A Matter of Mercy (11 page)

* * * * 

She wasn’t lying when she told herself she hadn’t planned to go to the library in Truro on the way back to Wellfleet. Her mindset, in fact, had been to avoid it assiduously. She’d gone up to P-town, intending to just go in to the Women’s Center and talk to someone, make the appointment to have it done. But then she’d decided to walk to Long Point from the west end, because the tide was all the way out and she hadn’t done that for years. It was easy to get marooned out there if you didn’t time it right—the tide could come in, although, she guessed, she
could
walk back on the slippery jetty. It was something she’d done in high school with her friends. They’d gone out there with beer for a party and not watched the clock, the one time that Caroline had gotten in serious trouble with her parents, who forbade her to ever go there again. But it was spectacular, the solitary little finger of land’s end, with ocean beach on one side, bay beach on the other and a swatch of dune grass striping the middle where terns and gulls nest.

And there was this: within a couple of days of Eleanor’s death, Caroline had started talking to her mother. “What should I do, Mom?” she’d ask, in the same way she once might have said, “God, what should I do,” not particularly expecting a response, and not slowing for one, yet now when she was trying to focus on something, much of the time it was in the form of a one-way dialogue. So that first afternoon she found herself at the Truro Public Library on the way back from the Provincetown Stop & Stop and Long Point, when she hadn’t gone to the Women’s Center again but definitely would tomorrow, what she said to herself was, “Mom, what am I doing
here
?” But she went ahead and took the
Cape Cod Times
from the rack and sat in one of the couches with a clear view of the circulation desk, raising the paper to cover her face. She hadn’t read it for the past couple of days anyway, she told herself, and then lowered it briefly for a look at Teresa DiPaulo, in an unflattering purple sweater, checking out a stack of books for a blue-haired woman. Caroline could see that yes, that gold angel was pinned over her heart again.

* * * * 

There was, of course, no need to go to the library to read the paper. She had resumed the subscription. But each day, she tossed the rolled up paper into the recycling bin and went to the Truro library to read it, scanning first for any mention of the lawsuit against the sea farmers, and then reading the rest between sneaked glimpses at Teresa. Three or four times, she feared Teresa caught her, too quickly jerking the paper back up, its sudden rustling like a telltale gunshot in the silent room. She was a lousy spy. And spies were supposed to be looking for something, weren’t they? She had no idea what her mission was. All she had determined so far was that yes, Teresa did wear the gold angel every day. That piece of information weighed like a stone on Caroline’s heart. And still she didn’t go to the Women’s Center.

Elsie called again.

“I called to see how you’re doing. Sometimes it’s harder when things are suddenly easier,” she said. “It’s one of life’s ironies. Have you seen a doctor?”

“Ah ... not yet.” Caroline was on the kitchen extension, and she twisted the cord around her own waist as she got over to the kitchen window. From there, she could see the access road. She was watching the oystermen arrive for the late tide. Rid hadn’t appeared yet, and she didn’t want to be distracted from seeing him by talking to Elsie. Up on the bluffs, the afternoon light reflected off vast windows as if the glass were armor, metallic and blinding.

“Caroline,” Elsie started, and then hesitated. “I don’t mean to sound like a busybody, and—”

“I know, I know.” Realizing she sounded curt, Caroline put a wash of cotton over the sharpness of her tone. “I really do know. I have to do it. It’s just hard to get ready, I guess. Emotionally.”

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Geez, I can see what you’re getting at. A baby would just be the perfect addition to my life right now. I mean it’s ideal, what with my devoted husband, and then there’s always the great career I’ve got going.” Immediately she was ashamed of her sarcasm.

“Sometimes when we don’t act on a decision,” Elsie started, her words tangling with Caroline’s, “Oh Elsie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like such a shit.”

“It’s all right. I’d just like to support you—and to help however I can, whatever you do.” Elsie’s voice was faintly cool this time.

“Elsie, please forgive me. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. You’re helping me—you
have
helped me. I couldn’t have gotten through Mom’s death without you.” She spoke in a rush. There wasn't enough air in the room.

“It’s a confusing time. And your hormones are probably berserk.”

