FOUR

NINA GEIGER LOOKED UP FROM the TV in the family room as the front door opened. She craned her neck to see, although she was pretty certain who was coming in. It wasn’t like there were a lot of alternatives. Quickly she shoved a sketch pad she’d been drawing on under one of the throw pillows.

“’Zat you?” she yelled over the sound of the TV’s laugh track, mumbling a little with the unlit Lucky Strike planted in a corner of her mouth.

No answer. Which meant it was definitely Claire. Nina fumbled around on the couch cushion, under the bag of no-fat and no-flavor-either potato chips. She found the remote control and muted the sound.

“Claire. I have to talk to you.”

Claire appeared in the doorway. “Are you sure you have to?”

“Boy, you’re getting home late,” Nina said. “The coven meeting run long?”

Claire looked at her watch. “That makes five seconds of my time wasted. If you have something to say, get on with it. I’m tired.”

“Okay, look,” Nina said, trying to be conciliatory for once. “It’s something I’m allowed to tell you. I mean, Benjamin said it was okay if I told you because it’s not a secret or anything, but still you’re not supposed to run around making a big thing out of it.”

“That’s another ten seconds.”

“Benjamin and Zoey’s parents are splitting up,” Nina said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, not to get into all the gross details, but it turns out both Mr. and Ms. Passmore are a lot more interesting people than anyone ever thought,” Nina said. “Think The Young and the Restless. Think General Hospital. I mean, Chatham Island is Port Charles.”

Claire hesitated, obviously not convinced that Nina was telling the truth. She stepped into the room and, after a moment’s more hesitation, sat in the easy chair. “Okay. You got me.”

“This is totally serious,” Nina said. “I mean, I really shouldn’t be joking around, but this morning on the ferry Benjamin told me part of it, and then just a little while ago he called up sounding depressed and gave me the rest.”

“Zoey didn’t call?” Claire asked.

“No. But Benjamin and I talk about everything.” It was true, and it gave Nina a little rush of satisfaction to be able to say it.

Claire curled her lip. “I never knew Benjamin to be so open about anything. You must have dragged it out of him.”

“I guess he’s open when he has someone he can trust,” Nina said. Yes, it was a cheap shot, but then Claire had delivered a few to her over the years. Besides, a really cheap shot would have been telling Claire that Benjamin had finally said the three magic words. Throwing that in her face would be a cheap shot. It would be more fun if she saved that up for just the right moment.

“So the Passmores are separating,” Claire prompted.

“Yes. Mr. P. is supposedly moving out tomorrow. They’re going to keep the restaurant going for now, though.”

“Why is this happening?”

Nina raised a suggestive eyebrow. “In a million years you’ll never guess.”

“Mr. Passmore forgets to put the toilet seat down?” Claire suggested.

“Funny. No, no, I told you—think soap opera. And Ms. Passmore is Brooke Logan.”

Claire stared at her. “Are we talking unfaithful?”

Nina nodded. Okay, she shouldn’t be finding this juicy. After all, it was her best friend’s and her boyfriend’s parents. But Chatham Island was usually a pretty dull place and gossip like this didn’t come along every day. “And guess who the other man is?” She said “other man” in a low, dramatic voice.

“Jeez, it’s not Jake’s father, is it?”

Nina was outraged. “How did you know?”

Claire shrugged. “Mr. McRoyan’s that way. Everybody knows.”

“I didn’t. Besides, it was deeper than that. It turns out Mr. McRoyan and Ms. Passmore had a thing like nineteen years ago or something. This is back before the P’s were married. Mr. P. takes a trip to discover Europe, and Ms. P. discovers Mr. McRoyan, who must have been cuter back then unless Ms. P. just has no taste. But, whoa, then Ms. P. discovers she’s pregnant with none other than . . . our mutual friend Benjamin.”

“By Mr. McRoyan?” Claire suggested, horrified.

