight was ham and pineapple.”
“Can’t stomach ham these days.”
“If you don’t like what’s on the menu you can ask for chicken
or steak, cooked special for you.”
“Can I ask for my own roast cooked in my very own pressure cooker?”
“Mumma, don’t start. We’ve done this to death. You agreed.”
“Really?”
The restaurant windows shuddered as a powerful gust kicked the side of the
building and edged away.
***
“How’s the stuffed flounder, Grace?” Lindsey said. “Tasty
as you remember?”
She sniffed. “Have to try it first.”
“You used to make a terrific stuffed flounder, Mom, with lemon and spinach.
Remember?”
“I would cook it in that pan in the shape of a fish. Where is that fish
pan, Tommy?”
Tom attacked his lazy man’s lobster. “Gone.”
“What? No.”
He yanked out a forkful of stuffing. “You sold it at the yard sale.”
“I never would.”
“You straight ahead did. Bitsy Sorenson snapped it up for two bucks.”
Grace exhaled cold disgust. “I wouldn’t sell that dish for a
hundred dollars, especially not to anyone connected to the Sorensons. Your
aunt Doris
gave that dish to me for Christmas one year.”
“Could be, but you certainly snapped up Bitsy’s two dollars.”
The wrinkles at the edge of her eyes deepened. “Only because you made
me.”
“Mumma, you’re giving me a pain.” He sounded worn-down, like
sea glass.
She sighed. “Oh, I know. The house is too much for me now. Don’t
you think I know that?”
“Look at the benefits of assisted living. No more fighting with Chick about
the lawn, no more furnace to mess with.” He raised his voice. “You
won’t have to fuss about getting the old place painted this spring.”
“That will be a blessing. Painting always leads to disaster. Remember
when Dad painted the floor of the porch? Oh my land. He gave Tippy the measles.”
Lindsey had heard the story, but she played her part. “Measles?”
Grace began. “Dad kicked the red paint can, which went rolling.”
“And the can hit the white door, which frightened the wits out of Tippy,” Tom
said, his chest heaving with release from the laughter.
“And Tippy dabbed red paw prints all over the living room. Dad said ‘I’ll
be jiggered if I don’t have to paint every floor in the whole damned
house.’”
“He did, too. Tippy had so many splatters on his coat,” Tom said,
facing Lindsey, nearly out of breath from laughter’s release, “Dad
said we should bring him to Doc Foley for a measles shot.”
“My land.” Grace squeezed her eyes shut and tears glistened. “Oh,
Tommy.” She took off her glasses to dab at her cheeks. “You’re
trying to do right by me, and I thank you for all you’ve done. I’m
useless.”
Tom swallowed hard. “You’re not useless, Mom.”
“I can’t remember a thing, and I’m in the way.”
“You’re not.” Tom’s voice was thick, and he shifted again
in the booth to move away from his wife’s touch.
“Dad’s been gone eleven years. It could have been yesterday.” She
used a cloth napkin to wipe her lenses. “Sometimes, it seems like
all those times happened to somebody else.”
Edna loomed beside them. “Everything okay here?”
“Fine,” Tom said. “Excellent.”
“Ready for dessert? How about apple pie? Holiday special with cinnamon?”
“Not me.” Tom raised his voice. “How about you, Mom? A little
something sweet?”
“I don’t want another bite.”
“Nothing more for us, thanks. Edna, what happened out there?”
“The Coast Guard came, thank God.” She began whisking up dishes. “The
JetHawk transferred them to a cutter. Sally B went down, but captain and
crew are on their way to the hospital in Brunswick.”
“Good news.”
“A Christmas miracle, nothing but.” Edna fished their bill out of
her pocket. “I’ll take that when you’re ready.” She
returned to the register.
“There’s never good news this time of year,” Grace said.
Lindsey stared out the window at rows of boats stored in white shrouds. “I’m
going to call Cynthia, check on the boys.” She rummaged for her cell
phone and shook it. “Low battery. Pay phones are out front.” She
left mother and son alone.
“It might be a miracle, but he’s not happy,” Grace said.
“Who?”
