The Shaws were all Ann talked about when she was home, although she was hardly ever home. He couldn’t give a shit that Maureen—Mo now—drank basil-and-lemon-infused water and ate cucumber sandwiches without crusts, or that she’d let Ann drive her Jag, or that she was the kind of person who made sure her napkins matched the colors of the flowers in her bouquets, or that her kids’ allowance was fifty bucks a month for doing absolutely nothing.
And then there was the dad, who sounded like a real number. Ann said his name, Anthony, with a certain lilt in her voice that made Michael squirm inside. It was as if she’d been on a first-name basis with the guy her whole life. She said he was very busy, as if not being around your family was a sign of success. Ann said he ran the family business as if she were a Shaw herself. She didn’t even know what their family business did. She just loved the idea of a family fucking business.
Anthony this, Anthony that. Anthony drove his Jeep on Nauset Beach. Anthony chartered fishing boats. Well, guess what? Ed chartered a fishing boat, too, only Ann didn’t know that, and Michael wasn’t about to tell her. Besides, he was sworn to secrecy. Ed told Connie that they were out conducting “research,” but really, they were fishing, spending money Ed said he really shouldn’t spend.
But then, a few nights ago, Ann suddenly directed the golden beam of her attention back on him. She returned home from babysitting and found Michael in his room in the attic. He was bored because Poppy was gone again, hanging out with her new surfing friends, and Ed and Connie went to bed early. A few minutes after they’d shut their bedroom door he heard the bedsprings squeak and the headboard bang rhythmically against the paper-thin wall. He figured he should get lost.
Before he could leave, he heard the kitchen door swing open, followed by the fast tap-tap-tap of Ann’s feet on the steep stairs. He knew it was Ann; he knew the sound of her footsteps, her breathing, her sneezes.
She didn’t bother to knock first. She sat on the end of his bed and smiled. “I have exciting news! Anthony said Jason, his landscaper, needs help this summer, and I told him you could do it. I guess it’s really hard to find workers here. I told him you love to garden. You want a job, right?”
He was having fun without a job, but Michael liked to work, and he liked the idea of making his own money. He couldn’t get used to Ed and Connie paying for his stuff; he saw the way their brows furrowed and their expressions changed whenever they held out their credit card. Michael figured he’d pay them back someday, help them when they were old, something to make them feel like he’d earned his place in the family.
“I don’t know much about gardening out here,” he said.
“Don’t worry about that. He’ll train you. You’d probably do more of the basic stuff anyway. Jason is desperate. I’ve met him. He’s nice. You’d like him.”
Michael resented Ann for assuming that he’d say yes. What was he, Ann’s own private lawn boy on demand?
“We’d practically be coworkers. You’ll be at the Shaws’ all the time. Maureen said Jason is going to help them build a stone patio. Please, Michael?”
Ann’s eyes were gray-green. She had little baby hairs that curled around her forehead where the rest of her hair was pulled back. Her cheeks were red from running up the stairs. Her hand was on his calf. She was on his bed, he could feel her weight, her heat. He wished he could reach out—
“Sure,” he said, closing his notebook.
“Awesome!”
He agreed because he missed Ann, and this was a way to get close to her. Ever since they’d first met, that night under the green light of the Holidome, he knew one thing: he wanted to be wherever she was.
JASON PULLED UP THE GORDONS’ DRIVE at six o’clock in the morning. Michael guessed he was about Ed’s age, maybe a little younger. His face was leathery from the outdoors. “Climb on in,” Jason said, pointing at his rusty orange Toyota pickup truck with rakes, hoes, and a wheelbarrow in the back. A big black Lab sat waiting in the cab. “That’s Flip. She’s a good girl.”
The cab smelled like dirt and dog breath. Flip stood to lick Michael’s face, then turned to lick Jason, and her tail swatted against Michael like a windshield wiper. Jason slipped his Red Sox cap on his head and took a drink from his thermal mug. “You got your pruning shears on the dash, rain jackets behind the seats, work gloves all over. Do me a favor: try harder than I do to keep them in pairs.” Fay-vah. Pay-as. His accent sounded so thick to Michael that it was almost a speech impediment. “You have problems gettin’ up this early?”
“No,” said Michael.
“You’re in this for beer money?”
“I actually like working with plants.”
“Look, all I care about is you show up when you say you’re going to show up, you work hard, keep it honest. And you need to learn quick because I’m so goddamn behind I don’t know my ass from my elbow. Weather this year is kicking my ass. Shaw is riding my keister about his goddamn yaah-d. He’s the type who wants his grass mowed in a checkerboard pattern. Too rich to do his own yard, too poor to hire a property manager. So here we are.”
“Is he a bad guy?” Finally Michael had someone to ask.
“He’s money, that’s what he is, and money is what I need right now. I’m running my business from my backyard and my neighbors aren’t happy. I’m trying to buy some land in an industrial park in Eastham. Bigger crew, space for my tools. Speaking of money, I pay shit, but you work hard and I’ll see you get your due at the end of the summer. I got you on manure duty today. You’ll go home smelling like you crawled up a cow’s ass.”
MICHAEL LIKED JASON. He was demanding and rough, but also creative and patient. He loved what he did. He showed Michael how to nurture hearty Cape Cod plants so they’d survive the high wind, salt air, and sandy soil. He taught him how to make planting charts, explained how lavender, bee balm, and citronella deter pests, and showed him how to use stakes and string to trim the hedges. Michael loved how Jason talked about plants and gardening—breaking buds, deadheading, air layering, double-digging, scarification. He treated Michael as an equal, not some kid who’d once been an orphan.
Michael loved gardening, even the grunt work of spreading manure and mulch, moving stones and digging holes. He liked the feeling of having earned his fatigue at the end of the day. It was good to be outside, good to be in control, good to have Jason press a wad of cash in his hand at the end of the week, good to hear the girls make comments about him when he was on pruning duty in town and worked shirtless. Mostly, it was good to be on Cape Cod with Jason, who ended each day at Indian Neck, where he picked the ticks off his legs and went for a swim while Michael sat on the shore. He could swim now, but he only liked the ponds. He was almost too reverent about the ocean. It seemed too mysterious, too deep. It struck him that he felt the same way about Ann.
Jason kept a small cooler in the back of his truck and gave Michael a can of Sam Adams without concern that he was underage. The beer tasted good. They watched Flip chase the gulls.
“How about coming back here next summer?” Jason asked.
“I could come back here forever,” Michael said.
“Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“You’ve got sand in your shoes.”
The sun turned the water gold. The sailboats dotting the horizon chased the wind. It was perfect. Michael never wanted to leave.