Out of Left Field (13 page)

She points to the guidebook. “They say you can’t outrun or outswim the current.”

That spooks me. “Let’s get out of here.”

Cora gives me a worried look, but I can’t explain. Instead, I make bland conversation in the car, keep up with the map and guidebook, pay attention to the scenery. I have to admit, the Annapolis Valley is gorgeous. Irrigation ditches bisect rolling green fields that stretch to the water. Wooden churches tower over tiny villages. Who fills them on Sundays?

When we reach the Annapolis Basin, Aunt Cora pulls over and reaches for the guidebook. “There’s a historic garden nearby that I’d love to see…”

“I don’t know…” The sight of fishing boats reminds me that the whale watch is tomorrow. Scenarios I didn’t consider flash through my head: Blanding will freak. He’ll call me a lunatic or send me packing. He’ll demand proof. What the hell was I thinking? That I’d tell Quinn Blanding who I am, explain he could die any minute—and then we’d go out on his boat like ordinary tourists? Mom was right. I should have let my aunt and uncle figure this out. I wipe my palms on my jeans. “It’s time to play ball. Let’s go to Digby. Find the B and B; wait for Ray. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

*

Cora crashes in her room while I explore Digby. The town is all about scallops. Every restaurant advertises fresh scallops, and the docks bristle with the masts and flags of the scallop fleet. No wonder Dad loved this place.

Brochures for whale watch and puffin tours fill one whole kiosk at the Information Center. I find Blanding’s flier right away. A note in small print says to call early on the morning of a watch, to check on weather and tides. I stuff the brochure into my pocket and walk along Water Street, wandering out one wharf after another. I breathe in the smell of diesel and spoiled fish, until I glance at my watch: 5:15. Damn: I never set it ahead. It’s actually 6:15 here.

I work up a sweat jogging back to the hotel, and find my aunt in the parlor. She stands in the middle of the room beside a tall, slim black man with close-cropped hair turning gray at the temples. He has a beat-up backpack slung over one shoulder. He sucks in his breath and smiles.

“Brandon McGinnis,” he says, in the warm voice I recognize from the phone. He extends his hand. “I’d know you anywhere. The spitting image of your dad.”

Caught Looking

I’m a holdout on the scallops at dinner, but the fish special with home fries is crisp and salty. Even the bread is good at this place. I dig in while Ray and Aunt Cora talk a mile a minute, as if they’ve known each other forever—though they never met when Cora used to visit Dad. (“Too dangerous,” Ray explains. “Your dad didn’t want the FBI or the Mounties to bother Cora.”) They compare notes on raising two daughters and talk about their jobs, but circle around the subject of Dad.

I interrupt. “You and Dad lived together a long time, right? What did you guys do, when you hung out?”

“We were in grad school in the early years,” Ray says, “serious about our studies. We assumed we’d have to support ourselves up here forever—which was true, in my case.” He sips his coffee. “But we went to movies, watched baseball in bars—your dad couldn’t stand it that I was a Mets fan—and looked for pretty girls, of course. Once we got to Halifax, we were working hard; me for social services, your dad in his own practice. He got into the whole Acadian thing, the music, the culture. I spent time in clubs, trying to find folks who look like me.”

“Were you both political?” Aunt Cora asks.

“Pat was. I had to keep a low profile, being AWOL.” Ray studies me. “What’d your dad say about these new wars?”

“That they were wrong.” I push the last bits of fish around on my plate.

“Pat got us involved in that protest before the war started—the one where people had candlelight vigils all over the world—when was it?” Aunt Cora asks.

“March. During spring training,” I tell them. At least I remember that much.

Cora and Ray get excited and compare notes; apparently they both participated with their families. What I remember was that I begged off, saying I had too much homework—which I did. But still: that was a flimsy excuse.

Dad was angry at me: a rare event. “You don’t know how lucky you are,” he said.

“Let him make up his own mind,” Mom said.

“Fat lot of fun that is,” Dad told her.

“Pat—this isn’t your war,” Mom said.

“They’re
all
my wars—and yours. And Brandon’s,” Dad had said then.

I return to the present when Cora cups my hand. “Your generation is lucky. No draft.”

“We wouldn’t be fighting two wars if we had one.” Dad’s line pops out before I knew I would say it.

“So you take after your old man’s politics, too,” Ray says.

