Adrift

Chapter 9 Peggy

The morning is mild. A lone heron standing near the water’s edge ignores us, living her life how she sees fit. I see her brilliant plumage with my own two eyes. Her pronounced beak. When I watch her I know my mind remains, in part at least, my own.

Mr. Turner’s boat is still directly behind ours and I love it and loathe it at the same time.

Skylark is a handsome two-bed houseboat painted royal blue, and he keeps his ropes neat and ordered.

Having a close neighbor is a glorious thing.

A friendly face if we ever need help. I have not really experienced that since we married.

Mom’s neighbors all loved her, and they were welcoming and kind to us, bringing over loaf cakes, condolence cards, and they tried to give Drew a casserole when I had my appendix removed, but he refused to answer the door.

He told me it was us against the world. It is not even Jeff Turner who disturbs him so much as his little Jack Russell terrier, Amber.

If there is a night where Drew fails to put his words down, like last night for instance, he looks as if the devil has taken him.

“Can I have lunch money, Dad?”

Drew stares at me and ignores his own son.

“Dad?”

“You never told him, did you?” says Drew.

“I thought you said you were going to.”

“Can’t rely on you for anything.”

“Sammy, love,” I say. “It’s just that…”

He cuts me off. “There’s no school lunches for a while, Samson. We’re streamlining. Your mother will make you up a brown bag, won’t hurt you.”

“Ham or cheese?” I ask.

“Cheese,” mutters Sammy.

I give him two rounds of cheese sandwiches all wrapped up in foil. “Don’t eat it all on the bus.”

He smiles. “As if I would.”

Sammy leaves, his Walkman bulging in his pocket, his headphones atop his perfect red hair.

“You treat him too soft he’ll turn into a girl, you watch.”

“What he’s turning into is a fine young man. He’s shot up, have you seen? Growth spurt. He’ll need new pants before we know it.”

“Incorrect. Boy hasn’t grown an inch since we moved to the boat.”

“I think he has.”

“What you think,” he says, “is of little consequence, that head of yours. What you think, indeed. What I know, more like.”

Amber starts to bark on Mr. Turner’s boat.

“If that bitch don’t shut its mouth…”

I hand him his packed lunch.

“Ham?”

“Ham.”

“Two slices?”

I nod.

“Last time you gave me one with nothing inside it. You forgot the ham, Peggy. How’s a man supposed to work on bread alone? I’ll be back before you tonight, so I’ll hang on to both sets of keys again. You ready?”

We step off the boat together and he locks the heavy steel and wood doors.

“Might walk you back from the library. Mind who you’re talking to up there. I don’t want you chatting with any electricians; we’ve had enough of that for a lifetime. Keep to yourself.”

I could shoot him. Scream an inch from his face. Poison his damn sandwiches. When have I ever given him cause to doubt my loyalty?

“Have a good day.”

“No chitchat.”

He walks south toward the salvage yard and I head north to catch my bus.

When I arrive in the library Mrs. Appleby has a mischievous look on her face. I have never seen her like this.

“What is it?”

She holds up a white envelope.

I take it from her and glance at the name of the publisher.

“You think?” she says, her eyes wide and sparkling.

“I’ve had rejections like this before. No, it wouldn’t be…”

“Open it quick and find out,” she says. “I’ve got to tidy photography and self-help.”

I put my bag down and slide a finger to open it. Then I stop halfway along.

My ring’s missing.

“What’s wrong, Peggy?”

My silver ring.

Gone.

“Nothing,” I say, my voice cracking. “I just remembered something, that’s all.”

How could I lose my ring? What is wrong with me?

I unfold the letter.

“Well?”

I swallow hard and read on.

“It’s a publishing deal, isn’t it? An offer? I knew it, Peggy.”

“Nothing like that. But they do want to read the rest of the book. I sent them the first three chapters, with the letter. They would like to see the rest.”

Last year, during a coffee break, Mrs. Appleby told me how she had wanted to be a singer when she was younger.

She comes from a musical family outside Nashville and she took classes and had some paid work in her twenties, backing singer stuff, but she knew it would never be a proper career.

She said she was happy she gave it a chance, but the moment she decided to stop singing professionally she felt a heavy weight lift off her shoulders.

Perhaps it will be the same for me.

“Well,” she says. “That’s positive news, right?”

I look up at her. “It’s… unexpected.”

“Well,” she says, straightening her collar. “I sure expected it.”

“Andrew’s a better writer than me. And he’s not had a single request like this in all our years together. He’s been doing this much longer, he has his award, but nothing like this.”

“Maybe he’s not so much better than you after all. Send them the whole manuscript and who knows, eh?”

“Not sure I can print it off here, though, Mrs. Appleby. It’s another two hundred and something pages.”

She sucks air through her teeth.

I look down.

She pulls a paper tissue from her sleeve and dabs at her fuchsia lipstick and says, “Don’t tell the others, Peggy, not a word.”

I print the pages and then, at the end of my lunch break, instead of writing, I run down to the post office and join the line, only to discover I can’t afford stamps for such a heavy package.

I walk out of there slowly, dejected, hot, people staring at me.

I could ask Mrs. Appleby but she has already done so much.

I cannot mention it to Drew; it would push him over the edge.

He does not even know I am writing, never mind looking for a publisher.

Does Samson have a few dollars hidden away?

No, I couldn’t. In the end I walk around in circles, running out of time, sweating in my coat.

