Chapter 17
Mary and Carl stumbled into the Hungry Shark Tavern. As the door slammed behind them, loud voices and deep-throated laughter replaced the sound of the howling wind and angry surf. Although Mary had toweled herself off in the news van, water dripped off her pants, jacket, and hair, leaving a puddle by her feet. All morning, she’d been reporting in a torrential downpour and seventy-five-mile-per-hour wind gusts from the same seawall where Liz had stood in that awful video. Being there made Mary wonder what Liz was doing today. She couldn’t help but think that wherever she was, Liz was miserable and drinking too much, obsessing over giving up her career in news.
The worst part of Mary’s assignment was still to come. She had to file a report by the ocean at high tide, which was two hours away. Carl had suggested ducking into the pub to kill time.
“There are two seats at the bar,” he said, pointing.
The overhead lights did little to illuminate the pub, and Mary had a hard time seeing across the room to the empty stools. Carl strode off, pushing his way through the crowd. She trailed behind, trying to keep up with his long strides. As they approached the bar, the smell of fried clams and onion rings wafted through the air. Mary’s mouth watered. She hadn’t had anything to eat since wolfing down a granola bar on the way to work.
“Two Sam Summers,” Carl said to the bartender as he climbed onto a stool.
Mary shook her head. “We can’t drink. We’re working.”
Carl rolled his eyes. “Two Sam Summers,” he repeated.
“Actually, I’ll have lemonade.” She couldn’t risk getting buzzed. She needed her wits about her because her story had to be better than Kimberly’s.
“You’re such a fuddy-duddy,” Carl said. “You sure you’re Gen Z and not a boomer?”
“I’m Gen X,” Mary said. “The forgotten generation.”
“Really? You’re the same generation as me?”
Mary nodded, and it was if the movement of her head jarred her memory. In this do-over version of life, she was born in the late 1990s, not 1960s. She smiled at Carl. “Just seeing if you’re paying attention.”
The bartender returned with their drinks. Mary banged her glass against Carl’s bottle. “Cheers.”
“What’s your story, Mary Mulligan—or is it Mary Amato?”
Hearing Carl say her real last name, Mary sat up straighter. She didn’t want to think about the world she’d left behind and who she had been. As she pictured Dean and Kendra, her throat tightened. She missed them. When Kendra was younger, the three of them used to go to the beach in this town. She could almost feel the weight of four-year-old Kendra’s hand in hers as they stood in ankle-deep water, almost hear her squeal as Dean lifted her to his shoulders and walked out deeper.
“Seriously, how did you get your name wrong? Who does that?” Carl stared at her as if he knew her secret. “And why would you claim to be part of Generation X?”
He’d never let her forget that she’d gotten her name wrong. Why would he? The mistake was impossible to explain. “I was kidding.” Cool air from the air-conditioning blew down on Mary. She shivered, wishing she had dry clothes to change into.
“You weren’t kidding. Something’s off with you.” He took a pull of his beer.
She wanted to tell him what had happened when she’d had her wisdom teeth removed. She needed to talk to someone about it other than Darbi, who’d already advised her not to think about what had happened and just live. In the last version of Mary’s life, she and Carl had been friendly. Maybe they could be friends in this life too. Next to her, Carl peeled the label off his bottle. Mary tried to imagine him reacting to her confession. What kind of drugs are you on? That was exactly what he’d say, and he’d tease her about it, tell everyone at the station too. She claimed to have aged backward thirty years when she got her wisdom teeth out. If Mitchell found out, he’d never consider her for the promotion. No, she couldn’t tell Carl. He wasn’t the free-spirited young man she’d remembered. He’d aged into a curmudgeon. She sipped through the straw the bartender had placed in her drink. The feel of the soggy paper on her lips gave her the heebie-jeebies. “This is disgusting.”
“Should have had a beer,” Carl said.
“Not the drink, the straw.” Mary pulled it from her glass. “Whatever happened to good ole plastic straws?”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Carl said. “No one your age thinks that way. They’re all too busy trying to save the environment, prevent global warming.”
Mary shifted on her stool. She had to get back to her old life before she gave herself away.
The bartender approached. “You good here?”
“Can we see a menu?” Carl asked.
“We’re supposed to be working.” Kimberly probably hadn’t stopped for lunch. No doubt she was working on a great story right now.
Carl looked at his watch. “We have plenty of time to eat.”
Mary glanced around the room. The crowd stood shoulder to shoulder, laughing and guzzling down alcohol, apparently unbothered by the nor’easter barreling down on them. “We need to interview some of these people. Get their thoughts on the storm,” she said.
