Catch of the Day
Page 10

It’s nice, staying here. I’m glad I have to. But the room is spinning just a little, so I put my head on the table. It’s like being on a carnival ride…I can feel the movement, but with my eyes closed, I don’t have to see.
Someone sits next to me. “Hello,” I say without lifting my head. “Welcome to the dinner.”
“Are you drunk?” It’s my sister.
“Mmm-hmm. Daddy’s getting me some food.” I lift my head. Oops. I’m drooling. There’s a wet spot on the table. I grab the flowers and place them on the splotch, then turn to face Christy. “Hi.”
“Whoa,” she says. “What happened?”
It doesn’t seem prudent to mention the whiskey I drank earlier. “Oh, I don’t know…I think I had a glass of wine on an empty stomach. Thash all. Jushta li’l wine.” I smile to cover the fact that I’m slurring.
Dad returns with some salad, bread, a glass of water and a bowl of pasta that could feed a family of four. “Eat, sweetie,” he instructs. “And Christy, can you run interference with your mother? She’s over there talking to Carol.”
“Sure,” she answers. She stands up and pats me on the shoulder.
“I love you!” I call, waving to her. “You are so sweet, Christy.”
I eat the food?it’s delicious, I have to say?and begin to feel drowsy. Christy, Violet and Will come over with plates, and after a little while, Mom, too. Another family dinner. My eyelids droop, but Dad has me on the far end, away from Mom so she won’t know her spinster daughter is now also the town lush. Maybe I can go lie down on the coat pile, I think. It looks so cozy. People mill around, going up for seconds. “Great food, Maggie,” several people call, and I wave sloppily in response.
Then I see Father Tim. He’s chatting up Mr. and Mrs. Rubricht, laughing, clapping Mr. on the back. Mrs. Plutarski, his self-appointed bodyguard, preens in her proximity to the priest. Preening proximity to the priest. I chuckle. “Preening,” I say out loud. Dad turns to me, concerned, but I can’t take my eyes off Father Tim.
He’s so nice, Father Tim. We had so much fun the other night, didn’t we? That man is a great guy. He’s no ass**le, not like Skip. Nope, Father Tim is my best friend. I love him.
When everyone is just about finished and eying the dessert table with unabashed greed, Father Tim takes the microphone and clicks it on. His beautiful Irish lilt fills my ears.
“It warms my heart to see so many people here tonight, in spite of the nasty weather,” he says, smiling at his flock. “And what a lovely dinner we’ve all been enjoying! Thank you, Maggie and Octavio, for putting together such a fine feast, as always.”
People clap and turn toward me. I stand up, stagger back a little, but decide that no one really noticed. “You’re welcome!” I call out.
“And thanks in advance to the hospitality committee, too, who’ll be doing all the hard work of cleaning up afterwards,” Father Tim continues. “I’m happy to say that we’ve raised more than?”
“Can I just say something?” I call out, waving to dear, kind Father Tim.
“Oh, stop her, Daddy,” Christy murmurs, her voice urgent.
No! They will not stop me! I scoot with surprising agility around our table, only bumping into six or ten chairs as I make my way to the front of the room, where Father Tim stands smiling with a little uncertainty.
“Can I have the mike?” I ask him. I am not so drunk that I miss Mrs. Plutarski’s mouth purse in jealousy. Yeah. That’s right. Because I’m Father Tim’s friend. She’s not the only one who adores him.
“Ah…sure, Maggie,” he says, handing it over to me.
I’ve never spoken into a microphone before. It’s kind of neat, holding it. I feel a little like Ellen DeGeneres, like I have my own show. I wriggle onto the edge of the stage where last year’s confirmation class butchered Godspell and blow into the mike. The rushing sound reassures me that it’s on.
“Thank you so much, Father Tim,” I say, proud not to slur. “Oh, that’s funny! I sound like Christy!”
Everyone laughs. I’m a hit!
“So, I guess I just wanted to say how grateful we all are to be here, on this beautiful planet, in this great little town. It’s so nice, isn’t it?”
My mother is staring at me, her face a mixture of disapproval and horror. I think she might be mad at me. “Hi, Mom!” I say, waving. “Anyway, I also want to say thanks to Father Tim. We are so lucky to have him in our parish, aren’t we? I mean, remember Father What’s-His-Name, that weird little fat guy? The guy at Christy’s wedding? He was no fun, no fun. Uh-uh. Not funny, that guy. And now we have Father Tim! He’s so good, right? I mean, he’s like a holy man, don’t you think?”
“Thanks, Maggie. I’ll just be taking that microphone back, shall I?” Father Tim says, making a move toward me.
“No! No, no. No.” I scoot back further, then stand, so that if Father Tim wants to get me, he has to come and get me. Ha! I point to him as he stands frozen, and waggle my index finger. “This is good. You should hear this, holy man. Because we all love you. Really. Don’t we?” I ask the assembled guests. They are certainly paying excellent attention. “Everyone here loves you, Father Tim. Me, too. I just…you’re such a…and we all just…I love you, Father Tim.”
I keep talking, but now I can hardly hear myself, the place has gotten so loud. Will is suddenly standing next to me, clever lad, and he takes the mike from me.
“I wasn’t done,” I protest.
“Oh, you’re done, honey,” he says. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”
CHAPTER SIX
FRAGMENTS OF LAST NIGHT WHIZ around in my brain like ice being crushed in a blender. Snatches of conversation, images, a deep concern that yes, I really did say that.
