Songs of the Humpback Whale: A Novel in Five Voices

53 OLIVER

It takes several seconds to hone in on my faculties of perception. I have never in my life blacked out; I have never in my life awakened in strange environs and not been able to account for my whereabouts. And then, blinking at the fringed curtain of that waitress Mica’s apartment, the whole grisly situation starts to come back to me.

Mica herself is sitting cross-legged on the floor, several feet away. At least I remember her name. “Hello,” she says shyly, holding out the chain she is making from gum wrappers. “You’ve given me some scare.”

I sit up and to my surprise discover I am wearing nothing but my boxers. I gasp, and pull a woolly brown afghan over myself. “Did anything . . . ?”

“Happen?” Mica says, smiling. “No. You’ve been entirely faithful to the long-suffering Jane. At least for the time you’ve been here.”

“You know about Jane.” I wonder what I’ve told her.

“She’s all you talked about before you passed out for three whole days. I took off your clothes because it’s a hundred degrees outside, and I didn’t want you to get sunstroke while you were catching up on your beauty sleep.” She pushes the gum wrapper chain at me, and, since I know of nothing else to do with it, I hang it around my neck.

“I’ve got to get to her,” I say, trying to stand. But unfortunately I change positions too quickly, and the room starts to spiral. Mica is quickly at my side, pulling my arm around her neck for support.

“Easy,” she says. “We’ve got to get some food into you.”

However, Mica is not one for cooking. She picks up a photo album and hands it to me. Inside are take-out menus for everything: pizza, Thai, Chinese, barbequed chicken, health food. “I don’t know,” I say. “You pick.”

Mica studies these. “I think Thai is definitely out, since you’ve been off solid food for three days. My guess is some hummus and a tofu dip from ‘Lettuce Eat.’ ”

“Sounds wonderful.” I prop myself onto my elbows when I feel my body can take the strain. “Mica,” I ask, “where have you been sleeping?” If memory does not serve me wrong, this is a onebedroom apartment with very little extra space.

“Next to you on the futon,” she says noncommittally. “Don’t worry, Oliver. You’re not my type.”

“I’m not?”

“You’re too-I don’t know- preppy for me. I like guys a little more BoHo.”

“Of course. How stupid of me.”

Mica calls the vegetarian restaurant. “Fifteen minutes.”

It strikes me that I am indeed starving. I hold my hand to my stomach. “I wonder,” I say, “you don’t know of any apple orchards around here?”

Mica rolls her eyes. “Oliver, you’re in the heart of Boston. The closest I come to an orchard is Quincy Market.”

“This place is in Stow. Or Maynard. Somewhere like that.”

“Out west. With every other apple orchard in Massachusetts. You’re welcome to call information.”

So I roll onto my stomach and reach for the phone. “Yes,” I say when a rhythmic voice answers, “in Stow. I’m looking for Joley Lipton.” The woman informs me she has no one there by that name. Nor in Maynard, nor in Bolton.

“Didn’t you say he’s working for someone?” Mica says, and I nod. She’s paring her toenails with a brass clipper. “What makes you think he would he have his own phone listing?”

“It was a stab in the dark, all right?”

She holds her foot out in front of her. “Oh. This is rude, isn’t it? I’m sorry. I suppose for all practical purposes you’re a stranger. It’s just that with you passed out, I’ve been doing all kinds of things with you in the room. Changing, calisthenics, what have you.”

Changing?

“If it were me,” she says, “although it’s not-I’d drive out to Stow and ask if anyone’s heard of him. I mean, Stow isn’t Boston. He’s liable to have run into a mom-and-pop grocery store or a neighborhood barber, or whatever things they have out in the boonies.”

“Oh, Mica.” She’s hit on it. I have no choice but to canvass that section of Massachusetts and hope for the best. I grab her hand, which is nearby, and kiss it.

“Who says chivalry’s dead?” she says. Then the doorbell rings, and she’s up to collect the tofu.

It all starts coming back to me: how I hadn’t slept since Iowa; how I believed Jane was near me all the time; how much I wanted to tell her. With renewed energy I jump from the futon and collect my clothes, strewn orgiastically around the tiny bedroom. I turn on the television with the remote, automatically set for the midday news. I pull on my trousers and zap through the stations until I find an anchor-person with a soothing voice. “Well, Chet,” she says, as Mica reapproaches with a vegetable cornucopia, “efforts continue to free the humpback whale tangled in fishing nets off the coast of Gloucester.”

“What?” I whisper, sinking to my knees. Mica rushes over to me, afraid no doubt that I will pitch forward into the television set.

“Scientists from the Provincetown Center for Coastal Studies have been working for the past four hours to free Marble, a humpback whale, from a gill net left behind by a fishing boat.” The anchor smiles into the camera, behind her a stock photo of a humpback surfacing. “We’ll have more on this heroic story on the six o’clock news, when, we hope, Marble will be swimming free.”

I grab the remote and flip to a second station, which is reporting-with coverage live from Gloucester. According to the commentator, the whale was only recently found, and scientists are now trying to determine the best and safest method to free her. In the background I can see a man I knew when I worked at Woods Hole. “That’s Windy McGill.”

“Isn’t it sad,” Mica says, pursing her lips. “I hate to see these whale stories.”

“How do you get to Gloucester from here?”

“You drive. ”

“Then you’ve got to tell me where my car is.”

“I thought your priority was getting to Stow.”

Jane. I sigh. “Okay. This is the problem. I’m a marine biologist. I know humpback whales probably better than any person in the United States. If I get to Gloucester, I’ll be able to rescue that whale. On the other hand, if I get to Stow, I have an outside chance of rescuing my marriage.”

“Oliver,” Mica says, “you don’t need me to tell you what’s more important.”

I pick up the phone and call the center in Provincetown-a number which, after so many years, I can still remember. “This is Oliver Jones. I need directions to the stranded whale, and I need you to wire ahead to Windy and tell him I’m on my way and I’ll need two Zodiacs with outboard motors and my own diving suit.” The secretary jumps at my command. It is gratifying to know that, over such distance, I can garner respect.

Mica is staring at me. “Isn’t this what got you in trouble in the first place?”

“Mica,” I say, lacing my shoes, “I don’t make the same mistake twice.” I lean down and kiss her on the forehead. “I appreciate your generosity and your caretaking. Now I’ve got to give a little of that kindness back.”

“Oliver, don’t take this wrong. I mean, I hardly know you. But make sure you don’t get all wrapped up in this. Promise me you’ll be in Stow, looking for your wife, within twenty-four hours.”

I button my shirt and tuck it in, then I rush a brush of Mica’s over my hair. “I promise,” I tell her. I mean it, too. I’m not losing sight of the bigger picture here, meaning my family. I don’t know where they are, and rather than searching for a needle in a haystack, I can use the media coverage to call Jane and Rebecca to come forward. Besides, maybe it will make Jane proud of me. Doing research for my own advancement may not win points with her, but helping a dying animal will get her cheering.

Mica takes me to my car, which is in such a seedy area I am shocked to find it intact with all its hubcaps and accessories. She bequeaths me a map of the north shore of Massachusetts, and a postcard of the Blue Diner with her name and phone number. “Let me know how it works out,” she says. “I love happy endings.”