“I don’t know.” I squirm. Dad criticized me for being apolitical. Truth is, I just don’t pay attention. “I’m nervous about tomorrow. Could we go back to the B and B?”

“Of course,” Ray says. But I can’t meet his eyes as I pull on Dad’s Sox jacket. He hurled a fastball by me. I got caught looking.

*

We huddle in Aunt Cora’s room where Ray hands me a packet of letters. “Pat wrote me some over the years. And we talked on the phone now and then. My wife and I made photocopies, so you can keep the originals.” He points to a card addressed to Cora and me. “A note from my wife Priscilla, for later.”

He pulls a small photo album from his backpack and flicks through the plastic pages. “After you and I talked the second time, Priscilla found this on our shelves. It’s pretty random—but I did find pictures of your dad and me, and one of Pat with Vic—hold on.” As he turns the pages, I see Ray with a big ’fro, guys raising beer bottles in a toast, photos of dramatic coastlines. Cora looks over his shoulder. Am I ready for this?

“Here it is.” Ray turns the album to face me. The photo is an old Polaroid, the color fading. Dad smiles at the blond woman beside him. Dad’s hair is long, the curls brushing his collar. His smile is polite—but that’s it. The woman stares at something in the distance. They’re not touching.

“They don’t look like a couple,” Aunt Cora says. “Maybe I’m just seeing what I want to see.”

“You’re right. Vic was already gone.” Ray pulls the photo from its sleeve and turns it over. “For some reason, I wrote the date on this one.
Pat and Vic, April ’76
.”

My aunt counts on her fingers. “She must have been pregnant, if the hospital record is right.”

“That’s what Cilla and I figured.”

I study the photo again. “Could I keep this? I might need it tomorrow.”

“It’s yours,” Ray says. “I’ve got pictures of your dad that mean more to me. Besides, Vic only brought him pain.”

When I slip the picture into my pocket I find the whale watch brochure. “We’re supposed to phone first thing in the morning to check on the weather and tides. It says the boat sails out of Freeport. Where is that?”

“On Digby Neck.” Ray touches my shoulder. “I don’t want to intrude—but it could be a tough day. I could drive you out there. I’ll give you plenty of space.”

Cora glances at me, eyebrows raised. I nod. I want this man with the warm smile to stick by us. “You don’t mind?”

“Of course not,” Ray says. “It’s an honor to do this for you—and your dad.”

Phone call: Cat on Digby Neck, to Granger in Baddeck

Dad? Hi. I just wanted to tell you I’m fine.

Sorry you’re pissed.

I didn’t plan to take off like that. I didn’t know what else to do.

Don’t blame the bank guy. I forged your signature.

Sure. If my music career doesn’t pan out, I can take up a life of crime.

Kidding, Dad! Can’t you take a joke?

I said, I’m sorry. Listen, Quinn’s really upset. How come you guys won’t tell him what’s going on?

What do you mean, “When Mum comes back”? Where is she?

Are you serious? She didn’t leave a note or anything?

Give me a break; there’s no way Mum would ever “copy” me.

Okay, Dad, okay. Did you call the police?

No? What if she’s in trouble, eh?

Touché.

Not now. I’m crewing for Quinn until school starts again. I’ll be home when you guys clean up your mess.

More Wins than Losses

A lonely foghorn keeps me awake most of the night—or maybe it’s just plain fear. I should never have called home before trying to sleep. No answer from Marty (is he avoiding me?) and Mom sounded small and far away, although she wished me luck. She was clueless about the Sox game. I could call Tony, but Mom warned me that international minutes cost a fortune.

Still, it must be some sort of good omen that we’re playing the
Rays
and driving with a nice guy named
Ray
. Right?

The thick fog and clammy air give me a good excuse to wear Dad’s Sox jacket. I phone the whale watch number and listen to another cheery recording. “Weather forecasts predict the fog will burn off. Come at eleven for today’s tour. We’ll catch the high tide. See you then.” Blanding’s voice is hearty, like some cliché of a ship captain. I hate him already. What the hell was I thinking?

We crawl along the road to Freeport, huddled in Ray’s car. “Thank goodness you’re driving,” Aunt Cora says. I agree. It’s like some Halloween party where you grope through a cloud machine. Now and then, we spot wisps of green beside the road, or a set of headlights coming the other way. Ray puts on his flashers and pulls into a turnout. “Roll down your windows,” he says.

