Son of a Mermaid (3 page)

Shea led Lucky through the gate in the stockade fence by the side of the house. Martha’s backyard was small but functional, much like everything else about the house. A plain wooden shed sat on the back property line, with a clothesline strung from one corner over to the yard’s sole pine tree in the other back corner. A row of faded towels fluttered in the breeze.

The neatly trimmed patch of green was mostly grass, with generous sections of clover and chickweed sprinkled about for good measure. Rows of tall perennials lined the garden bed that ran the length of the house, with many strange shoots and leaves that Shea didn’t recognize. The only flowers he could name for certain were the daisies, which had barely started to open their sunny yellow faces. The garden hose coiled neatly on one of those metal reel contraptions, like a giant spool of fishing line.

“C’mon boy, you know the drill.” He grabbed the end of the hose and turned on the faucet while the dog whined his disapproval. “We need to get the salt water off your fur, and off my feet. ‘No ocean in the house,’ Gramma says. And you don’t want to mess with her.”

With an air of resignation, the dog submitted to the hose. Shea focused the spray onto the dog’s sleek black fur. A brilliant rainbow formed over the animal as the sunlight illuminated the gushing water.

Martha had told Shea the black lab showed up at her back door one day. An hour later, her telephone rang with the news of the tornado on the MacNamara farm. She’d left the dog at the police station, hoping the owners would claim him. No one had yet called to claim ownership, so Martha brought the dog home. Shea named him “Lucky,” and felt lucky to have one friend he could count on in his strange new surroundings.

“Shea? Are you back from the beach?” Martha peered out through the screen door. “I haven’t finished making your pancakes.”

“That’s okay,” Shea answered as he kicked off his Tevas and hosed the sand from between his toes. “I’m not hungry.” He grabbed the towel hanging over the clothesline and began to dry the dog’s fur.

“What’s that you say?” Martha opened the door and stood there in her faded blue housedress and frilly pink apron, a dishtowel in one hand. “You know my hearing’s not what it used to be.”

Shea narrowed his eyes, not believing for a minute Martha’s hearing was anything less than perfect. Shea didn’t think she was nearly as frail as she pretended.

Ducking under her arm, he entered the kitchen. Lucky followed, padding across the linoleum to hide in the shadows underneath the kitchen table. The screen door swung shut behind them with a resounding bang.

“Can I skip breakfast this morning?” Shea inched his way toward the opposite doorway, hoping to escape the thick scent of bacon grease that lingered in the air. His stomach growled, betraying his hunger.

“Absolutely not.” Martha bustled over to the stove, where a cast iron griddle sat over flames of blue gas. “Your grandfather always said a good breakfast is the key to a good day. Sit your body down.”

Shea dropped into one of the chairs next to the Formica table, the plastic seat cushion letting out a sigh. “Could I have a bowl of cereal instead, Gramma? I’m really not used to eating such a big breakfast.” This was a lie. Shea found himself telling more and more of them since he’d moved to Cape Cod.

Breakfast had been an important part of life on the MacNamara farm. In the summer, Shea’s dad always hired a full-time cook to feed the hired farmhands and the interns from the University’s agricultural program. “Aggies,” his dad called the students. Pancakes were an everyday staple. Just the smell of the maple syrup on Gramma’s table made Shea’s chest feel tight. His stomach muscles clenched into a knot as he pictured the Aggies around the breakfast table, fighting over the syrup pitcher.

Martha turned from the stove to squint at Shea. “Is something wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“You seem – I don’t know – unhappy.” She shrugged and turned her attention back to the griddle.

He didn’t reply for a whole minute.
Of course I’m unhappy,
he thought with a frown.
I miss Dad and I miss the farm. I don’t know anyone here. I miss John even if he won’t call me back. I even miss those stuck-up cheerleaders. My legs ache and I’m afraid to fall asleep at night.

Everything is different here and it all sucks.

He shrugged. “I’m fine.”

Martha put the plate of food down on the table in front of Shea, and sat in the opposite chair. He picked up the plastic bottle of maple syrup and squirted a thin stream over everything on his plate. He poked at the pancakes with his fork and tried to think of something to say.

“You look like your father.” His grandmother’s blunt statement startled him, and he glanced up to find her eyes fixed on his face.

“Dad wasn’t blond,” Shea mumbled, the corners of his mouth dipping down again sharply. He held his fork above the plate, watching the syrup drip back onto the golden cakes.

Martha nodded slowly. “Oh yes, the sun would blond up his hair each spring, setting off those blue eyes of his. The girls… Well, the girls were all crazy for him. Especially your Mum.”

Shea raised his eyes. His father had never talked about his mother. Ever. The subject had been taboo in the farmhouse for as far back as Shea could remember.

Maybe he could finally get some answers.

“If she was crazy for Dad, why’d she leave him?” He wanted to add,
“Why did she leave me?”
but that question hurt too much to think, let alone say out loud.

Martha looked away. “Her father didn’t approve,” she finally said. After another long pause, she added, “I can’t believe your father didn’t tell you any of this. I certainly would have thought he’d have told you about your mum. Especially now that you are older. There are things you need to know.”

