“Thank you.”
“You’re quite good.” He sipped his drink, then laughed at his own remark. “That’s stupid to say. Of course you’re good. You can’t perform at your level without being good.”
“No, that’s nice of you to say.”
“Well, if you are going to be around…” He cleared his throat. “I’d love to show you my new boat.”
“Oh, Theo’s new toy.” Whitney laughed, tossing her head back as she did it, her blond hair cascading down. “He calls it a boat.” She leaned across him to clarify. “What he means is yacht. You’ve got to see it.”
I nodded agreeably, taking a sip of lemon water. Was it wrong to be bored of yachts? I’d been on more than a few. Surrounded by luxury all my life, I guess either I didn’t appreciate it and took it for granted, or I’d just missed the gene that made me crave that kind of thing. The more my last boyfriend had showered me with over-the-top displays of affection, the more I’d wanted a simple “I love you.”
“Ooh, so pretty!” Exclamations arose as white-shirted waiters brought in a six-tier cake. As elaborate as a wedding cake, each layer shimmered in a different summer pastel with candied violets artfully arranged to look as if they’d drifted down and settled along the outer edges. The largest candied violet of them all sat atop the smallest, most delicate tier, lifted above the rest.
“Thank you so much for coming tonight.” My mother rose and said a few words, toasting the group, the summer, and my brief visit on the island before I returned to the stage. Drop the mic. That’s how it was done people. See how expertly she passive-aggressively committed me to return to the career I’d clearly and repeatedly explained that I’d left for good?
“I want the top,” I found myself declaring in a loud, demanding voice I didn’t even know that I had.
Whitney burst out laughing as a member of the waitstaff looked at me, questioning. “You’d like the top? Of the cake?” The waitress pointed to the top tier with the giant violet.
“Ah, yes,” I continued, rising up awkwardly to attempt to help her. I didn’t want to sound like a diva. But, yes, in fact I did want that piece of cake. I was done being the sugary decoration on the top. It was high time that I ate and enjoyed the damn thing myself.
As I sat down with the cake, sugared violet and all, I earned a few giggles and whispers around the table. But somehow my mother’s laser-like glare didn’t burn the cake into cinders. I tucked into it like it was my job, enjoying each and every forkful with gusto.
“Good cake,” Theo commented, and I nodded with my mouth full. Sometimes rebellions started with the blare and blaze of a cannon shot. Other times they began with a forkful of cake. I was new to this, so I had to improvise with what I had on hand.
Whitney watched me like I’d sprouted a second head. “Don’t gnaw your hand off.” She snorted again as I dug into the cake. I smiled instead of throwing the plate at her.
I wasn’t angry with Whitney, or anyone else there, really. If anything I was angry with myself. When I looked around, nothing represented choices I’d made. But whose fault was that? Not Whitney’s. It was on me that I’d spent my whole life on autopilot and only now looked around and wondered what was going on, exactly?
I could barely even remember deciding to become a professional ballerina. I think when I’d been around four or five years old our nanny had taken Margot and me to see “The Nutcracker.” I remembered being transported by it, the lights, the costumes, the magic. I’d loved the escape, fantasy and beauty of the world I glimpsed. That dream had proved so much more seductive than real life. But now here I was at 25, waking up.
After dessert, with a full belly—what a strange feeling—I rose and mingled with the rest of the group, drifting out into the main bar and lounge of the club. I chatted and was chatted to, air-kissed and was air-kissed in return. My mother was happy to show me off, the one child she could. The whole time I had the distinct feeling that I could easily be replaced by a cardboard cutout, a life size Sophie with a stand at the bottom so it could be propped up. No one would notice the difference between that and me. I had the same frozen smile, the same hair nicely done and sprayed in place.
When I got home, I decided, I was going to throw out my hairspray. Every can. For a ballerina, that meant a declaration of war.
In a momentary lull, I saw my chance and took it. I slipped into the shadows and out a French door, to the deck overlooking the ocean. Standing in the darkness, a breeze caressing my skin, the water rushing below, I was alone at last. I’d felt alone inside, surrounded by family and friends. To actually be alone with the company of my thoughts felt infinitely more satisfying.
Stretching out before me, the ocean waves tumbled and churned. I wondered if across the Atlantic my brother Ian might be doing the exact same thing, looking right back at me from the other side. My heart hurt for him. I could still remember him as a boy, so full of mischief, so quick to laugh and cook up a brilliant plan to get us all in trouble. Now he’d shut himself down, walled himself in.
The waves kept crashing, impervious, soothing, washing more memories over me. Those, I fought hard not to have. They were painful, like the ones of my brother Ian smiling, laughing and running on the beach. But they were more personal, more private.
It had been seven years since I’d last seen Liam. I hadn’t heard a word from him during all that time. Even with social media casting its web thick and wide, either he never went online or he and I traveled in such different circles we didn’t share a single connection. It was as if he’d vanished without a trace.
At first I’d held on to mementos of our summer together. I’d slept in his shirt until I couldn’t even imagine I could smell him anymore. I’d read and re-read the little notes he’d given me. But over the years, I’d thrown almost all of it out, frustrated by how much he continued to mean to me. It turned out getting rid of stuff didn’t change that.