“Nah. Although that would have added even more juice. No, Ms. P is pregnant and Mr. P. is the daddy, so Ms. P. dumps Mr. McRoyan. Flash ahead nineteen years. Ms. P. discovers that oops, Mr. P. was discovering more than just Europe. He was also discovering a fellow American. He discovered her so much that she, this other woman, was also pregnant. In fact, she has a kid. Now Ms. P. learns this, is very pissed, decides it’s payback time, and apparently ends up doing the nasty with Mr. McRoyan just as Zoey comes home early from Vermont.”

“Payback.” Claire nodded. She smiled her rare, wintry smile. “Awfully juvenile to think that sleeping with someone is a way to pay back your boyfriend.”

“Husband.”

“Right,” Claire said, with an odd sardonic twist on the word. “Husband. Wait. This other woman was pregnant, too?”

“Give the girl a prize. It turns out Benjamin and Zoey have a half-sister.”

“A half-sister by Mr. Passmore and some other woman. You’re right, this is a soap opera,” Claire said. “What’s next? Someone’s evil twin shows up? How is Benjamin taking this? Never mind, I forgot. Benjamin would never show any kind of real emotion over something this personal.”

“He’s pretty upset,” Nina said. “He feels torn between his mom and dad, and also mad at both of them. But at the same time, he kind of looks at it as not being the end of life on this planet or anything. Mostly he worries about Zoey. She’s the one who, you know, walked in on her mom and Mr. McRoyan.”

“Benjamin told you that’s how he feels, or you’re guessing?”

“Of course he told me,” Nina said.

Claire nodded. “Okay.”

“I asked him if I should come over and be with Zoey, but he said no, everyone was exhausted.”

“I can imagine,” Claire said, sounding genuinely sympathetic.

“It’s a major bum. I really liked their parents,” Nina said.

“Liked, past tense? They’re not dying, they’re just getting divorced. Everyone does it.” Claire’s voice had caught on the word dying.

“Yeah, I know, but it sucks anyway. Especially for Zoey,” Nina said, feeling a renewed sadness. It wasn’t like anyone was dying, Claire was right. Not like dying at all. “You know Zoey,” Nina said, trying not to let her thoughts veer where they had already veered. “She lives in a dream world. She never thinks anything bad is going to happen.”

“Uh-huh. Too bad she doesn’t have the firm grip on reality you have, living there inside your happy psychotic delusion.”

The insult lay flat, without sting. Nina just nodded in acknowledgment. The details of the story might be juicy and even funny, but the effect they were having wasn’t funny at all. Zoey must feel like she really was losing her parents in a way. And that was something that neither Nina nor Claire found at all funny.

“I hope Zoey’s all right,” Nina said. “I mean, you know. I guess it’s kind of like it was when—” Damn. She shouldn’t have gotten into this. Her eyes were filling with tears.

“Zoey’ll be fine,” Claire said softly. “Benjamin, too. We survived, you know, losing um, you know, losing Mom, and . . . and, and that was worse than just being divorced.”

Nina smiled ruefully at her sister. “Yeah, you can tell we survived fine by the way both of us are crying now.” She squeezed her eyes shut and wiped the tears as they coursed down her cheeks.

“Tell Zoey and Benjamin if there’s anything our family can do—”

“I remember when people were trying to be all nice to us.”

“I know. It didn’t help. Nothing helps, I guess.”

Nina nodded agreement. “But Zoey can handle it.”

At three A.M. Christopher’s alarm went off. He hadn’t been asleep more than a couple of hours, but he woke without resentment. He had work to do. The same work he got up for every day before the sun rose. A routine. It could be grueling at times, he often wished he could work less, but this morning the routine was sweet beyond imagination. To simply be doing what he always did. To be able to slip back so gratefully into his normal life.

So damned close to destroying everything. Another pound of pressure in his right index finger and his life would have changed forever. It was frightening how easily life could be taken and thrown away. It was like walking a tightrope, high in the air above the cheering crowds one minute and the next, with a single wrong move, a long, helpless fall.

