The Book of Speculation

25 JULY 23RD

There is little to say about storms in Napawset other than they’re never small, always dangerous, and any theater for the soul that accompanies thunder and lightning is replaced by fear of death by flood or falling tree.

Cursing and grunting, we climb the steps as rain pummels us. Water courses over the bluff, crushing the beach grass as it runs to the shore. Enola drags me by my arm while Doyle jogs behind. “Excellent stuff, man. Excellent,” he crows.

A storm this strong means Hull Road has already flooded, the bend by the school is on its way to being impassable, and anyone who hasn’t left Port is stuck; if they’re bold enough to attempt to leave, the sea of floating cars on Main Street will stop them. We duck into the house.

“We can wait it out here,” I say.

Enola disappears into the kitchen. “Where do you keep the hurricane candles?”

“Cabinets on top of the fridge.” The last half of my answer is lost under a loud groaning. Doyle and I look up. Enola peers around the kitchen door. A dark oval on the living room ceiling pouches out like a pregnant belly, drips of water pooling at its bulging center.

“Shit,” Enola grunts.

Seconds later a stream of rainwater hits the floor with such force that all three of us jump.

What follows is a dance of pots and pans, mixing bowls, mop buckets — things so long unused I’d forgotten they existed — emptying pots as they fill, and anticipating new leaks. We keep it up for an hour or so, rotating emptying and shuffling, until our hands are wrinkled and hair is soaked. Enola looks at me. “We can’t stay here. The ceiling’s going to come down. Simon, it’s time to go.”

In the past I might have gone to the McAvoys’ house and asked to ride it out on their couch. That’s off the table. I would go to the library, but I no longer have keys. Getting a room in Port is out of the question.

“We’ll swing back by Rose’s,” Doyle says, touching Enola’s arm. She pulls away as if stung.

She shakes her head. “Can’t get there if Hull is flooded.”

The roof creaks in earnest. “Get your stuff and get in the car,” I say. “I think I know where we can go.” I hope.

Doyle and Enola scramble outside. I grab my notebook and the stolen library books and dig through the closet for a bag to put it all in. Mom’s coat is still here. I stared at that dark brown wool while she zipped me into a stiff red snowsuit, zip and snaps. I cried. It was too hot, too tight, the wrong color — not blue. She pulled a crumpled paper towel from her pocket and roughly wiped my nose. Yanked an itchy hat over my ears. We can’t have you freezing. If you keep crying you’ll freeze your eyes shut. I can almost remember her face just then, almost. Dad’s coat is with hers, breast to breast.

I close the door behind me and hear a loud wet thump from inside. Don’t look — it will still be there tomorrow. Now we need to leave.

Enola and Doyle wait in the car. She’s put on a dark blue hoodie and has her hands stuffed deep in the pockets. Doyle is in the back, a duffel bag on the seat next to him. I ask what’s in it. He says, “Stuff. Bulbs. Got to keep limber.”

“Where are we going?” Enola asks.

“Alice’s.”

They both whistle.

“Think Frank told her?”

“Don’t know. I hope not.”

It’s a slog to get to Woodland Heights. The roads are littered with downed branches and it’s impossible to see anything but the rain on the windshield. No one says a word until we pull into the lot by Alice’s apartment.

“We can crash in the car,” Enola says. She’s looking up at the lights in the apartments, the neat little balconies, glass doors, and porch lamps. I can’t imagine what she sees.

“If you’re with me there’s a better chance she’ll let me in.” Alice might turn me down if she thinks I’m trying something — am I trying something? — but she wouldn’t put three people out in a storm.

She doesn’t answer when I ring the bell. We wait for a few minutes, rain soaking our clothes. Doyle rocks back and forth on his heels, his skin squirming.

“She’s not here,” Enola says.

“She might not be answering because, you know.” Doyle shrugs. “Weird guy with tats ringing the doorbell in the middle of the night. I’m cool with staying in the car. Used to do it all the time,” he says.

“She’s not like that,” Enola says.

“Wait, just wait.” I knock, this time using my whole forearm. The dead bolt slides, the lock turns over.

Alice cracks the door. Swollen eyes, a red nose, face bruised from crying.

Frank told her everything. I’m sorry and wish we’d never come. The worst is she’s a pretty crier and learning that is awful.

“Oh,” she says. “Simon. What are you doing here?”

I tell her about the house leaking and not being able to get anywhere else. She opens the door a little wider, revealing a worn blue bathrobe, pajamas, and a pair of ugly gray socks with one of the toes out. She looks at Enola, then Doyle. Doyle waggles his fingers. Enola mumbles a greeting.

“I’ll make coffee,” Alice says.

“You don’t have to.”

“I’ve got to do something. I’ll make coffee. It’s what I do.”

