The Shape of Night(17)
If only every mistake in life could be so easily corrected.
“How is it?” he asks.
“It’s fine. I’m just not hungry.”
“Not up to your high standards? I’m told you make killer blueberry muffins.” At my raised eyebrow, he laughs. “I heard it from the lady at the post office, who heard it from Billy.”
“There really are no secrets in this town.”
“And how’s your mouse problem these days? Emmett at the hardware store predicted you’d be back within a week for more traps.”
I sigh. “I was planning to pick up some today. Then I got distracted at the historical society, and…” I fall silent as I notice that Donna, sitting alone a few tables away, is looking at us. Her eyes lock with mine, and her gaze unsettles me. As if she has caught me trespassing.
The door suddenly bangs open, and we all turn as a man wearing fishermen’s overalls lurches into the café. “Doc?” he calls out to Ben. “They need you down at the harbor.”
“Right now?”
“Right now. Pete Crouse just tied up at the landing. You need to see what he dragged outta the bay.”
“What is it?”
“A body.”
* * *
—
Almost everyone in the café follows Ben and the fisherman out the door. Curiosity is infectious. It forces us to look at what we do not really want to see, and like the others, I’m pulled along with the grim parade as it heads down the cobblestoned street toward the harbor. Clearly the news about a dead body has already spread and a small crowd stands gathered around the pier where a lobster boat has tied up. A Tucker Cove policeman spots Ben and waves.
“Hey, Doc. It’s on deck, under the tarp.”
“I found it near Scully’s Rocks, tangled up in seaweed,” says the lobsterman. “Didn’t want to believe what I was seeing at first, but as soon as I snagged it with the boat hook, I knew it was real. Afraid I might’ve caused some, um, damage when I hauled it aboard. But I couldn’t leave it just drifting out there, and I was afraid it might sink. Then we’d never find it again.”
Ben climbs onto the lobster boat and approaches the blue plastic tarp, which covers a vaguely human shape. Although I can’t see what he’s looking at, I can read his appalled expression as he lifts up one corner of the tarp and stares at what lies beneath. For a long time he simply crouches there, confronting the horrors of what the sea can do to a human body. On the landing, the crowd has gone silent, respectful of this solemn moment. Abruptly Ben drops the tarp and looks up at the police officer. “You called the ME?”
“Yes, sir. He’s on his way.” The officer looks at the tarp and shakes his head. “I’m guessing it’s been in the water for some time.”
“A few weeks at least. And based on the size and what’s left of the clothing, it’s most likely a woman.” Grimacing, Ben rises to his feet and clambers off the lobster boat. “You have any current missing persons reports?”
“Nothing reported in the last few months.”
“This time of year, there’s a lot of boats out on the bay. She could’ve fallen overboard and drowned.”
“But if she’s been in the water for weeks, you’d think someone would’ve called it in by now.”
Ben shrugs. “Maybe she was sailing solo. No one’s realized she’s missing yet.”
The cop turns and stares over the water. “Or someone didn’t want her to be found.”
* * *
—
As I drive back to Brodie’s Watch, I am still shaken by what I witnessed on the dock. While I did not glimpse the body itself, I saw the unmistakably human shape beneath the blue tarp, and my imagination fills in all the gruesome details that Ben was forced to confront. I think of Captain Brodie, whose body was consigned to the same inexorable forces of the ocean. I think of what it’s like to drown, limbs flailing as salt water floods into your lungs. I think of fish and crabs feasting on flesh, of skin and muscle dragged by currents across razor-sharp coral. After a century and a half underwater, what remains of the strapping man who stared back at me from the portrait?
I turn into my driveway and groan at the sight of Ned’s truck parked in front of the house. I’ve started leaving a house key for the carpenters, and of course they’re here working, but I’m in no mood to sit through another afternoon of hammering. I slip into the house just long enough to pack a picnic basket with bread and cheese and olives. A bottle of red wine, already opened, calls to me from the countertop and I add it to my basket.
Loaded down with lunch and a blanket, I scrabble across lichen-flecked rocks like a mountain goat, following the path to the beach. Glancing back, I can see Billy and Ned at work up on the widow’s walk. They’re busy installing the new railing and they don’t notice me. Down the path I go, past the blooming roses, and I jump down onto the pebbly beach that I’d discovered that first morning. A beach where no one can see me. I spread my blanket and unpack my lunch. I may be losing my mind, but I still know how to lay out a proper meal. Although it’s a simple outdoor picnic, I don’t stint on ceremony. I lay out a cloth napkin, a fork and knife, a glass tumbler. The first sip of wine floods my body with warmth. Sighing, I lean back against a boulder and stare out to sea. The water is eerily flat, the surface as still as a mirror. This is exactly what I need to do today: absolutely nothing. I will soak up the sun like a tortoise and let this wine do its magic. Forget the dead woman pulled from the sea. Forget Captain Brodie, whose bones lie scattered beneath the waves. Today is about healing.