Wild, muffled barking echoes in the distance. “Seals,” Ray says. “Too bad you can’t see—it’s beautiful here on a good day. You guys all right?”

Cora nods. I can’t answer.

*

The fog lifts a little when we reach a small ferry at Tiverton. The three of us lean against the railing as the boat chugs across the channel. “We’re headed to Long Island now,” Ray says. “Ironic for me; that’s where I grew up. Long Island, New York, that is.”

“Did you ever want to go back?” Cora asks.

“Always,” Ray says. “It was tough. My parents are gone now. I have a wonderful family, a good job. Canada’s been good to me, but I miss home—and New York’s energy.” He nudges my elbow. “And Shea.”

I force a smile. “I told you—we don’t discuss the Mets.”

“Sorry. A bad time for jokes.” Ray squeezes my shoulder.

As we climb back into the car, I try to imagine crossing the border, never returning to Boston, leaving everyone behind—even the Sox. Now I realize, when Dad left the country, he gave up that fabulous moment when you stride up the concrete ramp at Fenway and see that beautiful expanse of green grass. No more singing “Sweet Caroline” with thousands of rabid fans, or jumping to your feet, your heart in your throat, as you will a fly ball to leave the park and empty the bases.

Was Pop right? Should Dad have stayed, done his duty, ‘faced the music,’ as Pop says?

But what if he’d gone and been killed? Or come back with PTSD, like the guys Dad treated in his practice? Maybe I wouldn’t even be here.

I squint into the fog and think about last night’s conversation. If they had a draft now—would I go to Iraq, fight another war no one wants?

Too many questions.

*

Long Island doesn’t live up to its name. We reach the little town of Freeport in a few minutes and pull up in a parking lot beside a restaurant. The village perches on a bluff above a ferry dock. Fishing boats are moored along a second dock. I peer at the vague outline of the shore across the channel. “Doesn’t look like the fog has ‘lifted.’”

Ray stretches. “I’m guessing the
Little Blue
might be on that far dock—shall we wander over?”

“I’ll go.” I zip up Dad’s Sox jacket, pat my pockets to make sure I have everything, and glance at my aunt. Her face is a mask under her wide-brimmed hat. Acting skills help in tough situations. “What’s the worst that could happen?” I ask. Ray and Aunt Cora glance at each other. “Never mind. Don’t answer.” I poke a thumb toward the restaurant. “Smells like fresh bread. Have a coffee. Get a table by the window. I’ll wave if I need help.”

I take off down the hill as if I know what I’m doing, and saunter out onto the dock. The uneven planking rattles under my feet. Boats bob and dip below me but I can’t read their names without leaning over the edge. The first few boats look like the scallop boats I saw in Digby, with tall masts, radar, and nets piled up on their decks. Three motorboats, moored on the far side of the dock, are luxurious stinkpots; pleasure boats with lounge chairs, TVs, and computer screens.

I stand there, feeling stupid, when fiddle music jangles behind me, the kind that drives Mom crazy. “It’s all just deedle-ee-dee, deedle-ee-dee,” Mom says. I can take it or leave it. Some is a little too bouncy for my taste. But this isn’t a recording, because the fiddle stops, repeats a phrase, starts up again. The tune is familiar, maybe something Dad had on a Natalie MacMaster album—or that fiddler from Chicago: Liz Carroll? Dad took me to one of her concerts. The tune lures me to the bow of the boat.

A girl is perched on the gunwale, playing a jig—at least I think it’s a jig. Isn’t that what Dad told me—heavy on the first beat? The fiddler’s short hair is dyed a bright orange, and she wears a tight tank top that shows off decent boobs. Maybe her fiddling keeps her warm. The girl’s foot bounces like crazy and her bow jumps across the strings.

When the tune ends, I clap. She cranes her neck and squints up at me. “Who’s there?”

I give her a small wave. “Sorry; didn’t mean to spook you. Sounds great.”

“That was ‘Rakes of Kildare’ and ‘Lark in the Morning,’ some jigs I’m learning. I’ll never play them like Natalie does.”

Natalie MacMaster
and
a jig: I was right about both. “You live here?” I ask.

“For now. I’m supposed to be swabbing the decks, getting ready for the next outing, but I haven’t played in a few days. My fingers were itchy.”

I squat to see her better. She’s got multiple piercings in both ears and a small tattoo on one bicep. “This your boat?”

“Nope. I’m crewing on her now.” She cocks her head like a bird. “Do I know you?”