The air is chill but the longer I’m out the dirtier the envelope looks and I worry the corners of the papers inside are starting to curl.

And then I notice the sign. Five minutes later I run out of Kerrigan’s Pawnshop clutching the money.

I will go back and retrieve it soon, I will find the money somehow, and if Drew asks where Mom’s gold necklace is I will tell him I left it in my library locker.

No line in the post office this time. I hand over the money and they count it.

I watch the package go. These professionals actually want to read the whole thing?

All those pages? They will send back a polite rejection, I know they will, but nothing ventured nothing gained, that’s what Mom used to say.

I arrive back home in the dark and the doors are unlocked but Drew is out. I find Sammy lying face down on his dinette bed screaming into a pillow.

“What’s all this, love?”

He stops screaming, lifts his head, and looks at me.

“Mom.”

“What are you angry at? Your father?”

He shakes his head. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes look sore.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” he says, desperately, trying to compose himself. “Nothing. School stuff. Algebra, I guess. I hate it.”

“But you’re good at math. Listen, you need your education, Sam. This new school is a blessing. You know how many kids around here would kill for this chance? I know it can be tough, I never liked math much either at your age, but it’s important. It’s your ticket.”

“I know it is.”

“You want to hear a secret?”

He sits up straight and wipes his nose on his sleeve. “Sure.”

“Publisher in New York of all places, just a small one, pretty much a family operation in Manhattan, but they put out some really good anthologies and short stories and…”

He frowns.

“They’ve asked to read my book.”

He rubs his eyes. “You’ve written a whole book?”

“Finished it a few weeks back.”

Just saying that out loud fills me with warmth, with pride.

He steps over and hugs me so tight I squeak.

“Well done, Mom.”

“I mean, it’s probably trash, but it’s something, isn’t it? Best thing that’s happened to me for a while. Don’t tell your father just yet, though. No need to bother him with it. Have to wait for the right time.”

“What’s your book about?”

“Oh, it’s difficult to say. Love story, I suppose. Set in Appalachia, in a mining town in the fifties. It’s sad in places, at least I think it is. I cried writing parts of it. Mrs. Appleby had to come over and check I was all right.”

“Same place might publish Dad’s stories as well, you never know. He’s got five ready to go.”

“When your father is published,” I say, lifting an eyelash from his freckle-covered cheek. “It’ll be a literary event, mark my words. Whoever puts that book out will have a major award-winner on their hands. Your dad’s writing is pure poetry. It is sublime. Puts mine to shame.”

Drew walks in.

“Women’s Liberation meeting?”

“I’ve got a school field trip, Dad. Beaver Island. For geography class.”

Drew grimaces at him. “You been crying, boy?”

“No.”

“How much is it?”

Samson tells him.

“Not likely. You want to go away on vacation you get yourself a paid job in the factory. You think we’re made of money?”

“I’m fourteen, Dad. I can’t work in a factory.”

“I did, never hurt me. Worked in a factory on weekends. Worked on a chicken farm all summer. You think you’re special?”

“I’m at school.”

“Holidays to an island at your age, whatever next.”

“It’s a field trip.”

We separate to complete our own chores. I cook SpaghettiOs.

We drink milk and have tinned peaches and heavy cream after.

Samson starts his assignment and Drew rereads A Farewell to Arms by the fire.

At eight o’clock he announces he is going to smooth things over with Jeff Turner, take him a peace offering.

My stomach is uneasy at the thought of it.

This is not like Drew. We watch as he steps off the boat with a bottle of Jim Beam under his arm—the same bottle we have had in our kitchen pantry this past year, in the bungalow and then on the boat—the one his foreman gifted him last Christmas.

Drew is not much of a drinker, not like his father.

The atmosphere on the boat lightens in his absence.

Samson runs over to the radio, a basic car stereo embedded into mahogany veneer, and we dance together to Van Halen.

We laugh and jump and cheer each other on.

Ten minutes later Sammy’s stripped to his pajama pants and the volume’s on high: Madonna, then Bon Jovi, the Cure, Erasure.

I am sweating, crying with laughter, and the boat is starting to sway.

“You trying to embarrass me?”

Sammy pulls on his pajama shirt.

“How was Mr. Turner?” I ask, switching off the music, straightening my hair.

“Prancing around like two whores in a bar. Samson Jenkins, what do you call that?”

“We were just playing, Dad.”

“Dancing like that on my boat. I’ll not stand for it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Did Mr. Turner like the whiskey?” I ask, catching my breath.

“He’s drinking right now, seems to like it well enough. I stayed with him for a single. Reckon he’ll shut his dog up after this. Peggy?”

I nod.

“You been at those eyebrows again?”

“I plucked them this morning.”

“You overdid it, girl.” He looks stern. Dead serious. “There’s not much left. Go easy next time, eh? You look like a cancer patient.”

I bite down on my tongue. Because I loathe him criticizing any minor change I make to my appearance—the length of my fingernails, the way I pin up my hair—but also because he shaves every single hair on his body, eyebrows included, and I have never uttered a word about it.

The next morning I wake with an uneasy feeling, as if someone has moved the furniture around when I was asleep. I hear Drew in the bathroom.

I swing my legs out of bed.

Something catches my eye.

No, that doesn’t make any sense. We didn’t do anything last night.

There is a condom, tied, used, sitting in the trash.