Follow the Stars Home (25 page)

Small, pine-spiked islands filled the sapphire bay. The dark trees were tall, and they grew right down to the rocky shore. In this part of Maine there was no gradual dropoff, no shallow sandy beach. Just deep water, steep rocks, and more lobsters than Tim McIntosh could catch. The
Aphrodite
glided so close to shore, Tim could hear moose munching on laurel leaves.

He pulled a pot, chucked twelve big lobsters into the basket, re-baited the pot, and threw it back in. On to the next pot, and the next. His buoys were red and white. Keeping the colors straight took concentration. Tim was working his way north, signing on to work with different lobster companies along the way, each with their own colors. He caught lobsters, he got paid, he moved on.

The life of a nomadic lobsterman suited Tim fine. Moving kept him just off balance enough to keep from dwelling on his past. Introspection was a curse. Tim chose to look outward, not in: at the granite cliffs, the blue sky, the sparkling sea, a pod of pilot
whales, a lone eagle flying in slow circles. Tim had practical matters to consider: his fuel level, a snagged line, a broken winch, low pressure moving up the coast.

For then, Tim was staying on Elk Island. Nice place, quiet people. The pay was average; Dirk Crawford was cheap, which made him exactly like any other fleet owner Tim had ever worked for. Dirk supplied the pots, which he figured gave him seventy-five percent ownership of any lobster Tim brought in.

So what? It wasn't as if Tim had a family to feed. He slept on his boat, ate by himself. The
Aphrodite
was his home. It was also his family, his wife, his only friend. Tim McIntosh had thrown the real things away, so he had to accept what he had. It was a good boat. It kept him warm at night. He'd lie in his bunk, listening to its creaks and rumbles, the way the water slapped the hull, and he'd let the
Aphrodite
lull him straight to sleep.

His boat took care of him.

That's what he got, naming his boat for the goddess of love. He had purchased it when he and Dianne were first married. She had encouraged him to get a new boat, Alan had given him the down payment; Emmett and Lucinda had lent him the rest of the money. Tim had been on top of the world. He wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he wasn't stupid-if this boat hadn't been a gift of love, then what was it? Clumsy at gestures, wanting to give thanks, Tim had named her
Aphrodite.

Tim pulled his last pot of the day. A flock of screeching gulls followed him around the point. He stared at the old saltwater goose farm. Dirty geese waddled through the rock-studded field, and an old man and young boy headed up the path toward the barn. The white house was small and pretty, the kind
of place Dianne would love. She'd be taking pictures right now, planning to turn it into a playhouse.

Shaking his head, Tim stared at the water ahead. Thinking of Dianne did him no good. Hearing her voice in his boat at night was bad enough without scoping out houses for her to copy. Next thing he knew, he'd be imagining his daughter playing in a Home Sweet Home playhouse. He'd be hearing her call him Daddy, picturing himself holding her in his arms.

Nomad lobstermen weren't known for obeying rules, but Tim had a few he considered unbreakable. Men who didn't know their own children weren't allowed to dream about them. Same thing for guys who left their wives. They couldn't call, send birthday cards, ask to be taken back. They couldn't wallow in self-pity, ask themselves what might have been.

All they could do was keep moving. The sea made a good partner. It pulled him along, made him pay attention. Tides and currents, rough water, bad weather, uncertain skies, kept him alert. Other men lived other ways. The married ones Tim didn't know much about. He had tried that life but found himself insufficient. No one had told him that love was hard: His father had fished himself to death and his mother had died drunk before passing down the instruction manual.

His brother Alan was a nomad too, even if he didn't know it. He had his patients and the hospital. He owned a house in Hawthorne. To Tim, those things were no different from lobstering and the
Aphrodite:
work to keep him busy and a place to keep him dry while he kept himself out of reach. For all his fancy degrees, Alan was just as big a loser as anyone.

