The Last Refuge (33 page)

Like most of the houses on Oak Point, Regina’s was a single-story, asbestos-shingled bungalow. There were two ways out, the side and the back. The back of the house faced the driveway, so the choice was a toss up. I looked around for a car and saw something parked between a few of Regina’s overgrown arborvitae, about five feet off the driveway. I got a little closer. Pickup truck. No black BMWs.

I took a chance and approached the pickup. It was empty. I stuffed the bat through my belt, took out the flashlight, leaned up against the front fender of the truck and waited.

The wee hours of an October night on eastern Long Island are dank and quiet. I wondered if standing out there alone made any sense, armed with just a three-quarter baseball bat and a Mag light. I decided it made no sense at all. I thought about calling someone to come over and stand there with me. But I didn’t know anyone well enough to bother at this time of night, except Joe Sullivan, and I didn’t want to do that. He might not mind, but then I’d have to go all the way back to the house, wake him up, listen to his bullshit and nurture his dignity. It seemed like too much work. Better to just risk my life. Simpler that way.

I heard an occasional car out on Noyack Road. I watched a small plane flying overhead, probably headed for the airport in East Hampton. Probably some over-achiever from the city, all tired out from playing hardball with the big boys. Getting ready to curl up in his twenty-thousand-square-foot hideaway by the sea.

A cat had a brief encounter with something in the woods a few doors down from Regina’s. The sound prickled the hairs on the back of my neck. The light inside Regina’s was in the kitchen. I saw a shadow pass in front of the window. Went nicely with the sound of the cat fight. I calmed myself and secured my footing.

The back door opened and a man, medium height and build, stepped out on the back stoop. He wore a short coat, cap and boots and was carrying a large shopping bag. I couldn’t see much else in the low light.

I stepped away from the truck, a few feet from the driver’s side door. I hoped I was completely hidden in shadow.

The guy stopped at the truck door and dug his left hand in his pocket for his keys. I walked up behind him, grabbed his right hand by the wrist, yanked it up behind his back and shoved him into the truck’s left front fender. As I shoved him I twisted him around so his left hand was pinned against the truck body. His breath popped out in a surprised little whoof.

“One wiggle, and I’ll break your arm,” I said into his ear.

“Fuck you, you fucking ass wipe cock-sucking mother fucker,” he said, whipping his head around. A tangled bunch of red hair popped out from under his cap.

“Jimmy Maddox, where
did
you get that mouth?”

“Let go and I’ll show you.”

I let him go and dropped back a few steps, pulling the bat out of my belt.

“You’re a dickhead, mister. You really are. You scared the shit out of me.”

“What’s with the sneaking around?”

“I’m not sneaking.”

“Oh, really. Flashlight in the middle of the night.”

“I’m just here pickin’ up some stuff.” He looked over at the Harmon Killebrew bat. “Whattaya gonna do, club me?”

“Not yet.”

“I’m not doing anything wrong.”

I gestured with the stick.

“What’s in the bag?”

He just looked at me.

“Who the fuck
are
you, anyway? Who made you such a big fucking deal?”

“Step away from the bag.”

Even in the low light, I could see him bunch his shoulders and lean forward, ready to launch. Indecision formed around him like a cloud.

“Don’t do anything dumb, Jimmy. I’m really not in the mood.”

“It’s just some shit from the house. She’s not usin’ it.”

“Why the late hour?”

“I was at my girlfriend’s in the Village. I just stopped on the way back. I don’t have to ask your fucking permission.”

“Well, actually, you do. I’m like the official guardian of Regina’s stuff.”

“You’re more like an official pain in my ass.”

I tapped him with the bat to move him out of the way. He moved a half-step, enough to let me pick up the bag. It was a doubled-up grocery store bag with handles. It was heavy.

“What do you got in here, Regina’s barbells?”

“Fuck you.”

“You should work on the invective, Jimmy. It’s tiresome.”