So many questions popped into Shea’s head he couldn’t decide which one to ask first. His mind raced while his lips remained firmly glued.

“You have her eyes, you know,” she said as she rose from her seat at the table. “The same shade of green.”

Shea’s eyebrows shot up, shocked by this seemingly small revelation. He had no idea what his mother looked like as his dad didn’t keep a single photo of her. Martha’s back was to him as she turned on the hot water and donned the bright yellow rubber gloves from under the sink. For a minute Shea thought she’d forgotten about the conversation as she washed the mixing bowl she’d used to stir up the pancake batter. Shea waited for her to continue. When she didn’t, he prodded. “Could you, maybe, tell me…you know, about my mother?”

Long seconds of silence stretched between them as Shea held his breath, waiting. Finally, Martha sighed. “You’re old enough to know.”

“Know what?”

“Everything,” she said with a curt nod, her hands still busy washing the dishes. “But I should start at the beginning.”

Shea leaned back in his chair, waiting for some big revelation.

“Your mum was what we call ‘summer people’,” his grandmother began, still facing the sink. “Folks that live somewhere else for most of the year, but spend their summers on Cape Cod.” She paused. “Some of them even decide to stay. We call those ‘wash-ashores,’ since they ‘wash up’ on Cape Cod from other places.”

Shea rolled his eyes before realizing Martha had turned to look at him. His cheeks burned, as if he’d been caught doing something worse. “Umm, you were saying?”

She gave him a stern look before returning her attention to the dishes. “There are all kinds of summer people. A lot of those big houses right along the water belong to the rich ones. Which seems like such a waste for the other ten months of the year, but it keeps our economy alive.”

“Whatever,” Shea muttered, making sure to keep his voice low as he trailed his fork through the syrup pooled on the edge of his plate. He’d already heard her rail on about the summer people ruining the Cape more than once in the few short weeks he’d lived with her. He thought Martha had something important to tell him.
What do summer people have to do with anything? Who cares about visiting rich people or their big houses?

“Some summer people aren’t wealthy, but instead they come to work here, as lifeguards or waitresses or landscapers. And of course there are always the tourists, the lifeblood of Cape Cod. They come for the day or a weekend, or even for a week at a time to vacation in the sun. Many of them are fine people, but you always get the ones who, for one reason or another, feel superior to those of us who live here year round.”

Shea thought of Bobby Joe Peters and the way he always acted superior. He thought about his dad growing up that way, with summer people putting him down. “What about my mother?”

“Your mum was from a wealthy family, and her father definitely felt superior.” His grandmother put the last dish into the drying rack and pulled a fresh dishtowel out of the pocket of her apron. She dried her hands slowly before peeling off the rubber gloves. “Your daddy was so in love with her. He took a second job running fishing charters so he could buy that fancy ring.”

“What ring?”

“The engagement ring, of course.”

“You mean like a diamond?”

Martha shook her head. “Your mum thought diamonds were cold things.” She held out her own hand across the table so Shea could get a better look. “See the ring your grandfather gave me? It’s called a moonstone. The same kind of ring your dad gave your mum.”

Surprise shot through Shea as he looked at the milky stone with the swirling streaks of blue running through it. His father never wore any ring. “Did they, you know, ever go through with it? Ever get married?”

Martha nodded. “You didn’t know even that?” Shea shook his head, and Martha frowned slightly. “Of course they were married, but without her father’s blessing as it were. A judge performed the ceremony up in Hyannis. Your Uncle Richard, Tom’s twin, was the best man, and one of your mum’s…friends came to be her maid of honor. Your grandfather and I were the only audience. Didn’t you notice the photograph in the living room?”

Shea shook his head again, and Martha turned to leave the kitchen. When she didn’t return, he followed her to the next room and found her on the sofa, her blue dress blending with the blue and white checked slipcover.

“This is the one I was thinking of,” Martha said, a silver frame clutched in her hands. Shea crossed the threadbare oriental carpet and maneuvered around the coffee table. He eased down onto the couch next to her, holding his breath.

He’d never paid attention to the photos in this room, the ones covering the mantle. He’d been so wrapped up in his own cocoon of depression he hadn’t noticed much of anything. Now he looked, really looked, at the photo in Martha’s lap.

The lady in the white dress was beautiful, with huge green eyes and a cascade of blonde curls surrounding her perfect oval of a face. She looked strong, defiant, and totally in love.

And exactly like the woman in his nightmares.

He blinked and shifted his gaze to the groom. Although Shea recognized the man in the tuxedo as his father, he’d never seen a smile like that on his dad’s face. Or that look of pure happiness in his eyes.

The room was quiet as they sat looking at the photograph. Shea tried to make sense of this new bit of information. He didn’t know there’d even been a wedding. He’d decided long ago that his birth had been unplanned and unwelcome. He knew things like that happened all the time. But apparently that wasn’t true.

His parents had been married.

And in love.

And somehow he’d been dreaming about his mother rescuing him from drowning?

“So…what happened?” he finally asked.

Martha sighed. “They sat here, in this very room, planning their life together. Deciding where they could go that her family wouldn’t find them. Oklahoma seemed like it would be far enough away, smack dab in the middle of the country as it were.” The old woman stared again at the photo, lost in thought.