The one thing I’d kept was a necklace he’d given me. The first time we’d ever sat out on the beach together, I’d played with a scallop shell. They were all over Naugatuck, a dime a dozen. This one hadn’t been all that remarkable, but it was whole, unbroken, small and white. I kept messing with it nervously while we talked, running my fingers along the rippled edge, tossing it from palm to palm, focusing my attention on it instead of the gorgeous man beside me.
The next time I tossed it from one palm to the next, he’d caught it mid-air. “You don’t have to be nervous talking to me,” he’d assured me. “You can say anything you want. It won’t faze me and I’ll never tell anyone. You can trust me completely.”
He’d kept that shell, preserved it and put it on a chain for me to wear. In time, I’d given him my trust. He’d given me all of his in return. And then I’d broken it.
Hands against the railing, I closed my eyes. Not for the first time that evening I focused on breathing. In and out, in and out. With all my training in dance, I could discipline my body with almost frightening intensity. It was my mind and emotions I had difficult controlling.
Seven years should have made a difference. I shouldn’t still be able to recall our time together as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. I shouldn’t be able to picture the shape of his broad shoulders or the exact shade of his blue eyes. I shouldn’t be able to remember how he smelled and how dizzy-giddy I felt just sitting next to him. That should have faded by now. I was sure it had for him.
Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to return to Naugatuck. I hadn’t set foot on the island in the intervening years. There was always a good excuse. I didn’t even have to go searching for one with the constant whirlwind of rehearsals and performances. But somehow when all the confetti of my life floated down and settled, when I looked around it was Naugatuck to which I wanted to return.
I told myself it wasn’t because of Liam. It couldn’t be. For all I knew, he’d moved. He’d grown up on the island, sure, but people moved all the time. When I’d known him he’d only been 20 years old. The
chances that he’d stayed put through his mid-20s were slim to none.
He could be married. People did that at 27. He could have kids. I forced myself to think these thoughts, inserting them into my mind with an angry determination. Because there was a chance now that I was back that I would run into him. It could be at a farmer’s market. He’d be giving his little boy a piggy-back ride while his beautiful wife chose perfectly ripe strawberries. Or I might see him at the beach with his arms around someone fresh, hopeful, and full of life, like the sun to my shadow. They might be locked in an embrace. I’d see him looking at her the way he used to look at me while I passed by without attracting a moment’s notice.
I tried to ground myself in reality, but standing there in the dark night, the warm summer air mingling with the sea breeze, all I could remember was the way Liam used to look at me. As if I’d opened up a whole new world for him. As if I was a delight, unexpected and rare, a treasure he wanted to hold and cherish for the rest of his life.
“There you are!” Whitney and Theo declared, arm in arm as they sauntered onto the porch. “You naughty thing, sneaking off like that. Get yourself back inside.”
As easy as that, I was led back into the room of people and lights and conversation that meant so much less to me than the memory I left back outside in the night.
2
Liam
Sunlight streamed through the crack at the bottom of my shades. It had to be mid-day. I’d finished my shift at the firehouse six hours ago, come home and crashed. When you worked 24 hours on, 48 hours off, you grabbed sleep when you could. Thankfully, I found I didn’t need a lot of it. A four-hour burst could fuel me for a long time. That came in handy when we had a busy night like we’d had last night.
At one a.m. we’d helped an older man having a stroke. At two thirty a.m. we got the call that a garbage truck had broken a hose and hydraulic fluid was pumping all over the street. Then at four a.m. there’d been an actual fire, a small one started by candles at what looked like quite an interesting house party. As a firefighter, I caught glimpses into the most private aspects of people’s lives. No one planned on having an emergency, and sometimes lives got opened up at the most interesting moments. Most of the guests at this particular get-together had gone by the time we arrived, but the toys they’d been using were still on full display. We found whips, chains, nipple clamps, ball gags and a whole lot more.
The fire out, all danger averted, the guys in my department had laughed and joked like teenagers. Pointing to a toy, one had asked, “How the hell do you use that?”
I’d shaken my head, laughing along and saying nothing. But it wasn’t because I didn’t know the answer to the question. I knew several ways to use that toy, with great success on a willing sub. But that wasn’t for my fire department buddies to know.
I kept my worlds separate. Everyone on Naugatuck knew me as a good guy, a local born and bred on the island, always ready with a smile and a helping hand. The guys I worked with wanted me backing them up on a call, or coming over to their houses for barbeques on days off. Everyone knew that I headed to Boston once a month, and it was true that while visiting I’d see my younger brother Pat and other friends who lived there. No one knew about the rest of it, though, the dark, sexual play at private clubs with cages and dungeons. And that world knew nothing of my other identity. There, I was simply known as “Master.”
Rolling to the side, I checked my phone. I’d missed a couple of texts, one inviting me to a party that night. A girl I’d met a couple nights ago at a bar had gotten in touch. I guess she’d figured out I wasn’t going to track her down so she thought she’d try her luck getting in touch with me. Yawning, I put my phone down and decided to go out for a run.