We stumble inside. Alice asks us to take off our shoes. We toss them into a pile by the door, sole meeting sole, sand mixed with carnival dirt. Did I do this last time? Despite having been here multiple times, I remember little of the apartment; I just remember her, leaning on a counter, falling on her bed, the refrigerator light and how she’s the only person in the world who looks good in it.

Enola and Doyle hunker into an overstuffed love seat, brown birds huddling together. The taupe and peach apartment makes them look flat. I take the armchair beside them.

“Nice place,” Enola says.

“It’s good,” he says.

“If you like this sort of thing.”

“I’m not real big on leases.”

“Me neither.”

“I kind of like wheels,” he says.

“Yes,” she says. “Me too, me too.”

Alice reappears with three cups on a white serving tray. Her shoulders hunch like she’s been broken. She sets the tray on the coffee table, flops onto a peach chair, and curls her legs beneath her. “You can wait here for a little while for the roads to clear, but I don’t think I can let you stay,” she says. “I just need space tonight, okay? It’s not you.”

“You talked to your dad?” I say.

“Fuck him,” she says, like a punch. She looks at some invisible point to the left of my shoulder. “He’s like a wound that won’t stop bleeding. Now that it’s all come out he won’t shut up. All those years he never said a thing, and now he has to tell us. Selfish bastard.” Her voice cracks and she sniffs and swallows, an awful sucking sound. “Why the hell don’t people understand there are some things you don’t talk about? You keep it to yourself so you hurt fewer people. You’re supposed to pay with guilt. Guilt is penance,” she says.

A soft ruffling to my right — Enola playing with cards. Doyle sips his coffee, holding the cup as though it’s a delicate piece of glass.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“No,” she says. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry he screwed up your family and I’m sorry he screwed up mine.” Her chin starts to wrinkle up, tight little pits appearing.

“Hey,” I start, but it’s too hard to finish. I stare down at my coffee. It’s undrinkable mud warmed over. Doyle has suffered through his entire cup. None of us has the heart not to. “I brought the books I borrowed.” I dig them out and slide them across the small white table, toward her chair. “I’m sorry I got you in trouble.”

“Oh,” she says quietly. “Never mind that. Kupferman’s an idiot. She’s gone nuts about damaging materials and has Marci reshelving for three weeks because she was drinking a Coke outside the staff room.”

“No.”

“Seriously.” Alice sniffles and rubs the ends of her hair between her fingers. I remember her sucking salt water from the tips of her pigtails. “Why did you take them?”

“My mom read to me from one.” I shrug. “Ever love something so much you start to think it’s yours?”

“It’s good to have things that are yours. Keep them.” She closes her eyes and locks her arms around her knees and I wonder if we’re talking about books at all. She sniffs again, but says nothing. Silence blooms. Enola catches my eye. We should go. I set my cup down.

“I’ll give you my library keys,” Alice says suddenly.

“I’m sorry?”

She rubs her eyes and stands. “You can’t go back to the house for more reasons than the leak. I’ll lend you my keys. Go spend the night at the library.” Then she’s walking down the hall to her bedroom, where there’s the mobile with a horseshoe crab, a creature she doesn’t know why she likes, unless Frank told her that as well.

“She’s drunk,” Enola says.

“Probably,” I say. “She’s allowed.”

Alice returns, leaning against the wall. Yes, tipsy. Good for you, Alice. I wish I’d thought of it myself.

“There’s something I was supposed to tell you. What was it?” She waves the keys in my direction before tossing them to me. “The code is still the same. Kupferman says she’s going to change it but hasn’t gotten around to it yet.”

“Thanks.” We all get up. The storm is still beating down, rain slapping at windows and doors.

“Oh. Oh,” Alice says. She pinches the top of her nose. The words come out in a great rush, “Liz Reed from North Isle called. Said she was trying to get in touch with you but your phone is out.” She stops to take a breath. “That accident thing you were looking into checked out, she sent it to your email. What the heck was that name? It was something weird. Peabody and Sons Maritime Merriments.” She scrunches her face. “Does that sound right?”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Wow. Liz Reed. You called in the big guns. She also said that Raina found something for you on that Mullins name.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, the last known relative is some guy in the Midwest. Churchwarry.” I hear her, but she sounds like she’s in another room. “Wait. That’s your guy, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I answer.

Churchwarry is a Ryzhkov. A thousand ideas form and fade. Alice may have gotten it wrong; it would be understandable, she’s worn out, buzzed. I need to talk to Raina, double check. I don’t know what happens in the next seconds, when the door opens, why Enola and Doyle are standing by the car in the rain, or how it is that I’m alone with Alice on her step.

Alice leans forward and her hair falls down over her forehead. She shoves it back. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t let you stay. I’m really ugly right now and I’m a little drunk and I need to be alone. I’ll just look at you—”

“And see my mother.”

