Stay (26 page)

catch their breaths. It was beautiful in there in a cold, silent

way—the white walls made of large rectangular stones, the

paned windows, the upper floors of mahogany and brass high

above your head. It made you think of medieval towers and

long-ago fortresses, places meant to keep you safe with their

serious, straight spines.

I explained that there used to be four keepers who switched

off their watch duties. I told the couple what Sylvie had told me

and what I had read about in the white comfort of my room: that

the lamps used to be lit with paraffin rather than the lightbulb

that was there now; that a bell would have to be rung in times of

danger, rather than the foghorn of today. Everything was auto-

matic now, I said, as we reached those top floors, as Sharon’s

gloved hand reached out to touch the brass rails for safety, and as

Hal cleared his throat at first sight of the drop down.

Hal snapped a few pictures, but Sharon was ready to

take the stairs back. I didn’t blame her. I felt the same way. I

decided I didn’t mind that Sylvie took this as her duty only. It

was gorgeous up there, where you could touch sky and stand

above the sea, but the silence inside was so great that you

could hear a hundred old stories spoken all at once. Endless

hours of desperate waiting. Storms and panic and battering,

crashing waves. Clattering bells and shouting voices. The turn

of that brass latch of the uppermost deck. The winds howling

or stilled, who knew, when Mrs. Bishop lifted her skirts and

climbed that rail.

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Stay

Maybe this is how you felt the presence of ghosts in the

daylight.

I locked the door behind me; I was sure I did. The couple

went into the shop and bought a snow globe and two children’s

T-shirts for their grandkids, and Sylvie rang them up. Hal pressed

a ten dollar bill into my palm and thanked me for being a “super

tour guide”. Sylvie rose from her seat, left the visitor’s center to

me. I heard her rattling dishes upstairs, cleaning up. I dusted and

straightened and then sat down again and read through one of the

display books about Captain Bishop. He had weathered more than

one storm before the wreck of
Glory
. His men talked about what

a great leader he was. Eliza was said to be a difficult woman. She

was “quarrelsome”39* when he was home, but despondent when

he would leave. Sailors’ wives would take turns sitting with her in

the first days after he set out, bringing her food she wouldn’t eat.

Sylvie stood in the doorway, startling me. I slammed the

book closed. She held two cups of tea again. She had changed

out of that blouse and was back in a blue work shirt I had seen

lots of times.

I wasn’t really in the mood for tea. It was a sunny day, and

although you never really felt the heat by the sea, I could tell it

was going to be warm. Sun was coming through the windows of

the visitors’ center, and I was glad for my sundress and sandals.

Still, I took the cup and thanked her. I wasn’t sure why I saw her

as the enemy.

39 You gotta love an old fashioned word like “quarrelsome.” Today she’d just be a

bitch.

* 205 *

Deb Caletti

“Did you lock the lighthouse?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Clara.” She leaned one hip against the counter. She sipped

her tea. Roger lay in a circle of sun, looking sweet and well-

behaved with his chin resting on his paws.

I waited. I studied my palms. I looked at the lines there and

wondered about them. My life line was a mess. A “gypsy” told me

this during a carnival my school put on, and even though the gypsy

was my algebra teacher, Mrs. Yacovich, this still bothered me.

“I know you are worried about your father,” she said finally.

Now
she
waited. The truth is, I let her think I was worried

about him. But I wasn’t, not really. When it came to Sylvie

Genovese, anyway, I think I was worried about me.

“Yes,” I said.

“I want to let you know something,” she said.

The hard thing was, her voice was so beautiful—that rich,

musical Italian that made you think of cellos playing, different

from the thick, concerto rhythms of Christian’s accent. She rarely

used our sloppy conjunctions—“I will” and “you have” were

never “I’ll” and “you’ve”—new at the language, she sounded

careful with it, the way you are with other new things. And she

was gorgeous, too. Those dark, dark eyes. Truth was, they made

a beautiful couple.

“Okay,” I said.

“I do not just say these things. I do not like for people to think

I am weak with soft spots like a bad melon.” She laughed, but I

just looked at her. That long dark hair. My mother had brown

hair. In her pictures it is always pulled back in a ponytail or away

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Stay

from her face in a barrette. Her plain hair would never be able to

compete with Sylvie’s.

“But he is safe with me, all right? I understand broken hearts.

I can look out for the lost because I have been lost.”

“Well, maybe you should be careful yourself, then.” Dad

would have killed me for saying that, but if there was one thing

I learned from Christian, it was this. “A person who is drowning

can grab on to you for help, and you’re the one that ends up going

under.”

“Yes. But your father is not drowning.”

Now I really felt pissed. I was
so
glad she knew more about

him than I did, someone who’d spent every day of the last seven-

teen years with the guy. “That’s good news,” I said.

“There’s a difference between drowning and struggling with

the . . .” She moved her free arm over her head in a circle. “The

swimming stroke.”

“The butterfly.”

“Yes, all right,” she said as if I had just made up the word and

she had decided to agree to it. We sat there with each other in that

silent, prickly hum of bad feeling. She sighed. “I am taking the

boat out for a while,” she said.

She had already given up on me. I was not going to get the

ass kissing I thought I deserved right then.

“Have fun,” I said.

I hated the way my own voice sounded.

I bought a sandwich after work, wrapped part of the roll in a nap-

kin. I stopped and saw Cleo on my way to
Obsession
.

* 207 *

Deb Caletti

“I brought your seagull a present,” I said.

