It was cold on the ferry; the clouds had started to roll in, threatening. Too soon to say if it was going to rain or pass over. If our ride back to Hyannis would be bouncy or smooth. The weather forecast, the predictions, the calculations for Nantucket and the islands were always just a little bit off when you listened in advance. Better to look at your own barometer, to stand in the wind, to wait.
“Put on your jackets, girls,” I said as we headed to the outdoor deck. And what a relief that was, given what Courtney was wearing. A tank top that dipped a little too low and showed the edge of a bright-blue bra. A colored bra, not beige or white or even black. Surely a blue bra was one of the first signs of the apocalypse.
Sydney, Courtney, and John and I each had a penny in our right hand to throw at the bell buoy. My mother stayed inside, but I had an extra penny for her in my left hand. This was our Nantucket tradition, to ensure that you come back to the island. You threw your penny at the last bell buoy as you departed on the ferry. Other natives threw it earlier, at Brant Point. If you knew about this island secret. If you were a local, that is.
Courtney struggled not to roll her eyes as we explained it to her.
“So it’s like a wishing well,” Courtney said. “Or a fountain for, like, babies at the mall.”
“No,” John said. “It’s an ancient mariner’s tradition. And the pennies buried below turn a rainbow of green and blue from the algae, develop barnacles over time, like sunken treasure. Scuba divers would give anything to go down and see them, but the area is protected by the Cousteau Foundation.”
“Yeah,” Sydney said.
“That is complete and utter bullshit,” I whispered to him, smiling.
“Sometimes you have to fight adolescence with bullshit,” he replied.
John leaned down and gave the girls advice on timing, aim, trajectory. They stood in the wind, eyes fixed on the furthest buoy. The boat pitched up and down in the wind, and we all caught a little spray. The girls squealed, and John cried, “Now! Throw them now!”
One by one, we cocked our arms and let go. The wind made it impossible to get close; the pennies were light, faltered, and fell too close to the boat. No matter. Tradition was tradition. I transferred my mother’s penny to my right hand and threw it last.
“Seems so strange not to throw one for your dad,” John said.
“Yes.”
“Maybe we could bury him with a penny? As a final gesture.”
I swallowed hard to try to keep from crying. “That is a lovely idea,” I said finally, quietly.
“You know, when I packed up your dad’s clothes to go to the cottage,” John said, “I found pennies and wire cutters in his drawer. Isn’t that strange?”
“Wire cutters? Maybe the renters left them.”
“No, I knew they were his, because of the red dot.”
“What?”
“All the tools in the house are color coded with a little red dot.”
“They are not.”
“They are. It’s Matt’s system. To keep the houses straight. He does it so small, the owners don’t notice.”
“He told you that?”
“Alice did. The first year I came to the island. I think she enjoyed going on and on about Matt. Keeping me on my toes,” he said and smiled.
“We have to go back,” I said, my voice rising, urgent, breaking.
“What?”
“We have to go back!”
“Well, of course we will, honey. Every year. To honor your Dad, to—”
“No, I mean when we get to Hyannis. We have to turn around and go straight back on the next boat.”
And he didn’t ask why, and he didn’t ask if I forgot something. He nodded, as if he knew. As if he was already prepared to cover for me, to make this right, and knew what to say to the girls if we had to stay another night or two.
And then he hugged me tight anyway.