“Skipper of the Sally B. Who’d you think I meant?” She leveled
a glance at her son. “That captain rammed his boat into the rocks
on purpose.”
“Why would he do that?”
“To break out. People need to do that. My father did it, and his father
before him. People get the urge to break out when the first snowstorms roll in.”
Tom gave a strangled laugh. “That’s crazy.”
“Is it? You changed from your old office end of last year. How’d
that turn out?”
He shrugged. “It was time.”
“People feel the itch to get out from under. They run like squirrels across
the road, and just then a big car comes barreling out of nowhere.”
“Are you saying people should live in a rut?”
“I’m saying bad news always happens at Christmas.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Let me remind you that Grandpa Stone disappeared two days before Christmas.
The year Dad was at sea off Nova Scotia in that terrible nor’easter,
and he cut his finger real bad? That was just before Christmas, too. Every
year we tried for joy. We strung cranberries and put tangerines in the Christmas
stockings, but every year the bad news came with the snow. The worst, of
course, was when the principal called me out of class.”
Tom knew what was coming. The light gleamed around the edge of his mother’s
winged glasses. He looked away. Outside the window, the snow dropped cold
and fast.
“Daddy took us all up the hill behind the house to pick our tree. The sky
was spitting snow. At first Hank didn’t want to come. Too busy prowling
around town. I guess Daddy gave him a talkin’ to because he came right
along. Hank, Shirley, and I looked for the tallest tree, but Doris begged
for the widest, with branches you couldn’t see through. Daddy teased
Doris that nineteen-twenty-nine had been a year like that, so she should
get her wish. She found a wide spruce with a hefty trunk and branches that
spread
like a sail in the breeze. Dad and Hank chopped it down, with Hank doing
the most work. He was seventeen then, tall and fine. The tree we couldn’t
see through keeled over, and we wrapped it tight and dragged it home on
the sled. Next day, the snow flew.”
Tom cleared his throat. “Mumma.”
Grace stared, her eyes looking deep into the candlelight. “The high
school was closed, but Doris and I had school, so Hank walked us. The snow
was half-way to the windows, when the principal called me out of class. I
forget her name, but she bent over to whisper that my father was dead. I kept
looking at that squeezed piece of skin behind her blouse collar. Reminded
me of a chicken.” She twisted her hands.
“I know how Grandpa died. He was cleaning his gun, and it went off.”
“Not exactly.”
“What?”
“A few weeks after the funeral, my mother found a Christmas present in
my father’s
bureau drawer. She brought it down to show us, about the size of a watch
box and wrapped in green shiny paper with a soft red ribbon. The tag said ‘Love
to my wife and children, Merry Christmas.’”
Tom waited.
“Inside was a key to a safe deposit box at a bank in Augusta. Daddy had
money in there and investments that Mama never knew about. Daddy knew the shop
was
about to close, and he had no other work. It was him or us, and he chose
us. His father did it, too. Tom stared. “Suicide? The bastard, leaving
his family with no living.”
“Don’t say that. The town understood. They were good to us. Mama
made pies and cakes to make ends meet. In a way, we were closer.” Her face
was tight with grief. “We made do, but life was hard. Daddy’s
loss hit Hank, especially, very hard. The house was plenty big. Mama took
in boarders. I moved out of my room and shared with Doris and Shirley. I
didn’t
mind.” Her sisters had been gone for years. More deaths as winter
snows approached.
“What about the shame? ” Tom said. “Didn’t he think about
that?”
“Shame from suicide was the least of it. Tommy, listen. You don’t
know everything about that day, and I need to tell it. The principal brought
me to the first aid room because no one could find Hank. Doris had to come
from
the junior high to fetch me. I was only nine, after all. Before Doris arrived,
I sneaked out the door and ran home without a coat.”
“In the storm?”
“I never felt the cold. My daddy was dead.” Grace lay her purse on
the table. “When I got home, Mama was on the phone, her mouth up close
to the wall box. She saw me, and hung up right quick. She was furious that I’d
left my coat. Doris made it home later, breathless from chasing me. Mama
sent us both to bed, but shuffles and angry voices downstairs kept us awake.