“Oh, my God, don’t encourage him,” she said when I showed

her the roll. “I went outside last night to get a book out of my car,

and who do you think I saw on my frickin’ front porch? The front

porch! Standing there like it was the goddamn bus stop.”

“You’re his gull-friend.”

“Ha ha. Oh, Jesus, don’t even say it. I’m just the food,

baby. Just the food.” She looked over at him. “You know he’s

really smart? You wouldn’t believe this, but he actually has

a favorite brand of chips. Doritos Ranch. He can open the

bag. You got some Barbecue Lay’s? Forget it. Salt N’ Vinegar?

Nope. He picks the Doritos Cool Ranch. I saw him do it—pick

only the old bags of Doritos. So I tried an experiment. Sure

enough. He
chooses
.”

“Hmm,” I said. “Bread with mayonnaise maybe won’t even

turn his head.”

“No, bread’s fine. It’s not good for him to eat so much junk

food,” she said. “Hey, Clara?”

“Yeah?”

“You should come over for dinner or something. My mom

would love to meet you. She can’t understand why Finn has been

so happy lately. But it aaaaalll makes sense to
me
,” she said.

“Maybe I should wait for Finn to ask,” I said.

“He’s clueless. Hey, Finn!” she shouted. She actually stepped

out from The Cove and yelled and then whistled that great whistle

some people can do with their fingers. Finn was bent over the

lines on the boat, looked up and waved, then hopped off and

came our way.

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Stay

“That is so cool, that whistle. I always wished I could do that.”

But Cleo wasn’t listening. “I invited Clara over for dinner,

okay?”

“Great,” he said. He laced his fingers with mine. “You can be

overwhelmed with the entire crazy family now.” But he was smil-

ing. He was like one great big Sunday afternoon—the kind where

you stay in your p.j.’s and watch movies and eat popcorn. Where

life is at its uncomplicated best.

And so I went over to Finn’s house that night. He’d pointed it out

to me before, the small white clapboard not far from the docks.

It was a simple house inside—wood paneling, and the kind of

couch with a sag that made you work hard to rise from. A wicker

chair, a coffee table filled with books, a basket of shells, a lamp

made out of a twisting driftwood log, breezy cream curtains.

There was a large canvas on one wall, an abstract painting with

the varied blues of the sea. I stood before it. Maybe I was only

imagining the curve of Point Possession.

“I like this,” I said to Finn. I was taking it all in, this place he

grew up. Cleo, in her wild floral blouse and jeans, was finding

some music to put on.

“Yeah?” His hand was resting on the small of my back.

“He painted it,” Cleo said, over her shoulder. A moment later,

on came a gravelly voiced guy singing a soft, thoughtful song.

“You did?”

He shrugged, shy. “One of those things,” he said.

“One of those things,” Cleo mimicked. “A new age Picasso.

Kid’s got talent.” Cleo grasped him on the shoulders and shook,

* 209 *

Deb Caletti

and right then their mom opened the door and came in, a gro-

cery bag on one hip. She had long hair, and wore jeans and a

denim jacket with a tank top underneath, a wide belt. She had

eyes that were definite. Cheekbones, too. She looked like an

older Cleo—someone who knew her mind. I was surprised

then, when she gave me a big smile and with her free hand

pointed at me.

“You. You I am glad to meet,” she said.

“Clara, Mom. Mom, Clara,” Finn said.

“Ness,” she said. “As in Vanessa, not Loch.”

“Yeah, but sometimes she’s a monster,” Cleo said.

Ness snagged a brussels sprout right from the bag and

lobbed it right at her, but it missed and rolled under the

television.

“Take your roughhousing outdoors, children,” Finn said as

he leaned down to retrieve it. He held up the brussels sprout.

“Don’t you know we hate these things?”

“Cleo loves them,” Ness said.

“I do not,” Cleo said.

“You’ve always loved them.”

“Never.” Cleo followed Ness to the kitchen.

“Why do I buy them, then?” Ness said. “I can’t stand them

either.”

We were alone for a minute. Finn leaned over and kissed my

cheek. “You’re in my house.”

“I’m in your house,” I said. “I like being in your house.

I feel like I’ve been here a million times.” It was true, too. I

remember the time I first went to Christian’s, and even the

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Stay

time I went over to Harrison Daily’s.40* You could feel the

otherness
of a person when you went to their house. It could

be a weird and wrong other, where a place smelled like a litter

box or Pine-Sol or had some reclining chair that gave you the

creeps for some reason. You could tell all at once if it was a

Super Athlete family or a Gross From Too Many Pets one, and

you knew if you fit or not. You knew if you wanted to sit down

and eat there, or if you’d secretly wished you brought your

own silverware. It could feel too clean, where you were sure

you’d spill the drink you were offered. Shakti’s house was very

different than ours, with its Indian wall hangings and carved

wood furniture, but it matched me anyway. I got right in and

wanted to stay. And it was like that there at Finn’s. A match,

for whatever reason.

Finn’s mother had a huge music collection, and Finn

showed me different CDs and played me bits of songs, and Ness

and Cleo shouted out other suggestions, and then dinner was

ready. Ness made Parmesan chicken and a salad, and we all sat

at a round table in the kitchen. Cleo brought out two chunky

wood candlesticks and lit the candles and turned down the light.

Their old dog Shane woke from a long nap to sit under the table.

We clinked glasses, and Jack came home to change his clothes,

snitching a few dinner rolls on his way back out again.

40 Homecoming date, freshman year. We all gathered at Harrison’s house to take pic-

tures in front of their fireplace. That living room was one of those suburban shrines,

unused and untouched, the perfect family photos on the mantel like religious offerings