The afternoon light was melting toward dusk. Out on the shining flats, the oystermen were silhouettes, like so many ants crawling on the water. The tide was dead low now, and it must be a moon tide, Caroline realized, because they were so far out from the beach, some working the backs of their grants. She’d been trying to figure out what visual markers she could use to identify Rid’s grant, to watch him at work, but all the trucks looked alike from this distance. She’d even looked for his dog, but remembered that Rid kept her in the truck while he worked. She’d have to see him arrive, identify the truck just as it bumped off the dirt access road onto the beach, and then figure it all out. That was difficult to do without setting up camp in front of a window. Or out on the beach.

“Hormones. Yeah, I’d say so. Definitely.” Was Elsie’s voice back to normal?

“Is this something you’d like to talk about, or do you want me to mind my own business?”

“Elsie, I just don’t know what I’m doing right now. I don’t even know what to talk about.” At that moment, she just wanted to get off the phone, because unless she was mistaken, she’d figured it out. She’d just watched a figure return to a truck, open a door, and a dog was wild with joy.

Chapter 12

“I’m returning these.” Caroline slid the pile of books across the circulation desk.

“Are they overdue?”

“No, I don’t think they’re due until November 23.” When she turned over the top book, a novel she’d carefully put on the top of the stack, she flushed and tried to rotate the pile so Teresa wouldn’t see the title on the book underneath,
What To Expect When You’re Expecting
. She’d just checked out the book to see what it said about morning sickness remedies. Fumbling, Caroline tried to use the novel she was holding to block Teresa’s view, making a show of checking the due date on the sticker. “Yup, November 20, actually, still not overdue.”

“Oh, well, unless material is overdue, you can just put it all in the drop slot, or leave it there, where it says ‘Returns.’ You sure didn’t take much time to do all this reading. You can keep this one longer. It’s excellent. I mean you might want to if you’re...”

As she spoke, Teresa reached under the novel Caroline held, picked up
What To Expect
and made as if to hand it back to Caroline, her face holding a friendly question mark. At the moment she was encouraging Caroline to hang on to
What to Expect
, she glanced down again and saw that the next title in the stack was
Coping With Abortion.

“Uh, I don’t think I need to keep it. I, ah, read it already.” Why had she flirted with a situation like this? She’d known damn well she could put the books in the drop box. “I mean it’s not for me. I mean I’m not—”

“Goodness, it’s none of my business,” Teresa interrupted Caroline’s stammering to put the books on a cart behind her. “I’m not supposed to comment on the books anyone checks out. Really, I apologize. Now, is there anything else I can help you with?” She was so clearly trying to end the conversation that she was almost saying
shoo
.

It was like an out-of-body experience. Caroline was instructing herself to walk away from the counter even as she took a breath and plunged on, spinning expertly as any spider.

“Actually, there is. I’m staying in the area while I work on a feature story for
Cape Cod Life
. We’ve—the editors, I mean—become aware of the legal action pending against the local aquaculturists, and we’re interested in doing a human interest story. You know, the, uh, the whole slant of the landowners against the aquaculturists, I mean how the local population feels about it, of course, but also, an update on where the lawsuit stands right now. I’m wondering if you can help me with the research.”

Teresa got an odd look on her face, not suspicious, but certainly puzzled. “The court proceedings would be a matter of public record. I imagine you know how to access those.”

A small heat rose in Caroline’s cheeks. She hoped it didn’t show, hoped her jeans and sweatshirt hadn’t already given her away. What did journalists wear, and would Teresa know? She felt faintly nauseated, sure she was transparent. “Actually, I’m from Quincy myself, so unfortunately I’m not familiar with the ins and outs here. I was just hoping you could save me some time. And, I’m really looking to research deep background on this.” She hadn’t even a tiny idea of how one went about looking up what was going on in some court or another, hadn’t even thought of tracking Rid’s fate that way. She’d been relying on the
Cape Cod Times
and the
Provincetown Banner
, combing them daily for any mention. The last she’d read, a judge named Samuel Atwood had denied the plaintiff’s motion for an injunction against the shellfishers continuing to work on their grants during the time the suit was pending. Caroline had exhaled a long sigh of gratitude, and then wondered why she cared, except that Rid had come to her mother’s service. And why was she putting on
this
charade here, now, with
this
woman of all people? It was reckless, an inexplicable disconnect from sensibility.

“I’m really not a research librarian,” Teresa said. “You could come back tomorrow when Rhonda is here. She’s out sick today, but she knows a lot more about—”

Caroline cut her off. She spread the most engaging smile she owned over her nerves, a stage actress on opening night. Reaching across the counter, she touched Teresa’s hand with the lightest, quickest touch, as if it were a rose petal she didn’t want to bruise. “Goodness, I promise, nothing too technical. Mainly questions about local things. Would you mind? I mean, even an orientation to this library would be helpful, save me a lot of time.”