Tim missed his brother Neil. Sometimes he felt Neil-grown-up, no longer the eighteen-year-old he'd been when he died-standing with him in the wheelhouse. It was as if Neil had seen Tim through every fuckup along the way, as if he loved him so much, he could forgive him for it all. The stuff Alan could never forgive and forget.

Tim held the wheel and thought about his brother and Dianne. They'd known each other before Tim had come along. They'd gone out only once, but it had meant more to Alan than one casual date. Tim wasn't going to lie to himself about that. Alan had decided to play it down for the sake of harmony with his brother, but he might very well have already fallen in love with her.

All that stuff about treating her right and being a good husband: There'd been more to Alan's lecture than his being Tim's older brother. Tim had never seen Alan act that way over a woman before. Then Tim just took Dianne away, just like that. Without regard for his brother's feelings-or maybe
because
of them. Sibling rivalry, brotherly competition … Tim tried to come up with nice words for what had happened, but it left him with a knot in his stomach.

The bell buoy clanged. The town lay dead ahead, just past the breakwater. Tim saw the flag waving over the post office. Red, white, and blue, Old Glory. Seeing it, he felt choked up. The flag made him feel part of something bigger than himself. He had given up his family and home, so what he had was his country.

Soon he'd be leaving for a while. Once he left Elk Island, Tim was heading up to Canada. He needed a real friend, not just Neil's ghost or his good boat's voice. The feeling had come on strong, sometime during the spring; the need to touch base with an
actual human being who knew him well. So Tim was going to see Malachy on Nova Scotia.

Just then, though, he had lobsters to sell, pay to collect. He was still paying off his boat loan. Every month, no matter where he was, he stuck a money order for two hundred dollars in the mail to Lucinda. So far he had paid her twenty-six thousand four hundred dollars; by the end of the year he'd be square.

He wondered what she thought, getting his envelopes postmarked all over the northeast. Out of courtesy to Dianne, he mailed the payments to her mother at the library so Dianne wouldn't have to open the mailbox and see his handwriting. He figured she had enough on her mind, handling the damaged child he'd saddled her with. What she didn't need was any reminder that Tim McIntosh was still out sailing the seven seas.

Amy was in the studio, alone with Julia. Dianne had trusted her with this great responsibility while she ran up to the house for a few minutes. Amy was trying to teach Julia to draw. She held a blue crayon in Julia's hand, guiding it across the paper. They were drawing Stella, who was crouched by the bed again, still waiting for Orion to make his first appearance.

“Cats aren't blue,” Amy said to Julia. “I know you know that, and you're probably wondering why we're using a blue crayon. It's only because it's prettier than gray and brown, and I think—”

Suddenly Stella's ears stood up. She sprang up to her shelf, disappearing into her basket. Amy looked at the door and saw Amber standing there.

“Knock, knock,” Amber said.

Amy froze.

“Aren't you going to ask me in?”

“Uh …” Amy began. She felt paralyzed. She didn't want Amber coming in. What if Amber asked Amy where she had been? Amy didn't want to explain about living here for a while instead of at home. But Amber didn't wait. She just opened the door. She was wearing low-slung pants and a tank top. Her bra straps were showing so much, Amy's face turned beet red. As Amber approached, Amy stood in front of Julia.

“Who's that?” Amber asked.

“You're not supposed to be in here,” Amy said, blocking Amber's view.

“Where the hell've you been? I've called you thirty times at least. Your mother never answers, and I never would have found you if Buddy hadn't told David's dad you ran away.”

“Huh,” Amy said, surprised that David and Amber would even bother discussing her whereabouts. She wasn't completely upset that they thought she'd run away, even though it wasn't the exact truth. It sounded like something a person much cooler than Amy would do, and she liked it better than the fact of being removed from her home by the CWS.

“Why the hell'd you run here?” Amber asked, lowering her voice. “Witches and retards aren't my idea of fun.”

“Shut up, Amber,” Amy said.

“Let me see it,” Amber said, trying to get around Amy.

“Stop.”