“We will. After we eat.”
She ordered a lobster roll and sweet potato fries, something Dean would have ordered if he’d been here. Carl watched her gobble them down, not touching his fish and chips.
“What are you staring at?” she asked.
“At the Scooper Bowl, you barely had a spoonful of ice cream. I thought you were one of those women in our industry who doesn’t eat because you don’t want to ruin your figure. But watching you inhale your lunch, I see I was wrong.”
Mary took another bite into the toasted buttery roll. It was true. She didn’t worry about her weight. Not in this version of her life. She knew from the last time she was in her twenties that she could eat whatever she wanted without packing on pounds, at least until she turned thirty. Besides, she didn’t plan to be here much longer, so these were all free calories. Still, Carl’s words offended her. The television station would never allow an overweight woman to appear on camera but had no issue giving airtime to portly men. Aaron, the sports anchor, had to be creeping up on three hundred pounds.
“I’m eating because I’m hungry,” she said. “But for your information, women in my line of work lose their jobs if they ‘ruin their figures.’” She used air quotes around the last three words.
Carl smirked and cut off a large piece of his fish. He lifted his fork to his lips. “I’m not getting into this with you.” He slid the fork in his mouth and turned his head to chew.
They ate in silence. When they finished, Carl ran out to the news van for his camera. When he returned, he and Mary wandered around the bar looking for someone to interview. A man with a deeply wrinkled, sunburned face approached Mary. “You’re that reporter from Channel 77,” he said. “Mary Mulligan.”
She nodded, unfazed by the recognition now. “I am.”
“Eric O’Brien. I watch you all the time. You’re good. My favorite.”
Well, being someone’s favorite was something new. Mary elbowed Carl, who rolled his eyes. “We’re looking for people to go on camera and talk about the storm,” he said.
“I’m a fisherman. Couldn’t go out today.”
“Can I interview you?” Mary asked.
“Sure,” Eric said.
Carl pointed the camera at Mary. “On three,” he said. “One, two, three.”
“We’re at the Hungry Shark Tavern in Scituate, talking to Eric O’Brien, a deep-sea fisherman who’s forced to stay on land today because of the weather.” Mary shouted over the noise in the bar. “Are you enjoying the unexpected day off?”
“Not really,” Eric said. “I’d rather be out on my boat making money, but me and the guys are making the most of it.” He jerked his beer mug in the direction of a group of men in the corner laughing.
A man in a postal uniform sat alone at a table a few feet from them. His back was toward her, so Mary couldn’t see his face, but something about the way his right shoulder rested slightly higher than his left seemed familiar. She couldn’t pull her eyes away from him.
“Mulligan,” Carl said.
Mary swung her head back toward Eric. “How much do you think the storm is costing you?”
Eric frowned. “A couple of grand for sure.”
From the corner of her eye, Mary saw the mailman stand. He turned and stepped in her direction. She blinked hard, not believing what she saw. The man looked like a down-on-his-luck version of James, at least in the dim light. Her eyes locked on the US postal logo on his shirt. A shiver ran down her spine. Years ago in her other life, James had worn a shirt just like that one as they sat at the top of the steps at the Framingham apartment, drinking Captain and Cokes at the end of the workday. No, no, no, James can’t still be a mailman. He’s a famous musician.
The man who looked like James had almost reached the door. Mary had to talk to him. Make sure he wasn’t James. She raced after him.
“Mulligan!” Carl shouted. “Where are you going? You’re in the middle of an interview.”
She continued to rush across the room, pushing through groups of people. Just before the James look-alike pushed the door open, Mary reached out and grabbed his arm.
He whirled around toward her. “Do you need something?” he asked, impatient.
His skin didn’t glow the way her James’s did. His eyes didn’t sparkle, and his voice had no hint of amusement, but this man had to be James, a version of him that had never been bedazzled, as her James claimed to be.
“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in LA?”
The man tilted his head. “Never once been to LA. You’re confusing me with someone else.”
She wasn’t, though. She knew exactly who he was. The bar suddenly seemed too loud, the room too cold, the smell of fried seafood nauseating. “You look like an old friend of mine.” She waited for him to say her friend must be a good-looking son of a gun because that’s what her James would say.
This James folded his arms across his chest. “Poor guy.”
There was no amusement in his voice. He meant it. Mary swallowed the lump in her throat, wondering what had happened to him in this version of his life to take away his sparkle. She thought of Liz getting pummeled by waves. What have I done?