Teresa shook her head slightly as her shoulders raised in a small dubious shrug, but she said, “Okay, I guess.”

“Thank you so much.” She could have gotten out clean then, but no, she had to push on. “Ah, would you be willing for me to interview you? If you like, I can keep it off the record, just use it for deep background.” Where on earth was she coming up with this bullshit?

There was a smear of lipstick on one of Teresa’s front teeth, red enough to be mistaken for an injury. Her hand had swept across her cheeks once too many times with the blusher, and her teal cardigan, the angel pinned in place, was a half-shade off flattering. Or she was a half-shade too pale. She appeared fragile in the weak, moat-filled afternoon light that made a stage of the circulation desk, and then Caroline felt nauseated again. She needed to leave here and go back to Provincetown, to the Women’s Center.

“Me?” Teresa said.

“Do you live in this area?”

“Yes, but—”

Again, the ingratiating smile. “I promise to make it painless. First, though, if you have the time, maybe you could help by telling me how to get into the newspaper archives here. Are they on microfiche, or...?” Yes, this was it. A quick switch to a question Teresa couldn’t refuse to answer. She was hanging on, wanting something from the woman whose life she’d ruined. It was insane, she knew. Was Teresa going to say “Hey, by the way, Ms. Reporter, some drunken woman hit my car and killed my child, but write this down: I’ve forgiven her and I hope she can have a good life because mine is fine again now?”

“I’d suggest you use the Internet first,” Teresa said. “The newspapers have their own search engines. But wouldn’t you want the court records? You don’t get those here.” Again, a hesitation in Teresa’s voice, a hint of a sidelong glance as if to say,
surely you know this.

“Of course.” Had she already given herself away? Then, though, what to say came to her. “I really haven’t been too clear, I realize. I’m really looking to learn about aquaculture—for background. I think anything I can learn about the work will be helpful.” Maybe she thought Teresa would say, “And by the way, having a child is like putting all the eggs of your life in one basket. Some crazy, selfish person can get drunk just once, get in a car, and run over the basket. That’s what can happen and does happen, so if you’re scared to death of that, you’re right. But it’s still worth it.”
Oh Mom, I have lost my mind.

“We do have a fair amount of literature on aquaculture. Just use the catalog to find the books, and the
Reader’s Guide to Periodical Literature
for articles. Here, I’ll show you where those are. Although it looks like you’ve already been using our library pretty well. I mean, since you’ve checked books out.” Teresa came out from behind the desk, lifting a hinged section of the counter and replacing it behind her. She wore a navy pleated skirt, stockings and high-heeled shoes. As Caroline followed her across the carpeting, Teresa kept talking, slowing and directing her voice over her shoulder. “Anyway, then you can check the magazine websites to see if you can get back issues or—any particular material could be available on the Internet, of course.”

“Of course.” Caroline nodded, and ran her hand through her hair. “Thank you again. Once I get myself going on this, I’d still like to interview you and get ideas about others I should talk to.”

“I imagine you’ll go to the flats and talk to the oystermen themselves?”

“Definitely.” Caroline pictured herself sitting on the rocks that fronted Rid’s grant, trying to pull that off. Rid would have narrowed his eyes and seen through her in a jailhouse minute. People who have done time have radar for bullshit, she knew, because everyone inside spends a lot of time either slinging or listening to it.

“Well, good luck,” Teresa said, edging back toward the circulation desk.

“Will you be here tomorrow?” Caroline couldn’t believe her own nerve.

“Yes, but not until noon because we’re open until eight.

“Maybe I can catch you then.”

“Maybe. If we’re not too busy.”

“I’m CiCi, by the way.” A name Teresa would never have heard. It had been Caroline Vance who’d hit that parked car and destroyed so many lives. “Cici Marcum. And I can see by your nametag that you’re Teresa.” Teresa DiPaulo, a name seared on Caroline’s mind as permanently as a cattle brand.

“Terry, actually.”

This nugget of information was a bit stunning and a small flash of gold for Caroline. Sometimes she couldn’t get over how young Teresa—now Terry—looked from across the room, with that long curly blonde hair like a teenager’s, and how it didn’t fit with the age around her eyes up close. The name Terry fit with the hair, not the eyes.

