Catch of the Day
Page 44

Saturday morning of Blessing Weekend dawns foggy and warmer than usual, and by 10:00 a.m., the sun is shining, the air is clear and it’s a perfect spring day. May is the month of blackflies, but a strong breeze off the water keeps them away, and only the most determined bugs are able to draw blood through their tiny, painful bites. As Christy, Will and I walk down to the green, Violet in the carrier on Will’s back, the smell of outdoor cooking?chowder and bacon, hot dogs and hamburgers and smoke?hits us in a thick, mouthwatering wave.
This weekend seems like a thank-you to the residents for not moving away to an easier place. Our sense of neighborhood and friendship is strong at the Blessing. People call greetings to each other, shake hands as if it’s been weeks, not hours, since they last met. Couples hold hands, children dance with excitement. When are the lobster boat races? Can we get a balloon? I’m hungry! Everywhere, people smile and laugh. Music drifts in snatches on the breeze.
I wave to friends, customers, neighbors…there’s virtually no one I don’t know by name. Now and then, I catch a glimpse of Father Tim in his all-black priest clothes, but he is swamped with teary-eyed well-wishers.
Main Street is closed off to cars, and people stroll the block and a half of the “downtown,” stopping to sample a cookie from the Girl Scouts, a muffin from the PTA. The chrome on Joe’s Diner glistens from the cleaning I gave it yesterday. Octavio, Georgie and I hung out bunting while Judy smoked and squinted in approval. I feel a little thrill of pride looking at it, even though it’s closed.
“Ow,” Will says, reaching up to pry his hair from Violet’s dimpled fist. “Let go, sweetie.” He shifts the backpack as Violet knees him in the spine.
“Want me to take her, Will?” I offer. “You won’t pull Auntie’s hair, will you, pumpkin?”
“You sure?” Will asks gratefully.
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll take Violet and you two can stroll around alone for a while, what do you say?”
“I say thank you,” Christy says, unsnapping the harness. “You’re the best, Maggie.” She holds the pack with Violet still in it as Will slides his arms out, then straps it on me.
“Agga,” Violet says. “Agga bwee.”
“She just said Aunt Maggie, clear as day,” I say. “Did you hear? What an honor.” Violet takes a fistful of my hair and tugs in affirmation, I’m quite sure.
Will and Christy laugh. “Meet you in an hour?” Will says. “We’ll buy you lunch at the fire department.”
“Sounds great,” I say.
With Violet on my back, I don’t feel so obviously single. We stroll around, stopping to admire the display of art projects from the first grade students, and I brace for the inevitable assessment that is an integral part of Blessing Weekend.
“Hey, Maggie!”
And here we go. It’s an old high school classmate, Carleigh Carleton. She went to college in Vermont, as I recall. She also had a wicked crush on Skip.
“Hey, Carleigh,” I say.
“Oh, my God, you had a baby?” she shrieks, her eyes popping. She never was that attractive.
“No, no, this is my niece, Violet,” I tell her.
“Oh, sure. Christy’s baby. That makes more sense!” Carleigh’s smile is full of smugness and condescension. “I have three myself. Are you still working in your grandfather’s diner?” What she means is, Are you still stuck in the same job you’ve had since high school, since Skip dumped you? Haven’t you gotten married yet, Maggie? Don’t you know the statistics for a woman over thirty?
“Yup,” I say. “And what about you, Carleigh?” I pretend to listen as she tells me of her fabulous life, which is probably not nearly so fabulous in reality. But that’s what Blessing Weekend is for, in a sense. Pretense. Leaving Carleigh, who has gained another fifteen or so pounds since last year, I note with deep satisfaction, I wander through the crafts tent on the green.
There are a few more Carleigh types, mostly women who nod sympathetically when I tell them yes, I’m still at the diner. Poor Maggie, they seem to be saying, I may have married an abusive drunk, had to file a restraining order and gotten divorced before I was twenty-three, but at least I got married!
I refuse to feel inferior. Screw ’em, I think. My life is just fine. I make a difference in this town. Violet knees me in the back, and I continue in a fog, absentmindedly waving here and there. A familiar name jerks me out of my daze.
“…and that Malone person won’t admit that it’s his,” the hideous Mrs. Plutarski stage-whispers to one of her wrinkled old cronies, Mrs. Lennon.
“Why not?” Mrs. Lennon asks.
“Because he doesn’t want to be saddled with child support,” Mrs. Plutarski says, as if she had actual information on the subject. “Well, that woman had it coming, if you ask me. All those years of?”
“Excuse me, what are you talking about?” I ask, shoving in between them, a tugboat between two tankers.
“Oh! Maggie. How are you, dear?” Mrs. Lennon asks sweetly. Mrs. P. assumes the lemon-sucking face she does so well.
“Child support? Admitting that something is his? Tsk, tsk, Mrs. Plutarski. Does Father Tim know you gossip like this?” I fold my arms, my moment of righteous indignation somewhat marred by Violet yanking my hair.
“This is a private conversation, Maggie,” Mrs. Plutarski says coldly. “And I’d say you should be worried about what people are saying about you instead of butting into other people’s conversations. Everyone knows that you thought Father Tim was going to leave the church for you.” She smirks and cuts her eyes to Mrs. Lennon.
“You know what, Edith?” I say. “You’re a nasty, gossiping, eavesdropping busybody, and no amount of ass-kissing of priests is going to change that. Mrs. Lennon, you have a nice weekend.”
