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Authors: Linda Barnes
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the South Shore. Maybe I’d spend most of the night in the Foxy Lady parking lot while Ken threw himself a little solo bachelor party. What would my client think of that?
I kept to the right lane, primed for the Volvo’s exit. We passed Quincy and Braintree. We passed Hingham. Marshfield. Plymouth. Where the hell was the man going? On vacation?
Vacation is what I think of when I cross the Sagamore Bridge over the Cape Cod Canal. Escape. Turning off the clock, turning back the clock to a simpler quieter time. I don’t go to the Cape—or “down the Cape,” as the natives say—in summer; too many tourists. I prefer it in the fall when the weather’s still fine and the ocean warm, preheated by the August sun. There’s a sense of relief on the Cape in the fall, all the summer people with their bustle and desperation gone. Sam and I once rented a cabin in Orleans and never woke before noon.
Mooney and I drove down to interview a witness in Falmouth. We stopped at a clam shack, walked along a white sand beach. I kept my distance, unwilling to be accused of playing up to the boss. Hadn’t done any good; the guys hooted when we returned and I had to take a lot of crap about sunburns.
The bridge shoved us onto Route 6, the Cape Highway, a straight shot to Provincetown, the end of the world.
It was just past ten o’clock. In downtown Boston, the streets would be packed with restaurant-and moviegoers, with fans emptying out of the Garden, long since renamed but never called anything else. Here, traffic was sparse. I slowed down, settled in behind a plumber’s van, and soothed myself with the thought that Route 6 had few exits and those carefully marked.I could lie back a few cars, watch for the silver zigzag to leave the roadway.
The downside: If I missed him, I couldn’t double back on the divided highway. I shifted my butt in the seat, made myself deliberately uncomfortable to keep alert.
He didn’t take the first exit or the second. Not the third. The fourth was the charm, and I was momentarily relieved; I didn’t think my kidneys could make the trip to Provincetown.
Exit 4. Route 149. As a cabbie, I carry a mental map of the Boston area, but it grows sketchier the farther I get from town. The surroundings seemed vaguely familiar. Where had I driven heading south on 149? The old Barnstable Fairgrounds? Yes. The fairgrounds were to the west and Cotuit Bay must be at the end of the dimly lit, narrow two-lane road. Ken must be nearing his destination. No reason to leave Route 6 if he intended to continue east on 28, its southern low-speed parallel. I edged the cab a little closer. Sam and I had visited a restaurant down this way, close to the tiny town of Marstons Mills. Wasn’t there a small rotary, a traffic circus, a place where I might lose the magic taillight?
The Volvo stayed on the main drag, doing a 180 around the small circle before continuing to the south as though the rotary had been nothing but a stop sign. I wondered if there was ever enough traffic to make cars stop and wait at the rotary, whether there would ever be popular demand for a traffic light. Didn’t look like it, with wide open spaces all around.
Much of this part of the Cape is devoted to golf courses, but some of the low flat land is a military reservation. There are small towns dotted here and there, clumps of weather-beaten houses, wildlife sanctuaries.I wondered about Indian reservations. The town of Mashpee is nearby and that’s the center of the Wampanoag tribe, along with Aquinnah on Martha’s Vineyard. The Nausett tribe, smaller than the Wampanoag, shares its name with the small town west of Mashpee. The taillights vanished over a rise and I sped up.
Lighting was minimal, but I didn’t want to risk my brights. Damn. Just as my hand moved off the steering wheel to find them, the wheel wrenched hard to the right and then I was fighting with the cab, hanging on as a loud thump, thump, thump announced trouble and the tires
I kept to the right lane, primed for the Volvo’s exit. We passed Quincy and Braintree. We passed Hingham. Marshfield. Plymouth. Where the hell was the man going? On vacation?
Vacation is what I think of when I cross the Sagamore Bridge over the Cape Cod Canal. Escape. Turning off the clock, turning back the clock to a simpler quieter time. I don’t go to the Cape—or “down the Cape,” as the natives say—in summer; too many tourists. I prefer it in the fall when the weather’s still fine and the ocean warm, preheated by the August sun. There’s a sense of relief on the Cape in the fall, all the summer people with their bustle and desperation gone. Sam and I once rented a cabin in Orleans and never woke before noon.
Mooney and I drove down to interview a witness in Falmouth. We stopped at a clam shack, walked along a white sand beach. I kept my distance, unwilling to be accused of playing up to the boss. Hadn’t done any good; the guys hooted when we returned and I had to take a lot of crap about sunburns.
The bridge shoved us onto Route 6, the Cape Highway, a straight shot to Provincetown, the end of the world.
It was just past ten o’clock. In downtown Boston, the streets would be packed with restaurant-and moviegoers, with fans emptying out of the Garden, long since renamed but never called anything else. Here, traffic was sparse. I slowed down, settled in behind a plumber’s van, and soothed myself with the thought that Route 6 had few exits and those carefully marked.I could lie back a few cars, watch for the silver zigzag to leave the roadway.
The downside: If I missed him, I couldn’t double back on the divided highway. I shifted my butt in the seat, made myself deliberately uncomfortable to keep alert.
He didn’t take the first exit or the second. Not the third. The fourth was the charm, and I was momentarily relieved; I didn’t think my kidneys could make the trip to Provincetown.
Exit 4. Route 149. As a cabbie, I carry a mental map of the Boston area, but it grows sketchier the farther I get from town. The surroundings seemed vaguely familiar. Where had I driven heading south on 149? The old Barnstable Fairgrounds? Yes. The fairgrounds were to the west and Cotuit Bay must be at the end of the dimly lit, narrow two-lane road. Ken must be nearing his destination. No reason to leave Route 6 if he intended to continue east on 28, its southern low-speed parallel. I edged the cab a little closer. Sam and I had visited a restaurant down this way, close to the tiny town of Marstons Mills. Wasn’t there a small rotary, a traffic circus, a place where I might lose the magic taillight?
The Volvo stayed on the main drag, doing a 180 around the small circle before continuing to the south as though the rotary had been nothing but a stop sign. I wondered if there was ever enough traffic to make cars stop and wait at the rotary, whether there would ever be popular demand for a traffic light. Didn’t look like it, with wide open spaces all around.
Much of this part of the Cape is devoted to golf courses, but some of the low flat land is a military reservation. There are small towns dotted here and there, clumps of weather-beaten houses, wildlife sanctuaries.I wondered about Indian reservations. The town of Mashpee is nearby and that’s the center of the Wampanoag tribe, along with Aquinnah on Martha’s Vineyard. The Nausett tribe, smaller than the Wampanoag, shares its name with the small town west of Mashpee. The taillights vanished over a rise and I sped up.
Lighting was minimal, but I didn’t want to risk my brights. Damn. Just as my hand moved off the steering wheel to find them, the wheel wrenched hard to the right and then I was fighting with the cab, hanging on as a loud thump, thump, thump announced trouble and the tires
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