“I’m glad to have met you, Terry. I, well, I appreciate your time.” She’d been going to say
I like your pin
. Really she didn’t, though. The pin was a splinter in her heart.

* * * * 

All these books and articles. Who knew clams and oysters were so complicated? She’d finally come up with a decent story as to what she was doing there. Terry was quite right that to really know what was going on in the lawsuit, she’d have to get court documents. And those, for heaven’s sake, weren’t in the library. She’d made herself look like a rube, though fortunately, Terry didn’t seem suspicious. Sometimes the locals really
aren’t
too bright, she thought.

She went back to the pile on the table in front of her. Wellfleet Natural Resources and Shellfish Management Plan, 1986, happened to be on top. These people had wrestled with harbor management plans over and over, with tables and charts and figures enough to make her mind collapse in on itself.

They’d detailed history back to the 17th century. The Wellfleet harbor itself was a rare natural gift, its sack-shape and shallow, hard sandy bottom created a large, ten-foot tidal range and rapid tidal currents of fairly warm water. But it was continuously cooled by the amazing number of creeks and estuaries that emptied into it: Herring River, Duck Creek, Mayo Creek, Blackfish Creek, Sewell’s Gutter, Power’s Landing, and Middle Meadow. Nutrients thrived in the warm tidal water, extra nutrients came in from the generous creeks, all that fresh water lowered the salinity in the basin, and
voilà!
Wellfleet oysters were uniquely sweet and salty at the same time, while the coolness of the bay water kept the animals extremely fresh and safe. The combination was unmatched in the world.

It was predictable that people had been greedy and shortsighted. So many oysters were harvested in the 1700s that they became almost extinct. Cultch was being scraped up too, then, for lime and mortar, so there was nothing to catch spat from the remaining oysters. The town forests were overcut for lumber and grazing, clogging the harbor with silt. They’d actually passed environmental protection laws as early as 1742 because it looked as if the harbor might become too blocked for shipping, let alone oysters and quahogs. Oysters had to be imported from the Chesapeake Bay to redevelop the beds that had once teemed, an abundant birthright for natives.

And the 19th century brought more misguided development: construction of a railroad embankment across Duck Creek, a breakwater, and the enlargement of Shirt Tail Point to make a place for the town marina. Those projects, by slowing and diverting the tidal currents, lessened the inflow of nutrients that fed the harbor’s food chain. Caroline read, captivated, about how oysters and clams actually eat the little microscopic stuff that floats in the water by sucking it in, filtering the algae nutrients, and spitting out the rest. Wellfleet harbor is a junk food haven for shellfish—twenty-five thousand varieties of edible microbes come in and the animals go berserk on them. How had she grown up here and not known that? The 20th added pollution from road runoff and defective septic systems that produced a black muck, rank with hydrocarbons—
what the hell are hydrocarbons?
she wondered—and heavy metals and bacterial pollutants. Back in the ’80s, already task forces and shellfish constables and shellfishers were studying how this history of abuse had affected each species, trying to restore the harbor’s ecosystem. Sometimes Caroline got lost in reading and would forget to observe Terry. Twice she went to the library when Terry wasn’t there and because there was nothing else to do until the tide, she just stayed and picked up where she’d left off her bogus study.

Caroline got into a rhythm based on the tides and library hours. If, for example, it was a double tide day, an hour before the first daylight low tide, she’d set herself like an old-time sea wife to watch for Rid’s arrival and track his movements. Now she could tell when he was picking oysters as opposed to when he was digging clams. Sometimes his silhouette would be bent over a rack like a question mark for an hour at a time, picking in a two-handed rapid fire, slowing only briefly to inspect an animal. If it was too small, it went back in the rack; if it was damaged or the shell was empty, it was tossed into the shallows, more cultch to catch seed. Every little bit helps. The good, legal oysters went into a plastic milk crate, and when one was filled, he’d straighten and carry it to the bed of the truck and trudge back with another empty crate. He must have a huge order to fill, she’d thought several times. But, then, it was still a month that ended with R—fall, the traditional best shellfish harvest months—and he’d want to pull every legal size animal he could sell because there was no telling what he might lose over the winter. The long-range weather forecast kept talking about a hard winter. She’d read that ice could damage shellfish production, sometimes wipe out whole grants. The better aquaculturists pulled out all their oysters and buried them in specially constructed pits in their yards at home.