“So how about it, one order of fried cod!” Bob is all smiley, as though he is proud of having initiated this young woman into the art of fried cuisine. Suzy peers at the oversized piece of fish drenched in grease. She takes a bite while eager Bob dotes on her for approval. She gives him the sort of satisfied smile that makes him happy, then takes a long look around the bar. It is a typical beach-town dive, with a jukebox and a pool table. Against the wall is a laminated poster of a buxom blonde holding up a can of Budweiser. A few stools away from her are a couple of older men whose eyes are fixed on the sports updates on the TV screen suspended from the ceiling.
“So did you find what you were looking for?” Bob pretends to be nonchalant, but Suzy can tell that he is curious. She is not sure what to say. Is it really Grace he is taking her to be? What had Grace been looking for? She is tempted to tell him that he’s got the wrong girl, but it seems too late now, and Bob looks too earnest. So, instead, Suzy drops her gaze at the plate of fish before her.
“Thought you went back to the city. Twice in one week in this lousy weather—whatever it is, lady, you’ve gotta find it fast, so you don’t get that pretty head of yours wet again.” He pours more coffee into her mug, although she does not want a refill. Suzy runs her fingers through her wet hair, realizing only now that she left her umbrella on the train. Perhaps it is not Grace he takes her to be, but another Asian girl who had wandered in one rainy afternoon. Perhaps Grace was right after all, white men can’t tell one Asian girl from another. The fish is good. They all taste the same once fried like this. She did not realize she was hungry. She left the apartment in a hurry this morning, barely time for coffee, definitely no breakfast. The alarm did not go off again, and she woke up panicking, certain that she had missed her 8:25 train. It wasn’t until she wiped the sweat off her face and took a sip of cold water and glanced at the clock again that she realized she had more than an hour to kill. So she lay there recalling the strange phone rings and the bouquet of irises that had come accompanied by a drill or a hissing noise, which she failed to identify, which grew louder and louder until she could not stand it anymore and finally bolted out of bed, only to realize that the deadly shrill had, in fact, been the alarm chiming seven.
“See, nothing like a good piece of fish on a day like this!”
Bob is dying for her to say something, anything, so that he can say to his regulars, “That girl over there, she’s from the city, after something, she won’t say what,” or “See that Asian girl? She wanted cod poached until I told her, no, miss, we won’t have that here, not in Montauk, not at Bob McSwiggin’s place!” But all Suzy is capable of is another vague smile, a nice-girl smile so that he knows there is nothing personal as to why she won’t let him in on what she’s looking for. It would not take much to give him the one-line answer, a simple acknowledgment: “Yes, the fish’s good; yes, I’m glad you talked me into it; yes, nothing like a plate of fried fish on such a dreary afternoon.” But even that she cannot manage, for she is suddenly dying to get out of here. It is as if her parents know that she has arrived, that she is here to see them, and that not a day goes by when she does not wonder who shot them, who wanted them dead, who knew exactly how to pierce their hearts.
The numbers on the TV screen flip with a dizzying speed: Knicks 88 Bulls 70 Lakers 102 Spurs 99 Giants 21 Saints 10. The coffee is tepid now and tastes somewhat less burnt.
“Did I leave an umbrella here last time?” Suzy ventures cautiously, hoping the question might bring light to when Grace, if it was indeed Grace, was here. Something inside Suzy cannot resist. Become Grace for a moment. Embrace Grace’s trace, which might lead to Grace.
“Beats me. I keep whatever people forget in that bin.” Bob points to the plastic crate by the entrance. “You were here when, on Friday? Should still be there, but if you don’t see it, just take any umbrella you find.”
Suzy walks over and makes a pretense of looking through the crate before picking out the only umbrella among the torn jackets, chipped pocket knives, soiled bandannas, and baseball caps, the sort of leftovers no one wants. Friday, just three days ago. Did Grace come to see Mom and Dad early so that she wouldn’t run into Suzy? Does she still hate her so? Leave us alone, Grace told her at the funeral, without once meeting her eyes. Hasn’t Suzy done exactly that, hasn’t she stayed away all these years as though she had no family left in the world?
The umbrella is a weapon. She can leave now, out into the torrential sea where her parents wait. Bob looks happy with his five-dollar tip, almost as much as the whole bill. But today is not a day for calculating the 20 percent, and Suzy is holding on to the nameless umbrella left by a drunkard on a rainy night.
“Oh, I knew I forgot something,” Bob hollers after Suzy. “Kelly’s back, tell him Bob sent you and he’ll give you a deal. Make sure you tell him you can’t even swim.”
Crazy to hit the beach in this rain. The lighthouse is on Montauk Point, the easternmost tip of New York. From here, Suzy can either follow the shore for about six miles or just hop in a taxi. An impossibly long pilgrimage, but Suzy cannot bring herself to call a cab, not now, not on her way to see her parents. One of the wires of the umbrella hangs loose, through which the precarious sky threatens to break. It seems almost perfect, that the rain should follow each step and erase the trace of this mourning.
So it had been Grace after all. On Friday, while Suzy was interpreting in the Bronx, Grace had shown up at McSwiggin’s looking for something. Neither Grace nor Suzy can swim. Their bodies simply will not float. Suzy tried to learn a few times, but her body would tense immediately upon hitting the water. Grace is terrified of the water—as far as Suzy knows, possibly the only thing she is afraid of. So it had to be Grace: poached cod, Sweet’n Low, seltzer with a straw, can’t swim… Then who’s Kelly? Three days ago, Grace may have stood on this very path. She may have continued up the shore holding the umbrella with a broken frame. She may have cried a little, praying for a miracle.