He was going to have to watch the rope more closely in the future, to concentrate more on avoiding a mistake. Like losing Aisha. That was another mistake he had very nearly made. But she had come for him, trying to rescue him like the cavalry in an old movie, showing up at the very last minute with bugles blowing, horses at full gallop.

He made himself a pot of strong French roast coffee and fried some eggs. He needed the protein energy.

Outside, it was pitch black and dead quiet. Even the surf was subdued, barely surging over the sand. He climbed on his bike. He’d definitely have to buy an island car soon. It was getting way too cold to be pedaling around at three thirty in the morning.

He collected and divided his newspapers at the ferry landing. Weymouth papers, mostly, but also Portland Press Heralds, Boston Globes, and Wall Street Journals.

His last stop was always Gray House, the bed-and-breakfast Aisha’s parents owned. It was the last stop because it involved a very tiring climb up the steep length of Climbing Way and he preferred to be rid of all unnecessary weight.

He leaned his bike against the fence and picked up the last papers. Ms. Gray had been extremely nice while he was recovering. Since then he’d been careful to set the papers precisely on the porch where no one even had to step outside to get them.

After placing the papers, he walked around the side of the big house to Aisha’s bedroom window. It was dark, of course. She was asleep like any sensible person would be at this hour.

Still, it gave him a deep pleasure thinking of her safe and warm in her bed, just her beautiful face poking out from beneath the comforter. Her springy explosion of hair tumbled all around.

What kind of a fool had he been not to realize how great she was?

He went back around to the front, crunching pine needles underfoot and pulling up the collar of his jacket. The wind was always a bit stronger up here on the ridge.

He heard a soft click and looked to see the front door open, just a darker rectangle of shadow within shadow.

“Hi.” Aisha’s voice.

“Hi,” Christopher said, flushed with excitement. He trotted over to her. She was wearing a long, sheer dressing gown and slippers.

“How are you doing?” she asked.

“I feel like a guy who miraculously survived a near-death experience,” he said. “Like I was standing right in front of a speeding train and at the very last minute it somehow swerved and missed me.”

Aisha laughed happily.

“I also feel like I’ve been the moron of the universe, in a lot of ways.” He looked at her significantly.

“You have,” Aisha said complacently. “But I can’t stand out here and listen for as long as it would take you to make all the apologies you owe. I just thought you might be cold.”

“I am a little,” he said.

Aisha moved closer and put her arms around him. She kissed him deeply, then again, and again once more.

“Warmer now?” she asked.

“Much, much warmer.”

“Good.”

“Much.”

Aisha smiled. “Do you have to cook tonight?”

“I’m supposed to, yes. Um, but afterward, I mean it’s Friday night and all—”

“Okay. What do you want to do? It will be too late to take the ferry over.”

Christopher sighed. “I know this will sound hopelessly dorky, but to tell you the truth, Eesh, I’d be happy if all I could do was just sit and look at you.”

“That doesn’t sound so dorky,” Aisha said softly.

“You know, you got to kiss me, but I didn’t get a chance to kiss you. And it would only be fair.”

Aisha looked at him skeptically. “Is that how it works?”

“Uh-huh.” He took her in his arms, holding her close, and kissed her. “Now we’re even.”

“Wouldn’t want any unfairness,” Aisha said in a voice that went from a squeak to a sudden throaty lowness.

“Tonight?”

“Tonight.”

“And the next night?”

“Then, too.”

Christopher rode away, possibly on his bike, although as he sped effortlessly down the long slope it felt like he might just be flying.

 

POLICE AND FIRE LOG

BY DAN SMITH

Fire and rescue vehicles were dispatched to 1127 Pearl Street and successfully brought a kitchen grease fire under control. The residents had evacuated the building, and there were no injuries.

Police units responded to a security alarm at Gifts by Terence, 809 Mainsail Street, and discovered that the premises had been broken into. Officers on foot gave chase to two young white males but were unable to apprehend them. Losses to the business included a broken window and a gift basket containing jams, cheese, and sausages.