The day was mostly sunny. Piercing brightness reflected off of dazzling waves punctuated by moments of cloud cover. My head always cleared when I ran, in sync with the rhythm of my feet. Sex and exercise, those were the two best ways I knew of to turn off my brain. Drinking was the third, of course, but that made me feel too much like my dad. I didn’t want to be yet another in a long line of Irish drunks.
Even as I thought it, I could hear my mother telling me not to speak ill of the dead. He’d passed two years ago and, sinner that I was, I mostly felt glad. When he’d died of a massive heart attack, everyone had shared condolences, casseroles and sympathy cards, and he’d left an undeniably gaping hole in our lives and community. No one but my mother, my younger brother and I knew what a rat bastard he could be in private.
The worst he’d ever gone after me was when I was 14. I’d fucked up real bad, stealing a boat with some friends and getting caught out in a storm. We’d all lived, but one of us had been crippled for the rest of his life and somehow, even though it hadn’t been my idea, I’d been the one to blame. I was the one who’d lived on the island my whole life and I should have known better. Even a day like today that smiled down at you with a baby’s innocence could turn in an instant into the devil’s own snarl. That night had left some scars, but mine weren’t from the storm.
I circled around on my run, heading back. A pretty woman ran past me and I smiled at her, making her gait wobble. Breathing in the fresh, bracing ocean air, I reminded myself that there was no sense dwelling on the past. Nothing could change what had happened. All I could do was try to make today as good as possible. I decided to start by checking in on my mother.
“Hey, Mom!” I called out as I sauntered in the front door. Funny how nothing in the house had changed much from childhood. It was just her living there now, what with my father gone and my younger brother Pat in Boston. Good thing I lived close, as in on the same property.
Yes, technically I lived with my mom. Wasn’t that the most unappealing thing a woman could hear a man say? But wait. My family owned two acres of beachfront property on Naugatuck Island, the wealthy, exclusive playground for billionaires. Did that sound better? I also paid monthly rent and utilities and took care of all of the upkeep, big and small, for both properties. And while the main house was up by the road, I lived in a separate cottage with complete privacy down by the ocean. I have to admit, I thought the set up was pretty sweet.
There was no way our family could ever own anything like it if we were actually in the real estate market. A nurse plus a firefighter’s salary would maybe rent an apartment on the outskirts of town. Everyone and their brother had tried to buy from us, and the last guy had offered seven million. But my mom didn’t want to sell and I was fine with that. It was our home and had been in our family for over a hundred years. Neither of us saw any reason to change that.
“You just getting up?” She turned and offered me her cheek for a kiss. She was baking something. I could see why so many people had looked at our family with envy when I was growing up. My father had seemed like a stand-up guy, a firefighter with a big personality always up for a laugh, and my mother had seemed like a saint. They’d been right about her.
“Naw, just went for a run. Can’t you tell how stinky I am?” I raised my arm as if to give her the chance to get a whiff.
“Get out of here! Go shower!” She shooed me away, laughing. “I’ve got my birthday group coming over.”
“Whose birthday is it today?”
“Not today, we celebrate once a month for everyone who has a birthday that month.” I nodded, sneaking a muffin from the cooling rack. “Hey, that’s for the girls.” She caught me and tried to smack me away but I was too fast.
“S’good!” I cupped my hand under my mouth to catch crumbs as I stuffed the whole thing in my mouth. My mother could bake. Heading to the side door, I called over my shoulder, “I’m going to the store. What can I get you?”
“Butter,” she responded, likely having anticipated my question. I tried to get her shopping done for her most days. “Onions—the yellow ones. And some sage if they have it. Fresh.”
“Butter, onions, sage,” I repeated, opening the door. “Got it.”
“Yellow onions!” she called after me. “
Love you!”
I waved, making my way along the path from her house to my cottage. It was good to see her getting so social. She’d maintained a strict public/private split for many years. In the past, the friendly, kind, public woman didn’t have people over too often because she never knew when her husband would turn up a beast in private, knocking over anything in his path with an unquenchable rage. Now she could have over her birthday group without any fear whatsoever.
At home I showered and threw on some clothes, not unlike the ones I’d worn running. I didn’t dress up much. A lot of the men vacationing on Naugatuck wore seersucker in shades of pastel pink and green. I’d even seen some wearing silk scarves like they were in a Polo Ralph Lauren ad. For all I knew they actually were. Whatever. It didn’t matter. I’d learned that our two worlds didn’t mix, not really. Wealthy vacationers and local year-rounders could co-exist and occasionally mingle, partying together and serving each other’s needs in various ways. But really we were oil and water. The sooner people learned that, the better. For me it didn’t happen until I was 20, but then I’d learned it in a big way and I’d never forgotten.
Windows down, tunes blasting, I rolled my way to the grocery store. We had no big-brand chains on our island, just a few small markets, and usually I liked it that way. Except in June, July and August. Then it took five times as long to get anywhere and basically driving at all became impossible. So I forced myself to turn my expectations for transit time way down low and make a phone call. A woman I’d met through a friend was spending the summer working on the island. She’d left me three voice messages and I had yet to return any of them.
“What’s up?” I asked as she picked up on the first ring.