There it is again, that undercurrent of his own loneliness. Of sadness, maybe. Or am I reading into things? But there’s something. I raise my hand to the screen that separates us, pressing against the pretty scrollwork of the metal, and suddenly…suddenly my old fantasy of being with him doesn’t seem so ridiculous.
“Father Tim?” I whisper. Outside in the church proper, Mrs. Jensen coughs loudly.
“Maggie, you’re such a wonderful person,” he says, so softly I can barely hear him. “Don’t be sad. Something’s going to change, Maggie, and you won’t be alone forever. Have faith.”
I draw a shaky breath, dizzy at the thoughts that pour into my mind.
Mrs. Jensen hacks again, her cough bouncing off the stone walls of the church. Can’t the old bag take some Robitussin? But the moment is over. Father Tim sits back. “Let’s speak again soon,” he says. “God bless you, Maggie.”
FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS, my thoughts keep me quiet, almost withdrawn. I go through the motions at Joe’s, calling out diner slang for Stuart, hugging Georgie, joking with Rolly and Ben, passing out ballots. Father Tim doesn’t come in, and the significance of his absence causes all kinds of ideas to flutter like birds against a window?unpleasant thoughts, really, that I don’t want to dwell on. But fragments of words float through my mind…Father Shea…You’re special, Maggie…Something’s going to change.
And yet, while those thoughts are concerning, they’re also just a reflex. When I look at the answering machine every afternoon when I come home, it’s Malone I think of. Did he call? Will he? Then I stop myself. Malone has other problems to take care of. He won’t be calling me. Besides, I don’t even want him to call, do I? Leave me out of it, Malone, I command. He obeys.
Chantal leaves a message, a brief one, asking me to call her when I get a chance, no hurry, but I can hear the solemnity in her tone. There’s a call I’m not eager to return. Slutty Chantal. Slutty Malone, too. Who needs ’em?
On Sunday, the Beaumont children are summoned for dinner as usual. Mom and Dad are painfully civil to each other, Dad carving the roast, Mom setting the side dishes on the table with terrible care. Jonah, Christy and I are very well-behaved and helpful, no jokes, no teasing. It’s freakish and agonizing. Will is covering at the hospital, so there’s no one to ease the tension, just us kids and Violet. Dinner takes an eternity, and even the baby’s cheerful babble can’t break the pall of gloom that hangs over the table. When Jonah actually volunteers to wash the dishes afterward, it’s proof positive that something is dreadfully wrong.
“So what happens next?” he asks, his back to the rest of us as he runs the water. “Is one of you moving out?”
Mom and Dad’s eyes meet across the table, perhaps for the first time today. Christy’s eyes fill, and she lowers her nose to Violet’s silky hair to hide the fact.
“Well, actually, yes,” Mom says carefully. “Not just yet, but I’m thinking of moving to Bar Harbor.”
“Wow!” I exclaim. “That’s quite a change from?”
“You’re moving?” Christy shrieks. “You can’t move, Mom! Are you crazy? Are you out of your mind?” Jonah and I exchange a startled glance, but Christy keeps going. “No! You can’t! It’s?It’s?Bar Harbor is so far!”
“Not really,” Mom says. “It’s just an?”
“It’s an hour and a half, Mom!” Christy yells. “Don’t you care about Violet? What about your only grandchild? And your children! Don’t you want to see us more than once a month?”
“Christy,” I begin, but she cuts me off.
“No, Maggie. It’s selfish. You’re being unbelievably selfish, Mom.” She smacks her hand down on the table.
Our mother looks down at the tablecloth without comment. Dad is pulling his silent routine, and I feel a sudden tug of annoyance with him. Staying on the sidelines only gets you so far in life, and in a flash, I can see how hard it must have been for my mother?married to a man who never dissented, never voiced his unhappiness, just bobbed along with the tide until he was so miserable that he had to leave or drown.
“Is that what you want, Mom? To live in Bar Harbor?” I ask.
She sighs. “Well, in some ways, yes. I think it would be nice to be in a bigger place. Spread my horizons, expand my wings, so to speak. So Bar Harbor would be a step in the right direction.”
“Then what?” Christy demands, shifting Violet. “Move to Paris? London?”
“Australia, I was thinking,” Mom mutters, and I smile.
“Australia!” Christy yelps. It’s almost funny to see?the former social worker acting like a spoiled twelve-year-old. Violet grabs a handful of tablecloth and stuffs it in her mouth.
Mom sighs. “I’m kidding, Christy. Okay? Just relax.”
“My family is falling apart, Mom. I can’t relax. And I can’t believe you guys aren’t going to even try to work on things! Get some counseling, for God’s sake. Go see Father Tim! But moving is absolutely ridiculous.”
“Jesus, Christy, shut up,” Jonah says. “They’re adults. They can make their own choices.”
“What do you know about being an adult, Jonah?” my sister snaps. I haven’t seen her so riled since Skip dumped me.
“He’s right, Christy,” I say quietly. “Mom and Dad have been married for a long time. If they want something different now, well, they’re in a position to know. We’re not. If Mom wants to live somewhere other than Gideon’s Cove, she can. It’s her life.”
“Well, nothing’s going to happen for at least a few weeks,” my mother says. “Your father and I aren’t getting divorced right away, just separated. And we’ll see how things are after that.”