“Come on,” Amber said, grabbing Amy's shoulders and jostling her. She grinned, laughing as if she thought it was a big joke. Amy pushed back, hands on Amber's skinny upper arms as she tried to keep her away from Julia. It wasn't as if Amber was beautiful: Her eyes were close together, she had dandruff,
and she had two growths on her neck that reminded Amy of potato eyes.

Amy felt deadly serious, cold and panicked by Amber's insistence. Craning her neck, Amber looked side to side, trying to see around Amy's head. Then she pretended to trip. When Amy tried to steady her, Amber pushed her out of the way.

“Jesus Christ,” Amber said. Staring at Julia, her mouth fell open. “That's a
kid?
Moving her head like that?”

“Leave her alone,” Amy said.

“That is a
girl?”
Amber asked. “She looks fake. Like she's a robot or something, the way she moves her head and arms. Like a wind-up girl. Jesus, Amy.”

“Gleee!” Julia cried. Holding her arms out, she looked straight at Amy as if she wanted to be saved. Amy's throat caught. She knelt down, put her arms around her friend.

“You touch her?” Amber asked. “Amy, what's wrong with you? She has goobers all over her face.”

“Do you ever think she might hear you?” Amy asked, holding Julia with loose arms the way Julia liked to be held. Amy had seen Dianne do it. You couldn't just grab her tight. Her insides were hurt or something, and she needed to be touched lightly. Amy's heart was pounding, and she could feel Julia's puffy little breaths on her cheeks.

“Shit,” Amber said, bending down. “She understands? I didn't know—”

“You wouldn't even think,” Amy said.

“Sorry,” Amber said.

“Glaaaa,” Julia said into the crook of Amy's neck.

“How old is she?”

“Eleven,” Amy said.

“You're shitting me.”

Amy was silent. She felt like butting her head into Amber's hollow stomach and shoving her out the door, but she didn't want to upset Julia any more than she was already. Julia's breathing had seemed so nervous, as if she were trying to blow a feather off the end of her nose, but now she was calming down.

“What's her name?” Amber asked.

Amy hesitated. “Julia,” she said finally.

“Huh,” Amber said. “Hi, Julia.”

At the sound of her own name, Amy felt Julia relax. She totally did: Her muscles let go as if she knew the person making that sound must be a friend. Amy figured Julia didn't have many enemies. She would think anyone saying her name would be a good person.

“Gaaaa,” Julia said.

“Let me say hello,” Amber said, trying to pry Amy away. “Come on. I came over to see you, it's the least you can do.”

“Just go, Amber,” Amy said.

“Hey, I'm your friend. You ran away, I came to check it out. It's nice over here. I don't blame you for running away from Buddy's boozetown. Same as Dave's house, they never know when to stop. We stole a six-pack from his father Friday. He was so drunk he thought he drank it himself.”

“You're drinking?” Amy asked. Her heart fell, and she didn't even know why. Why should she care what Amber did? They were so different. But it bothered her that anyone her age or any age could even touch a drop of the stuff after seeing what it could do.

“A few beers,” Amber said, “is not drinking. Not like they do it anyway. Come out with us-we're partying at the beach tonight.”

“Gleee,” Julia said, her hands beginning to move.

“See? Julia likes me. Just listen to her. Let me see her.”

Very slowly Amy pulled back. She smoothed Julia's blond hair away from her face. Julia's big eyes rolled from side to side, and she grinned so wide, all her teeth showed.

“Nice smile,” Amber said seriously.

“It is,” Amy agreed.

“Will she talk to me?” Amber asked.

Amy glanced at Julia. Julia was entranced with Amber. She was staring at her, focused on Amber's dangly silver earrings. The thing was, Julia was much prettier than Amber. Julia was delicate and angelic, her eyes full of soul. As Amy watched Amber lean forward, she thought for a minute Amber had a heart. Face-to-face with Julia, Amber smiled.

“Polly want a cracker?” Amber asked, giggling.