Enjoying Mrs. P’s squawking rage, I walk away. “How was I?” I ask my niece. She doesn’t answer. Glancing back, I see that she’s fallen asleep. Her angelic face calms my seething anger, but my heart is still pounding, my face hot.
Poor Malone. He’s done nothing wrong, but the town won’t drop it. All day, I hear snatches of damning conversation?Chantal and Malone are the hot topic. During the trap-hauling race, when everyone crowds the dock to see which boat will make it in fastest, Christy and I stand with the firemen to cheer on Jonah and Dad. “Why do you think Malone’s not here?” Fred Tendrey asks as he leans against a post. “Ashamed to show his face, I’d guess.”
“Why should he be ashamed, Fred?” I ask. “He hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s not the one standing around looking down women’s blouses. Maybe he doesn’t want his daughter to hear a bunch of idiots gossiping about him, huh? Ever think of that?”
My protestations fall on deaf ears. Malone’s boat is conspicuously absent from the festivities. Or maybe he never comes to the Blessing. I can’t say I ever noticed before.
“She doesn’t want Malone involved,” I overhear Leslie MacGuire murmuring to her neighbor as they buy cups of chowder. “You know the rumors about his first wife. How she left in the middle of the night.”
“Oh, that’s right,” the neighbor murmurs. My jaw clenches, but I say nothing. There’s no point.
By four o’clock, I can’t take any more.
“Guys, I’m heading out,” I tell my sister and Will. “I’ve got a headache.”
“You okay?” Christy asks, tilting her head.
“Yup. Just tired.”
Though I have a ticket for the spaghetti supper and the rest of my family, including Mom, will be there, I walk away from town. Climbing the hill to my apartment, I glance back at the harbor. The lobster boats are done with racing for the day, bobbing on their moorings like cheerful seagulls, clean and freshly painted for the new season. The Twin Menace gleams, one of the newer boats, made more noticeable because the Ugly Anne is out. My heart squeezes almost painfully, imagining him off with his daughter. In another few weeks, it will be illegal to pull pots after four, but for now Malone is within the rules, if he’s actually working, that is. And it doesn’t seem as if he misses a chance to work very often.
Except for that one day when he took me to Linden Harbor.
I trudge down my street, spying Mrs. Kandinsky sleeping in her chair through the window. Peeking inside, I make sure her chest is still rising and falling with breath, then, assured that she’s not dead, I go upstairs to my dark apartment.
THE NEXT MORNING, the smell of frying bacon and coffee welcomes me to my parents’ house. Each year, we have a special breakfast before the actual Blessing of the Fleet. And we’re all going to church, since it’s Father Tim’s last Mass. Jonah is slumped in a corner, pale and shaky, timidly nursing a cup of coffee. I lean over and kiss him loudly on the cheek.
“Is my wittle brother a wittle hung over?” I ask merrily, ruffling his hair. He moans and turns to the wall. “Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, Maggie, is that what you’re wearing?” she asks.
I look down at my outfit. Tan pants, red sweater, shoes that match each other. I raise an eyebrow at my mother, who sets the spatula down on the counter. “What I meant to say, honey, is why don’t you wear a skirt once in a while? You have such gorgeous legs.”
“That was better, Mom. Better.”
“There’s nothing gorgeous about Maggie,” Jonah mumbles from the corner, apparently not in enough misery to resist bothering me. “Christy’s the pretty one.” I smack him on the head, savoring his yelp of pain, and pour myself some coffee.
“I can’t wear a skirt today, Mom,” I say, giving my mother a kiss, pleased to see her back in the family domicile. “I’m going out with Jonah for the blessing.”
“Not if you don’t stop yelling,” Jonah mutters.
It’s wicked fun to be on the water for the Blessing of the Fleet. Gideon’s Cove looks like a postcard?the rocky shore, tall pines, the houses that dot the hills, the spire of St. Mary’s, the gray wood of the dock. Last year, the whole family went on the Twin Menace; this year, because of Violet, Christy and Will opted to stay ashore, and our parents will keep them company.
Christy’s face appears on the back porch. “Hello,” she calls. She has also worn tan pants and a red top, but her outfit cost more, is made with better materials and generally looks better than mine. She hefts in Violet’s car seat, a diaper bag that’s bigger than my suitcase and a vibrating bouncy seat. Will follows her with a tiny bungy-jumping contraption that’s made to dangle from a doorway and another bag.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask.
“In the bomb shelter,” Jonah answers. “Could you stop yelling, please?”
“Dad!” I yell cheerfully. “We’re all here!” Jonah whimpers.
“Serves you right, Joe,” Christy says. “Jell-O shots. For God’s sake. We were at Dewey’s last night, you know. Saw everything.”
“Did I call you the pretty one?” Jonah says, rising specterlike from his chair. “I changed my mind. You’re both hags.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re all sitting around the dining room table, passing platters of pancakes, scrambled eggs, cranberry scones (my contribution) and bacon. Jonah has swallowed some Advil and looks less green, though he shudders as the eggs pass him. I plop a spoonful on his plate and enjoy the blanching that follows.
“So, Mom, Dad,” Christy begins in what Joe and I call her social-worker voice, “how have things been since you’ve…been apart?” Her voice is carefully pleasant.
“Not bad,” Dad says. “Delicious scones, Maggie. You sure can bake, honey.”