“After you get past the lee, but not much.”
“The sailing class is out there on something,” she said. The small flock of dinghies was jostling in a tight group, looking like the trim corners snipped from a sheet of white paper. They were at the far side of the thoroughfare, close to the shore of the opposite island, but the voices of the students came distinct across the water. Tom could hear the squeals of teenage girls, a boy shouting, “Nathaniel!” the clunk of two dinghies colliding, and the persistent honk of the instructor’s air horn, and when he abandoned that, some sharp instructions about the mainsail.
“If they can avoid running each other down, they might get somewhere on that starboard tack,” said Libby.
“The wind is a mess; from here it’s coming in from the south, but if they’re on a starboard tack, then out there it’s coming from the west. It’ll only get worse as it gets later.”
“The real drop will happen around five thirty,” Libby said. “Things always calm by cocktails, which gives us a good three hours. I think we should risk it.”
Why? So the two of them could spend half an hour paddling across a glassy thoroughfare while Tom had to yet again defend his position on selling the house. Really he just didn’t want her out on the water for so long.
“No, let’s just go to town and grab the mail. If we try to sail, we’ll just end up rowing back.”
She rolled her eyes, but said she’d grab the mailbox key if he’d pick up the life jackets from the porch steps. He wondered why she was giving up so easily, why she just didn’t go herself, the gaff rig dinghy was easy to handle on her own; really, she could’ve handled the sloop on her own, if they still had it. He worried she would ask about Melissa, though he couldn’t imagine she’d picked up on it. Maybe there was something else on her mind.
He had the Whaler pulled into the float as she came down the ramp.
“I’ll drive,” he said. She shrugged.
Now he was sure that something was wrong. What if she was sick? He couldn’t handle one more death. They had all looked to him as their mother lay in her hospital bed, the switch, not a plug at all, ready to be flipped. No lingering, she had said. Danny had been practically catatonic himself, Gwen had her hands full with him, and Libby had already begun coping with the funeral arrangements, the cleaning out of the Crocker Street apartment. She had a small notebook devoted to all things related to their mother’s death, except this. Who should flip the switch?
He did. They had all paused, and he said, “I’ll do it.” He said it with confidence, a tactic he used often in conferences. So they believed that he could. He knew only that he must, that as the oldest, it was his job to spare the others from the act of killing their mother.
He wanted to cry, to hold Libby to him, no more switches. Not for anyone, not for his baby sister. He had already saved her once; what if he couldn’t do it again? He wanted her to tell him there, standing on the float. He didn’t want to be one step farther from a hospital, from trial therapies and second opinions. But instead he lowered the outboard into the water and started the boat. She sat on the seat just in front of the wheel, leaning back on the small wheel stand.
“Why don’t we toot up Perry’s Creek,” she called over her shoulder, “see if the fornicatoriums are putting in for the night.” Perry’s Creek was a jaunt he loved, a long, deep, narrow cove, good for going fast or for drifting and catching sights of seals.
“Sure,” he replied, totally unsure. He had always seen Libby as fragile. If one of them were to be hurt or sick, it would be her, of that he was positive. He was unsure of her own natural instinct to survive.
They cruised out into the thoroughfare and, in a great arc of wake, turned up Perry’s Creek.
“Slow down, Tom. Look at all the work they’re doing to the Burketts’ house.”
He eased the engine down to a slow putt, and shaded his eyes as he looked at the shore.
“A whole new slate roof. Christ, hate to imagine what that cost,” said Tom.
“But it is gorgeous, and if you can get it on, then it’ll last forever. Like copper gutters.”
“Yeah, if you want to spend your money on gutters, sure.”
“Let’s go up to the creek head,” Libby said.
“We don’t want to miss the post office. I’ve had these letters in my pocket for two days.” Tom hated to be late, or to miss things because he was rushed. He wanted to get things done.
“Come on, Gramps, we’ve got plenty of time.”
But with that long-ago day on his mind, with the memory of Libby’s limp ten-year-old body pressed against him in the water, he felt he needed to give her time to say whatever it was she was going to say. Maybe they’d have time to try all the things they couldn’t for Scarlet.
The water was flat and held just the smallest undulations from their slow progress. Up into the creek the lobster pots all pointed their stems straight up. High tide, just about to turn, and then those stems would swing down and point out to sea. Got to watch those pots closely once the tide turns, especially farther up. Gwen had run this boat aground here before, forced to get out and walk across the flats to the road for a ride. Libby knew better, Libby knew to watch the pots. Fog clung in among the pines, a light blanket tucked within their folds, just forgotten scraps here and there. Few fornicatoriums could come up this far. But when storms came, they tried it, preferring to wreck their boats themselves rather than let the storm do it for them.
“So, Bibs, how are you?”
He was not able to make this sound natural, except maybe to strangers and business partners, people who would never be expected to answer it honestly. They had come to the quiet point of the creek, and she threw out the small anchor and cinched its rope to the cleat on the bow. Tom sat down behind the wheel. She was at the bow, facing him. Bad news in boats. He looked at her, waiting for the conversation to thread toward her health, to twist down some dark path lined with small, malignant stones.
“We need to talk about the house,” she said finally. “It’s pretty clear that you and I are the ones that will bear the financial brunt of keeping it.”
Tom felt the buoyancy of the ocean, the way it repelled the boat. They were riding on the back of Neptune’s hand. He felt the relief of a leeward port, of a homeward wind. She was well.
“Don’t look so excited. I’m not about to give this place up.” She stood up in the bow looking at him. “I think if they had to, G and Dan would step up.”
“You’re kidding? Those two can barely change a tire. Dan can’t even manage to go to class. He tell you about that?”
“Well, he’s committed to keeping the house, so—”
“Gwen didn’t sound so committed the other night,” said Tom.
“I don’t think it would take much convincing.”
“Well, you’re going to have to make one hell of a case to convince me.”