Doris
and I sat at the top of the steps and listened. We didn’t know what
we heard, what it meant, until later.”
Tom traced imaginary circles on the table cloth.
Grace continued. “Christmas morning was clear as a bell, and the snow
was a fluffy blanket. I thought Santa had brought me a new doll in the night.
Instead, we had to put away the ornaments and pipe-cleaner angels and pull
down the tree to make space. The men from Daddy’s shop came and laid
him out in the front room.”
Tom reached across the table for her hand. “You never told me this
part.”
“Bad memories, Tommy, of people breaking out.” She drew away from
her son. “For a long time, I asked why. I prayed to know why. I never
understood the reason except that a storm blew in.”
Grace unclasped her purse. “After Mama died, I was cleaning out her
things, and I found this. I had suspected. Now I knew for sure.” She
handed Tom a yellowed newspaper clipping.
Lewiston Courier, December 25, 1929, “Seal Trap Harbor Man Dead”
Glenn Preble, 48, of Seal Trap Harbor, was killed yesterday when his shotgun
accidentally discharged during a visit at the home of Avis Sorenson in Pemaquid.
According to a spokesman from the Pemaquid police, Mr.. Preble, who knew Mrs.
Sorenson from the Harbor Church choir, had previously made unreasonable demands
toward his fellow parishioner. Mr.. Preble leaves behind his wife, Beryl,
and four children.
Tom let the words soak in. “Grandpa was having an affair?”
“That’s what people thought. Mrs. Sorenson wouldn’t run
off with him, the story went, so he committed suicide in front of her.
Mama never said
any different, but she knew the truth.”
“What are you telling me?”
“The newspaper had it wrong. That terrible day, Doris and I overheard
Mama on the phone. ‘So you told the minister that he shot himself?’ we
heard Mama say. ‘Is that right?’ We didn’t know until
later that she was talking to Hank.”
“What? Hank? How do you know?”
“The day of the funeral, Hank stayed in his room. I had no coat, so
when I took out the garbage, I grabbed his plaid jacket. It had a big
patch of blood
on the sleeve. With the newspaper account and what Mama said on the
phone, the story all fell into place. Hank had gone to Pemaquid again to meet
his older woman, and Daddy followed with the shotgun. What a parent will do
for the family. Sometimes you have to paint every floor in the house. What
a mother
will do to save her son.”
Tom’s grandmother had endured the pretense of her husband’s suicide
over a mistress to cover the reality that her son had shot his father. Tom
studied his mother’s lined face.
Grace said, “When Hank died in thirty-one, Mama had nothing left
to cry out.”
“I’d do it for my boys,” Tom said.
“Would you?” Grace slid out of the booth. “I need to go.”
Edna came by the table with the credit card receipt. He signed it. “All
set.”
Tom was pocketing his wallet when an urgent hand beat against the window.
A man in a black slicker gestured for the waitress.
“Hey, Edna,” Tom said. “I thought the big rescue was finished
out there.”
“It was. Now I don’t know what’s going on. Thank you. Stop
in again.”
Lindsey joined Tom at the register. “Before they went to bed, Darren
hid Brian’s dump truck, and they fought to beat the band, but now they’re
sound asleep. I swear, Cynthia has the right touch.”
Outside the door, snow fell in windswept curtains of white. Flashlights gleamed
at the far end of the dock. A crowd of dark figures gathered.
“Where’s my mother?” Tom said.
“She’s not in the ladies’ room. I thought she was with you.”
“I thought she was with you.”
“She can’t be far. Her coat’s still on the rack.”
“Wait!” Edna called. “She left something.” Edna handed
Grace’s
shopping bag to Tom.
Inside was a small box, like what a watch might come in, wrapped in
green shiny paper, with a red velvet ribbon. The tag said “Love
to my son and his wife and children, Merry Christmas.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chris Jackson used to live on the Maine coast, but now teaches creative
writing and literature at a university in South Florida. She has published
a nonfiction book of literary criticism, Myth and Literature
in Women’s
Detective Fiction (McFarland, 2002).
Return to Winter 2006 Table of Contents © 2006 SPINETINGLER Magazine - All rights reserved |