As I talked I went through the bag. There were two folded towels on top. Underneath was a collection of kitchen utensils—knives, ladles, big spoons—and a pair of cast iron frying pans, which explained all the weight.

“What’s for dinner?”

He stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned up against the truck. He’d decided he was finished talking. But I hadn’t.

“You know, I’ll give you all this stuff, and more, if you just ask. You don’t have to sneak around.”

“I wasn’t sneaking.”

“What’s this? A sentimental journey?”

“Just stuff I need. I didn’t know you could hand it over.”

“You just had to ask.”

“Well, I don’t know about that kind of shit.”

I curled the top of the bag over and stuffed it under my arm.

“It’s all yours, Jimmy, but I’m not gonna give it to you now.”

“Why the fuck not?”

I used the bat to point to my cottage.

“Say, Jimmy, come over to my place and have a drink with me.”

I walked away and left him standing there by his truck. I could hear him snorting and shuffling his feet around in the grass.

“I want my stuff,” he called after me.

I kept walking.

“You’ll get it. Come on and get a pop. Do you good.”

I walked the rest of the way without looking back. The night hadn’t changed much in the last half-hour, but I was a lot more tired out. There’s only so much adrenaline your body can soak up over a normal twenty-four-hour period. I was starting to feel fuzzy with exhaustion. I unlocked the door and was about to push it in when Jimmy came up behind me.

“That’s all you got? Soda pop?”

“Not soda pop. A pop. A drink. I got anything you want. Beer?”

I parked the Harmon Killebrew bat next to the side door and let the scruffy jerk into my house. Eddie greeted him like a long lost friend. Big deal watchdog.

I got Jimmy a beer and showed him out to the porch. I sat him down, then went back to the bedroom to stow the bag. I tossed it on the floor of my closet and dumped my laundry on top. Guys don’t like to touch other guys’ dirty socks. I went back out to the porch, partly refilling the tumbler on the way, like I needed it.

“I didn’t know you could see the water from this place,” Jimmy said when I came out on the porch.

“Sure. The sacred Peconic.”

“I thought it was the Little Peconic.”

“Yeah. That’s right. The little one.”

“I don’t know about religious stuff.”

“How’s the beer.”

“It’s all right.” He took a sip. “Why’re you driving that old Pontiac? Can’t afford a new car?”

“Came with the house.”

“Can’t see driving some old piece of shit like that.”

“That’s ’cause you never drove one. Try it once,” I snapped my fingers, “you never go back.”

“Yeah, bullshit.”

It was clear over the Peconic, and colorless under the brilliant moon. Night was locked in solid. I started to fantasize about pillows and blankets. Jimmy looked all settled in with his beer.

“You’re not gonna give me my shit, are you?”

“Not now. Later. I promise.”

“You’re some kind of strange fucker.”

“Glad you noticed, Jimmy. It usually takes people longer to figure that out.”

He was content to drink his beer and pet Eddie’s head. Every asshole in the world seemed to be a dog lover. I wondered what that said about me.

“Jimmy, do you remember your Aunt Regina’s husband?”

He looked at me blankly.

“What’re you trying to do now?”

“Nothing. I’m just curious about her husband. I’m having trouble remembering him.”

“I can never tell whether you’re bullshitting me or not.” He finished his beer and set it down on the table with more force than necessary. “She didn’t have no husband. Now, tell me you didn’t know that.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“What
do
you know, anyway?”

“Less than I should, I guess. When I was growing up my parents always acted like there was a Mr. Broadhurst.”

“Jesus. You don’t know shit.”

“So, okay, you got me again. Enlighten me.”

“Why should I tell you anything?”

“Aw Christ, Jimmy, give it a break. I gave you a beer. And I’m gonna give you all kinds of stuff from Regina’s house.” I took a sip of the Absolut. “Eventually.”

Jimmy thought about it for a few moments. Anger and defiance are tough habits to break.