With the camera still on his shoulder, Carl bulldozed his way between Mary and James. “You can’t just walk away in the middle of an interview.”
People standing by stopped to look at them. The last thing Mary needed right now was to be scolded by her cameraman. James was standing in front of her, his life nothing like it was in the real world, and she had a sick feeling she was to blame.
James stared at the logo on Carl’s camera. “You’re with Channel 77?”
Mary nodded. “Mary Mulligan.” She paused, waiting for him to give a sign that he recognized her name. He didn’t. “I’m covering the storm. Can I ask you a few questions for my story?”
“I don’t know.” He stepped away from the door toward her. “I have to get back to work, and I really don’t have anything interesting to say.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Let’s start with your name?” She crossed her fingers. Say Mike, Tom, or Bill, anything but James. Please, let her James still be singing his heart out to sold-out electrified crowds.
“James Morisette.”
She had known this man was her James, but hearing him confirm it deflated her the same way she’d been deflated in her early twenties when her James had informed her that the girl who danced with Bruce Springsteen in the “Dancing in the Dark” video was Courteney Cox, an actress planted in the audience, not a random fan he’d pulled up onstage. It was one of the reasons she’d never warmed to Monica on Friends .
“Mulligan,” Carl said. “Do you have a question for the mailman?”
“Did the storm interfere with your job today?” she asked.
“The rain and wind made it challenging, but I got it done,” James said. “You know what they say about the US Postal Service delivering mail in rain, sleet, or snow.”
“Can you tell me about any specific challenges?”
“There was a tree down on Hibiscus Lane blocking the road. I parked the mail truck and walked the rest of the way with my mailbag.”
“Nicely done.” Mary smiled, happy he was committed to his job but wondering where his commitment to music had gone. She had to find out if he still sang.
By now, aware of the camera, a large crowd had gathered around them.
“What do you do when you’re not delivering mail?”
James scratched his head. “What do you mean?”
“Do you have any hobbies?”
Behind her, Carl sighed.
“I read a lot. Mysteries and thrillers,” James said.
“You read books?” Her James wouldn’t be able to sit still long enough to finish a novel.
This James shifted his weight from one leg to the other. His ears turned red. “I listen to them on my route, but maybe you shouldn’t put that on the news.”
“I can edit it out,” Mary said.
Carl stepped forward. “We have enough.”
Mary waved him off. “Do you sing? Play the guitar?”
James crossed his arms. “Why would you ask that?”
She glanced up at the lobster traps and buoys hanging from the ceiling, hoping for inspiration. “My friend who you look like does.”
“I used to in another life, but not anymore.”
In another life. He didn’t mean the phrase literally, but still it hit so close to home that it knocked the wind out of Mary. Her eyes fell to the floor as she tried to collect herself. Please let him still be a singer in his other life. “I bet you were good.”
James shrugged.
“Let me hear you sing something.” There had to be some showboating left in this version of him.
Carl cleared his throat. “What are you doing? We’re supposed to be covering the storm, not filming America’s Got Talent .”
Mary addressed the crowd watching the interview. “Do you want to hear him sing?”
“Sing, sing, sing,” they all chanted, except for one guy who slurred, “Hell no.”
The first time she’d ever heard him, James was singing Rod Stewart’s “Maggie May.” His voice had drifted out his open window to the patio in the backyard, where she sat reading The Firm .
She’d clapped when James finished, and he’d stuck his head out the window. “I didn’t know you were out there.”
“You were wonderful,” she’d said. “You should go to open mic at the Skunk.”
James had scrunched his nose. “I’m much too good for that dump.”
“Well, no one’s going to hear you singing in your apartment,” she’d said.
Two weeks later, he agreed to go with her to the Skunk, and he took down the place.
Now in this pub, she said, “I bet you do a mean Rod Stewart.”
His cheek twitched. “I’m not sure about this.”
Mary could tell by the way he threw back his shoulders and stood a little bit taller that he wanted to sing. She belted out the first line of “Maggie May.”
James winced just like her James did whenever Mary version 1 sang. “Girl, you know nothing about carrying a tune.”
Finally, he sounded like the man she knew and loved. She beamed at him. “Show me how it’s done.”
Carl mumbled under his breath.
James broke out into song. At first, his voice was soft, but as all the other sounds in the pub faded and more people crowded around him, his confidence increased and his voice grew stronger. When he finished, the entire place was on their feet clapping. Even Carl and the man who had screamed “Hell no” nodded in approval.
James high-fived Mary.
“That’s definitely going on air,” she said, thinking she could get him a little recognition for his velvet voice in this weird world.