Part 10 (2/2)

”It's all right.”

”I usually remember that you don't--”

”It's all right,” I a.s.sured her.

She lifted herself up and let the robe fall open, now working to get back into the rhythm of our sessions. ”So, what's my name tonight?” she asked.

It was a routine we'd acted out for years. I'd pick a name for her, usually from ancient drama or mythology, tell her the story behind it. ”Antigone,” I said.

”That's a pretty name,” she said. ”What's her story?”

Billy's face swam into my mind, more innocent than his years, still battling lost causes, still believing he would win them. I felt all my tenderness sweep out to him, embrace him and wish him well, and I knew that no feeling would ever touch me more deeply than this, a true and decent hope that it would all come to him in the end, every wild hope and foolish dream. ”Antigone loved her brother,” I said. ”He was all she ever knew of love.”

Chapter Eleven.

I left Blyden Street at the usual time, offering my usual good-bye, ”See you next week,” as I stepped out the door.

Once away, I got in my car and headed in the general direction of town. The road was unpaved and pitted, as though the city fathers had decided to make it as difficult as possible for men like me to escape the bars and wh.o.r.ehouses in which they'd spent the night.

It was a Sunday morning. The canneries were silent, nothing moving but the gulls and the sea. Farther along, the shanties and rusty warehouses of the waterfront gave way to the homes of the dock and cannery workers, small, wood-framed, with cramped, snow-covered yards hemmed in by unpainted picket fences.

Once downtown, I pulled up to Carpenter's Cafe, took the booth in the front window, ordered the special of eggs, bacon, toast, coffee. The waitress was in her forties, with brown hair pulled back and wound into a bun. Her upper arms jiggled as she scribbled the order upon the pad.

”Anything else?” she asked.

”No.”

The local paper lay folded on the table. I opened it, scanned a story about FDR's latest scheme to save the nation, another about a boat that had run aground on the beaches to the north, then folded the paper again.

By that time breakfast had arrived. I ate it listening to the first church bells summon the faithful to morning Ma.s.s. I could feel a cloud settling over me, and to escape it, I quickly drained the last of the coffee and returned to the street. But rather than get in my car and go directly back to Port Alma, I decided to take a walk.

I didn't know where I was going. Nor did I care. I simply headed up the hill, into a neighborhood of homes that had clearly seen better days. Even from a distance I could see paint peeling from their wooden clapboards, roof edges curled backward, strips of caulking that drooped from beneath rotting windowsills.

At the top of the hill, I turned back to observe the view. Below, the town spread out in a tangle of streets, a crescent bay beyond it, ragged lines of sea foam tumbling over the wintry beach.

I was still staring at the town and the bay when I heard the slap of a screen door. I turned and saw a woman stroll out onto a wooden porch. I recognized her right away. It was Rachel Ba.s.s, Hap's widowed cousin. She stood on the same porch she'd occupied in his photograph, the rusty tin thermometer still nailed in place beside her shoulder.

She was wearing a dark green dress that fell almost to her ankles, but otherwise she looked much as she had in the picture Hap had given me and that now rested somewhere in the clutter of papers in my desk drawer. She remained quite still for a moment, the broom in her right hand, then began to sweep the porch.

The screen door slapped again a few seconds later, and a small girl darted out of the house. The child scrambled down the stairs, leaped onto a rusty tricycle, and began careening about on a sidewalk that had only recently been cleared of snow.

She played alone for a while; then, as if something had silently called to her, she turned and bounded back up the stairs, rus.h.i.+ng past her mother and into the house.

For a time I waited, expecting the child to return. When she didn't, I strolled over to where Rachel Ba.s.s continued to sweep.

”Good morning,” I said.

She looked toward me, lifting her arm to s.h.i.+eld her eyes from the sun.

”I'm Cal Chase,” I added. ”I work for your cousin. In Port Alma.”

She came closer and lowered her arm, so that I could see that her eyes were dark blue. ”You work for Hap?”

”Yes,” I replied. With nowhere else to go, I added, ”He showed me a picture of you.”

She smiled. ”I guess Hap's out beating the bushes for me.”

”I recognized you as I came up the road,” I told her.

”You're walking?”

”My car's down the hill.”

”So, what did Hap tell you?”

”I know that you lost your husband. That you have a daughter.”

She pointed toward the house. ”I rent rooms. That's how I make a go of it.”

”You once taught school, Hap said.”

She nodded. ”Years back.” She leaned on the broom and continued to study me. ”What are you doing in Royston?”

I had no choice but to lie. ”I decided to take a drive. You know, get out of Port Alma.”

”Looking for adventure.”

”I guess.”

A silence fell between us, one we both tried to breach at the same instant.

”Look...”

”Well, I...”

We laughed.

”You go ahead,” Rachel said, smiling.

”Well, when I saw you, I remembered your picture. Just thought I'd say h.e.l.lo. I'll tell Hap we ran into each other.”

She smiled quietly. ”You do that,” she said.

I shrugged. ”That's all, I guess.”

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