“Well, you didn’t stop by this morning, and, I thought, well, we had fun and, well, there’s something I wanted to say—”
“Edward.” Mary brought her fingers down on her book, considering her words. “Where is home for you?” She looked up at him.
“Oh, it’s wherever I’m at. I mean I don’t miss New York. I know you’re supposed to get homesick after some time, but I haven’t felt that.”
“Your parents must miss you.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know. Haven’t talked to them since moving here. And besides, they don’t live in New York anymore.”
Her eyebrows floated up. “Why not? Why don’t you talk to them?”
“Because I was angry. I know it’s shallow. They moved to a different state just as I was getting kicked out of my apartment. I didn’t have a job at the time, but they didn’t care. Didn’t offer any help. I asked my dad for money, but he wouldn’t even give me a little.”
“I’m sure they didn’t do it to hurt you.”
“Probably not, but, still feel they could have done something.”
“If they had given you money for rent, would you have taken the caretaker job on Peter Island?”
Her question hit him like a baseball bat to the face. If he had paid another month’s rent, he would still be in New York, probably filling out unemployment forms, working at small shit jobs, bugging friends for money, scrounging up enough change to buy the next meal, struggling to survive. Edward looked at Mary with that pain on his face.
“Well, what about you? Did your father help you when you needed it?”
“Maybe,” she said, looking around at the things on the desk. “There’re different kinds of help. When I told my father I was afraid of the water and he pushed me off the pier and told me to swim, I thought he was the meanest, worst father in the world. But then that night, he put me to bed. And he never put me to bed. He told me he loved me. And he never said stuff like that. I knew there must have been something good in him, even if it took me years to figure it out.”
“Yeah. I guess you’re right.”
Edward rested an elbow on the counter, crossing one leg over the other. When he did this, Mary leaned back in her chair, putting her hands over the armrests.
“What’s it like working on a fishing boat?”
“It’s alright. My father did most of the difficult work. Mostly I helped steer, mend nets, pick out unwanted catch and clean up. He never had me do anything dangerous.”
“You must have learned a lot.”
“Not really. There’s a lot of time on a boat when there’s no fishing. Not much to do but stare up at the clouds.”
“Where’s your father now?”
“He passed away.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” Edward frowned pressed a finger against the countertop as if to write on it.
“It happened a long time ago.”
“Well, you seem like a good fisherman. Not afraid to get dirty – I mean you do what it takes to get the job done.”
“When was the last time you went spear fishing?”
“Yeah. Here’s the thing. Having electricity makes you lazy. But I’ll go out again and catch something if you’ll let me cook you dinner.”
Mary spread her fingers out over the armrests of the chair at the counter, staring at her book, smirking.
“Look, I have to get ready for story time and twenty kindergarteners coming in. Maybe we can talk later.”
“Oh, OK. I’ll wait for you.” He stood up straight, sliding over the form he’d filled in.
“I don’t get off until six.”
“That’s OK. I’ll walk around and then meet you by your boat.”
“Edward, that’s four hours.”
“I’ll wait at the pier. No problem.”
“It’s too long to wait. I’ll go to your house on my way home.”
He walked over to the door, gripped the handle, and looked down.
“Mary, I’d wait a long time for you.”
He opened the door just as two teachers lead a line of children across the street. He walked out, glancing back before the door closed to see her watching. She felt the same way, he was sure of it. Of course she was cautious. She wanted to know he was being real. And he would do whatever it took to prove it. Edward waved at the schoolchildren as he passed the line on the sidewalk. They laughed at him and he felt high, like he could hop all the way down the hill and fly out over the bay waters below.
Two streets away, he stuck his hands into his pockets, felt the bolt, and remembered the broken shutter. He pulled out the piece of metal and threw it up into the air. It reached twenty feet, before dropping back down. He caught it and threw it up again, farther this time. It reached forty feet before dropping. He lost it momentarily in the brightness, and had to duck out of the way, covering his head with his arms, laughing. The slug hit the sidewalk a few feet away, leaving a pockmark.
After finding the hardware store and buying a bottle of the wood filler and the bolt screwdriver, he wandered down a few streets, taking in the gardens and faraway islands. To the west, a frothy blue and grey line of clouds had moved in from the horizon like a glacier wall sheering flat planes.
He was whistling a Bob Marley tune when he passed a familiar car. It was a purple 4-door Suzuki. He stopped whistling and walked until he was against the next house’s whitewashed fence. Edward looked back and studied the vehicle. Then he went to the corner of the fence and peeked up the parking lot at the office where the Suzuki was parked. MILROY TOURS, BVI, a sign above the entrance read with letters in a fat font. The front of the business was all glass, and he could see there just inside, sitting at a table was Mary’s ex-boyfriend, Isaac.
Isaac was wearing a short-sleeved dress shirt and slacks, and looked completely uncomfortable in the clothes. He had one hand over the table, twirling a pencil between fingers, talking to someone. An older woman, probably his mother, sat at a desk in the back of the room. She was staring into a laptop screen.
It was fate, Edward thought. Here was the guy who had caused so much trouble between Mary and himself. Here was the guy who had hurt Mary – probably her first boyfriend. Edward could imagine how Isaac must have manipulated her and it disgusted him. Here he was. And his precious car. It really was karma. Edward looked back at the Suzuki. Sunlight glinted off the cubistic bulk of glass and metal. Purple, the color of kings. Was that what Isaac thought he was? The car was spotless, the rubber of the wheels polished – he probably dusted it daily.
Edward turned around and walked up the block, quickly returning to the hardware store. When he reentered the store, he told the clerk he’d forgotten something. He glanced up the aisles until he found the item he wanted. The box cutters were in a tray on a shelf between buck knives and hacksaw blades. He picked up one, extended the blade from the handle and tested its strength by pressing a thumb against the flat side. When he was satisfied, he retracted the band back into the handle. He paid at the counter and slipped the tool into the pocket with the screwdriver.
There weren’t many people out on the street. Most of the properties were homes, only about one in five lots had businesses on them. He figured everyone was inside working, avoiding the heat, or at school. In five minutes only a single car had passed him on the street, and no one gave him a second glance. Being from a big city and having friends always seeing what they could get away with, he knew how to act innocent. He returned to the tall fence next to the travel agency, squatted and pretended to tie his shoe, glancing around. He scanned the windows of the houses across the street.
When he was sure no one was around, he stood and glanced around the fence at the office. Isaac’s mother was still at the desk, staring at her computer. Isaac was still at the front table, filling in his form, pulling at his collar. The Suzuki, about twenty feet from the fence, was parallel with the street, its tires on a strip of grass separating street pavement from parking lot. Isaac had wanted it as close to the street as possible. He wanted his king’s carriage on display for everyone to see.