“My mom told me she called herself Mrs. Broadhurst because she didn’t want guys hittin’ on her, if you can believe that. A million years ago she had a guy, but it wasn’t her husband. Carl something.”

“Carl? You sure?”

“Yeah. fuckin’ Carl. I never seen him, but my mother’d talk about him.”

“Carl Bollard?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Carl Bollard. Owned that piece of shit factory over there, was what my mom told me. She was wicked pissed about the whole thing, my mom. I don’t know why. fuckin’ women always pissed about everything. You can’t ever figure out why. She was a lot younger than Aunt Regina, even though she died a lot sooner.”

His voice fell away at the end of the sentence. He picked up his empty beer to cover the moment.

“’Nother one?”

“Sure.”

I got it for him. I sat at the table and slid over his beer.

“Carl Junior or Carl Senior?” I asked him.

“Shit, I don’t know. Carl Bollard’s all I know. He didn’t have a wife, just a bunch of girlfriends all over. If he’d been married my mom would’ve disowned Regina, if you can do that to your sister. My mom was into religion. fuckin’ Presbyterian, you’d think she was Catholic the way she went on.”

It did the kid a lot of good to see me surprised, so I saw no harm in digging in deeper.

“Jimmy, you told me Regina didn’t own her house, that it went back to some fucker after she died. Were you talking about Carl Bollard?”

“Yeah, of course. That’s why my mom was so rip shit.”

“Let me get this straight. Are you telling me that wiry old broad was Carl Bollard’s kept woman?”

“That’s not the way my mom would’ve put it. Religious or not.”

I laughed. That ornery, flinty old harpy was Carl Bollard’s honeybee. His mistress—wanton and alluring. And in return, a house of her own? Maybe. Complete with the dubious gift of the Acquillos to look after her, put up with her crap, pull her busted body out of the bathtub and plant her in the ground. For the first time I truly missed my mother. I finally had some news worth telling her.

Jimmy was laughing, too.

“Aunt Regina fuckin’ some old guy for a free house.”

We just sat there and laughed for a long time. It felt good.

When we were done laughing, Maddox left and I fell back on the bed and crawled under the covers, still dressed, tapped out and supine before life’s hallowed irregularities.

The next day I drove over to Sagaponack to look at the ocean. Normally, staring at the Little Peconic helped me think. I needed something bigger this morning to stare at. Something with a horizon that curved off into infinity.

The Atlantic Ocean was looking big and moody, and unconcerned with my fears and compulsions. There was an offshore breeze, so the waves were neatly formed and evenly spaced. The surf was taller than normal, probably from a storm out at sea. I looked for surfers, but saw none. The beach was empty in all directions except for seagulls, sandpipers and dead horseshoe crabs. The sky was big and the wind hard. We were almost past hurricane season, but this time of year almost anything could piss off the Atlantic. It was vast and dangerous and unknowable. I got out of the car and went and sat on the beach to watch the early-hour sun warm the color of the sand and turn the salt water an inky blue.

Billy Weeds and I once went bodysurfing right after a big storm. The day was dry and washed clean by the Canadian air that often swept down to push tropical storms out to sea before they could crash into Long Island. The full weight of the storm missed us, but its energy had thrust up gigantic waves that broke over
sandbars a quarter-mile off the coast. It took us a half-hour to fight through the messy chop close to shore to reach the real action.

We eventually met mountainous swells coated in foam that broke in twenty feet of water, creating impossibly enormous waves that we rode for an hour, heedless and awestruck, oblivious to the risk. We were young, strong and stupid, and I will always remember Billy laughing hysterically at the craziness of it all, and the angry power of the ocean that was too involved with its own majesty to bother drowning us like it should have. When we decided we’d had enough, we tried to swim to shore, but we couldn’t get past the undertow. We kept getting knocked back into the surf. It took another hour to get all the way in, and only because we’d ridden the current all the way to the Shinnecock inlet where the undertow let go.