It’s three-twenty in the morning. I’m not really sure what time Will and my father tucked me in. My brain grinds against my skull, and my right eye apparently has an ice pick in it. My teeth have sprouted fur, and my mouth feels like something reptilian and evil died in there.
I stagger into the bathroom and swallow two Motrin and two Tylenol at the sink. I know this isn’t good to take these on an empty stomach, but I don’t care. The thought of drinking milk causes ugly things to happen in my digestive tract. I take a shower and feel that I’ve advanced an inch toward normal humanity.
My apartment feels stuffy and close, and I certainly don’t want to be around food right now, so the diner is out. I pull on my coat, my wool hat, mittens, and grab a flashlight.
“Colonel,” I say, and my brain recoils from the awful noise. “Come, boy,” I whisper.
Colonel has never needed a leash; he just follows me everywhere with breathtaking devotion. We head out into the pitch-black morning.
The town is quiet; there is only the gentle sound of water shushing against the rocky shore. The wind is still at this hour, and the moon long gone, making the stars glitter in the inky black sky. I walk down dark streets, past sleeping houses, until I get to a little path that will take me up to Douglas Point. It’s not a nature preserve precisely, but it’s close. There’s just one house up there, owned by a wealthy Microsoft executive, and he only visits it once or twice a year. He’s quite nice about letting us locals use the grounds for hiking and fishing.
The smell of pine and sea makes my roiling stomach feel better, and the breeze seems to blow all thought from my head. I know what I did last night, but at this moment, my mind is empty. It’s just Colonel and me right now.
I go along the sea to a large outcropping of rock that sits directly over the water. In fact, it’s called Bowsprit Rock, as it resembles that particular part of a boat. Rising behind me like a specter is the granite memorial to fishermen who died at sea. Carved on it are the names of eighteen men Gideon’s Cove has lost to the ravenous ocean. Eighteen men so far, that is.
The wind is a little stronger here, and still quite cold, though it is almost April. The rock is like ice under my bottom, but it feels good, cleansing and solid. I switch off the flashlight and let my eyes adjust. Colonel lies down next to me, contentedly chewing a stick, and I put my arm around his neck and look east. Dawn is far away, but the stars are brilliant enough tonight that I can see whitecaps here and there. The water slaps against the rocky shore, shushing and whispering.
With a sigh, I lie back and look into the Milky Way. It’s so beautiful, so cold and pure and distant, hypnotic. Colonel snuggles against my side, and I idly stroke his thick fur, just looking into the heavens. How long I stay like this, I don’t know, as I’ve forgotten my watch, but the sound of a motor causes me to sit up. There goes a lobster boat, out to check the pots. The lights of the boat seem warm and welcoming compared with the distant ice of the stars. It might be Jonah, though he’s on the lazy side of lobstermen. I squint, but I can’t make out who it is. Malone, maybe. Jonah’s mentioned that he’s usually the first one out, the last one back.
Last year, the story goes, Malone and his cousin, Trevor, a man as sunny as Malone is dark, went in on a new boat. Real pretty, the local gossip sources said. Eighty-five thou, maybe more. They were going to do some more commercial work, perhaps even start a few scallop beds. But Trevor, who often came into Joe’s Diner and flirted equally with Judy and me, disappeared one day. Apparently, he sold the boat out from under Malone and took off with the money, leaving Malone with the payments. Trevor was never seen again. Rumors flew?Mafia, drugs, homosexuality, murder?but Malone remained, silently working his traps himself, using the boat he’d had for the past ten years.
Well. I’d heard about it?you don’t own the only restaurant in town and not hear these things?but I don’t really know Malone. He was five or six years ahead of me in school. As he’s barely spoken to me, ever, I don’t really know what his situation is, a rare event in Gideon’s Cove.
The grinding in my head has subsided to the pulsating of a wounded jellyfish. My ass is numb, my cheeks stiff with cold. With a sigh, I stand up. “Let’s go, big boy,” I say to the dog. We turn and head for the diner as the sky lightens almost imperceptibly on the eastern horizon.
I put on coffee and start pulling together some muffins. Cranberry lemon today, and raisin bran for Bob Castellano, who needs his fiber. Mrs. K. likes them, too.
Soon the diner will start to fill up with people who will want to hear about my little speech last night. Or people who witnessed it and want to relive it. Once again, I’ve embarrassed myself. At least no one can say I’m not entertaining.
By the time the second batch of muffins comes out, I’ve started the potatoes for Octavio’s rightfully famous hash browns. As if summoned, he clatters through the back door, and I wince at the noise. “Hi, boss,” he says cheerfully.
“Hi.” I wait for the questions, but none comes.
Instead, Octavio busies himself at the stove, checks the muffins. “How about some coffee, boss?” He doesn’t wait for the answer, just pours me a cup and hands it to me, then starts cracking eggs into a large bowl. His big hands can handle two eggs at a time, and he’s ambidextrous, at least when it comes to egg cracking. Smack! Four eggs. Smack! Eight. Smack! A dozen eggs lay waiting innocently in their bowl, not realizing they’re about to be whisked without mercy. He glances at me, his face open and friendly.
“Would you like a raise?” I ask.
“It’s okay, boss.”
“You deserve one.”
“Maybe in the summer, then.” He smiles. There’s a space between his two front teeth that I find very appealing.
“So I really told Father Tim I love him, didn’t I?” I ask.
“Yeah, boss. Sorry.” He winks at me and continues frying the hash browns.