“Dad’s gonna be my sternman,” Jonah informs us. Dad offers a tentative smile.
“What? Dad! Are you crazy?” Christy says. “A sternman? What do you know about lobstering?”
“That’s neat, Dad,” I say. “Christy, you need a drink. Mom, can we leave Violet here for an hour or so? Dewey’s opens in ten minutes, and I think Christy and I should talk.”
“Of course,” my mother says, reaching for her grandchild.
“Enjoy,” Christy snaps. “You won’t be able to?”
“Shut up,” I say, dragging her forcibly from the room.
We ride in silence to Dewey’s, Christy driving with sharp movements, braking hard, jerking the steering wheel. She stomps into the bar in front of me, not making eye contact as we sit at a table in back. The bar is nearly deserted?it’s four on a Sunday?and Dewey is still taking chairs down.
“Dewey, can we get a couple of…what do you want, Christy?” I ask.
“I don’t care,” she mutters.
“Scotch, I guess, Dewey.”
“Sure thing, girls,” he calls. He pours us our drinks and brings them over, then hustles off to fill the register.
“So what’s your problem?” I ask my sister.
“Our parents are acting like idiots,” she says.
“What happened to all that nice compassion you had last week? Poor Mom, getting knocked up, abandoning her dreams…” I take a sip of my drink and instantly remember the last time I had scotch?with Malone, the night Colonel died. I shove the thought aside.
Christy takes a sharp breath, and her eyes fill with tears. “I didn’t know she would leave, Maggie! How can she?and Dad’s going to become some stinky, weird old guy without her. A sternman! For crying out loud.”
“But aren’t you a little bit…I don’t know, proud, in a way? That our parents are doing something new, that just because they’re middle-aged doesn’t mean their lives are carved in stone? I think it’s kind of neat.” Christy shoots me a death glare. “A little neat, anyway,” I amend.
“No,” she sulks. “It’s not neat, Maggie. Mom is moving. Moving far.” Her tears slip down her cheeks.
“I know you’ll miss her,” I say. “But she deserves a chance to do something different, Christy. She’s not obligated to stay around and watch our lives anymore.”
My sister stares out the window for another minute. “Oh, shit, you’re right,” she says, swallowing a mouthful of scotch. “You’re right, you’re right. I guess I just feel abandoned. And sorry for myself. I mean, I’ll miss her, Maggie! And so will Violet. She loves Mom so much.” Christy’s face scrunches up in misery, and I reach across the table to squeeze her hand.
“Here now, what’s this?” Dewey asks. “Maggie, why are you crying, hon?”
“I’m not,” I say. “Christy is.”
“Oh, dear, dear. No crying in my bar, sweetheart,” Dewey says. “And the day I can tell you girls apart will be a banner day, let me tell you.” He pats her head and walks back to the bar.
Christy gives me a watery smile. “Man, I was such a bitch back there, wasn’t I?” she asks.
“Yes,” I answer, smiling. “A right bitch. I’m so happy.”
“Happy? Why?”
“Because it’s high time I got to be the good twin,” I say.
“You. You’re so funny.” She smiles genuinely now, and simultaneously, we reach out a foot under the table and nudge each other. “Hey, what happened with Malone?” she asks, her head swiveling to the door. My heart sinks like an anvil. But no, it’s not Malone. Just Mickey Tatum, the fire chief.
“I broke up with him,” I tell her. There’s a tightness in my throat that the scotch doesn’t alleviate.
“What did he say about Chantal?” Christy asks.
“Nothing. We didn’t talk about it. He didn’t say boo about her.”
Christy sighs. “Sorry, Maggie.”
“Yeah, well, other fish to fry, right? Other eggs to scramble. At least I cut bait before things got too…whatever.” I don’t fool Christy; she smiles sadly, seeing right through me. “I do have to tell you, though,” I say, artfully changing the subject, “something’s going on with Father Tim. Have you talked to him lately?”
“No. Why? What’s up?”
Dewey comes over with a bag of potato chips. “For the beautiful weeping lady,” he says, handing them to me.
“That’s Christy,” I correct, pointing across the table.
“Of course. For the beautiful weeping lady,” he repeats.
“Thanks, Dewey,” she says. “Just the ticket.” She opens the bag and offers some to me, then takes a few herself. “So. Father Tim?” she prods.
“Well, I don’t really know. But something’s weird. He’s been very…tender. And saying things that have sort of a double meaning.”
“Like what?” Christy asks.
“I don’t know. I can’t remember exactly what he said?”
“That’s a first,” she interjects dryly.
“?but just sort of…well. Obviously I don’t quite know.” I can’t bring myself to say the words aloud. Instead, I fidget in the hard wooden chair. “Do you want to go home and grovel in front of Mom and Dad now?”
Christy laughs. “Sure. You’ve been good twin long enough.”
“That’s you in a nutshell,” I say, taking out a few bills and laying them on the table. “Always stealing my thunder.”
Christy grovels, re-assumes her title and we all have apple crisp.
On the way home, I pedal my bike toward the harbor. It’s a windy day, and a Sunday to boot, so most of the lobster boats are in, including the Ugly Anne. Don’t go down there, Maggie, I warn myself. A large seagull glides down, landing a few feet away on one of the wooden support posts, the wind ruffling its feathers but not its composure. I envy that bird.