Police units responded to a disturbance at 4310 Brice Street involving two juveniles. Early reports that a gun was involved in the altercation proved to be false when a careful search revealed no weapons at the scene. No arrests were made.

Fire and rescue vehicles responded to a call for medical assistance at The Breezes assisted-living facility. One person was taken to Weymouth Hospital emergency room with an apparent heart attack.

Late last night Weymouth police units in concert with units from the state police rounded up a total of four members of the Aryan Defense Element, including two juveniles only recently released from state custody. A number of weapons were seized along with a quantity of hate literature. The Aryan Defense Element is a known white-supremacist gang originally thought to be based solely in Portland. The arrests came after several recent racially motivated attacks in the Weymouth area. Police sources say they acted on information from an informant within the gang.

Fire and rescue vehicles responded to a 911 call stating that a person identified only as “Charles” had climbed a tree and was in danger of serious injury. Units arriving on the scene retrieved Charles—an orange tabby cat—and returned him to his owner.

Lucas Cabral

For a guy, life is always about having to do things you don’t want to do and not being allowed to do things you do want to do. Maybe it’s that way for girls, too. I don’t know, not being one. But for a guy it’s always—be tough, be brave, be manly, never show one minute of weakness because if you do, you’re marked for life. You act weak or pathetic and it’s like someone might as well tattoo the word victim on your forehead because that’s what you are from then on. Sometimes it would be nice not to have all that pressure. It might be nice to just once, when something terrible happens, be allowed to start blubbering and weeping and running around all depressed. But what you have to do is kind of shrug it off. Play through the pain, as all the jocks say.

And at the same time, everything you do want, you’re not allowed to have. Can’t drink, can’t smoke, can’t do drugs, can’t have sex. The first three I can live without. But the truth is, number four does kind of occupy your mind when you’re a guy. It occupies it the way . . . well, did you ever hear about the Donner party? Those people who starved to death in the mountains back in the Old West days, and it got so bad they ate their relatives? You can imagine how often they thought about food? That’s how often I think about sex.

So here’s the deal. Your girlfriend wants you to be all sensitive and open and understanding and never to pressure her, but if you do all that, then guys think you’re a wuss. Besides, if you ever honestly tell a girl what’s on your mind, she’ll think you’re a pervert. So you have to be somewhat open and mostly honest with girls, but not ever let other guys find out. Which, when you think about it, is fairly insane.

I try to kind of walk the line. I mean, I truly love Zoey, and it makes me feel good when I can talk to her and tell her how I feel about things. But at the same time, I have to be tough. I can’t just let her make all the big decisions.

I think girls have it easier. Maybe not, but it seems that way.

Zoey

I’ve often thought it would be great to be a guy. Not that I am in any way unhappy being female. I am glad I’m a girl. I’m just saying it’s easier being a guy, especially in relationships. It’s like they have so much less to think about and worry about. For them it’s so much about just having sex. I mean, it must be nice to have everything reduced down to such a simple perspective, you know? No complexities or worries, really. Just on this mission to have sex. Night and day.

Okay, yes, I know I’m exaggerating, but it’s like, when you’re a girl, things are complicated right from the start. The biggest difference is that we can get pregnant, so it’s not just like, hey, sex is another form of entertainment. I’ve heard guys—not Lucas, but guys I’ve known—say sex should just be another fun thing to do on a Saturday night, like seeing a movie or shopping. I don’t know if they really believe that or just say it to sound tough and cool for their friends. Probably they wish it were true. Only going to see a movie doesn’t result in you getting pregnant or catching a disease. So, see, there is that little difference.

You mention this to a guy and he just shrugs and goes, uh, well, I’m on a mission to have sex because I have all these hormones. Plus I have to do it or my friends will think I’m lame. See, it has to be easier being a guy and getting to just think about all the fun aspects of things without having to get all serious and depressing with the realities.

In a way I feel like guys get to be kids longer than girls. It’s like we have to grow up faster, which sucks.