“It won’t always be this way,” she says. “I need time. I need to be less angry.”

“It’s not you, it’s me. It’s always me.” It’s a thing people say, but it’s true. If it hadn’t been for me, her father never would have told her. “It’s okay. I have a really terrible breakfast face.”

A weak smile. “Don’t. I know every one of your faces. Just put my keys in the book drop when you leave, okay? I’ll get Marci to let me in tomorrow.”

I could just lean in — a little kiss, nothing at all — but it wouldn’t be right. She rubs her face, and I touch her hand. The hug is unexpected, but with her inside and me on the step below, we fit. And I should hold her for a little while. I want to. I could say something, but her cheek is on my shoulder and I can feel her body catching because she’s crying again. Her lips brush my neck, light and awkward, but then she pulls away.

“Okay,” she says.

“Okay.”

She watches while I walk to the car, getting pelted by the rain. Even through sheets of water on the windshield, I see her in the doorway. She stays until we drive out of the lot.

“God damn,” Enola whispers. “Alice McAvoy is in love with you.”

I hope.

The car careens around the back roads, swerving around puddles, branches. Everything. “Pull over and let me drive.” Enola’s hand is on my arm.

“No.” Hemlock Lane is flooded and the harbor is on the front lawns of the summer bungalows. A sharp left takes us inland, climbing up the hill toward the monastery where the brothers pray whatever prayers one says during storms. Churchwarry is Ryzhkova’s descendant. He sought me out. “He must have known.”

“Must have known what?” Enola asks.

“Nothing.”

“The book guy?” she persists.

“Yeah,” I say. “His relative, you tore pictures of her cards out of the book.”

“Bullshit,” she says, but there’s no force behind it.

I don’t have the energy to explain it to her. I assumed I’d find Frank at the end of the road, that his family had been passing down Ryzhkova’s portraits, and that maybe my mother giving him her tarot cards had a certain poetic symmetry to it. It’s nothing so easy as that. “Maybe you were right,” I tell her. “Maybe he does want something from me. Damned if I know what it is, though.” The road curves in hairpin turns — a nod to Robert Moses. Doyle’s duffle slides across the seat and thumps into one of the doors.

“He could just want to latch on to you guys,” Doyle says quietly. “You kind of have, like, a way of drawing people to you,” he says.

I peer back at him through the mirror. “What do you mean?”

“I heard about you guys before I hooked up with Rose’s. Didn’t know it was your family for a while, but then Enola said some stuff, I saw you swimming, and things clicked. Your mom kinda sucked in your dad, and Mr. McAvoy.” The way Doyle says Frank’s last name is strangely respectful considering we just burned his belongings. He coughs. “And me. Enola just yanked at my guts, you know? Thom’s half in love with her. You guys sort of have a pull.”

Enola smacks the seat and screeches, “Yanked at your guts?”

“What exactly did you hear and from who?” I ask.

He stretches an arm across the backseat and drums his fingers; each tap spits a tiny nervous spark. “I was with a show that toured the Carolinas for a while. Had a high-dive guy who was real cool. Dave. We’d shoot the shit during downtime. He liked to talk old circus stuff. Told me about this family that called themselves mermaids because they could stay underwater forever, but eventually each one of them drowned.” He shrugs. “He made you sound like the Flying Wallendas or something — long history, tragedy. Intense stuff.”

Enola whips around in her seat. “Why the fuck didn’t you say anything? Don’t you think maybe you should have told me?”

The headlights hit something straddling the road — large, too vague to make out. There’s no shoulder to go around, valley on one side, hill on the other. I slam the brakes. Flashing retinas. Deer. The wheels lock and skid. Shit. Water. We slide, the back end slips away, fishtailing. I turn the wheel hard. Enola shrieks. Doyle swears. The seat belt cuts into my stomach and we’re spinning, spinning, watching rain roll over us and the lights from the town scream by. A loud crunch from the backseat. Something goes flying from Enola’s hand. Her cards scatter across the dash, the floor, in the air around us.

Wheels grip, breaks kick in, we screech to a stop.

Gasping. Swearing, breathing. Whispered Are you all right? Everybody okay? Shit, shit. We’re fine. We’re fine. We’re in one piece. Let the car gently roll the rest of the way down the hill. There’s no body in the road, no deer. We pull over when there’s a shoulder again. Shards of Doyle’s lightbulbs cover the backseat. He sweeps them into a pile while Enola picks up her cards. Something’s stuck to the inside of the windshield, held fast by a spot of water that got inside. A card. I pick it off with my thumbnail. A dark background, black maybe, hard to tell. Tall building. A lightning bolt. I know it. It’s aged, but it’s an exact image of a sketch in the book. Not a Marseille deck. Not a Waite deck. I trace my finger across the rocks.

“Give me that.” Enola snatches the Tower from me.