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Authors: Neil Gordon
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be, at the least, amused to have embezzlement added to the charges he did not intend to face. And
by then, she was sure, she’d have found a way to tie up the money so tightly that it would take the government’s accountants months to sort it all out.
She stood now and stretched, feeling—as after each of her forgeries—satisfied. That she had no real intention of keeping the money seemed to remove the risk. Five o’clock on
the wall clock. Time enough to shower, dress, and drive down-island to the Oyster Bar. She crossed to the liquor cabinet, under a small, beautiful still life of wine bottles and flowers, poured a
bourbon, and carried it onto the porch.
The wind had come up, with a faint hint of cold, perhaps of an approaching storm. She lay on her stomach and, chin in hands, looked out at the surf. On a lone rock in the water cormorants
gathered, oily black birds coming in to land for the winter; on shore a herd of huddled gulls watched them sleepily. When she was a child, she thought, the gull had been a beautiful bird of flight
rather than the ill-mooded, cheeky beast that sidled up to picnickers on the beach and settled around garbage cans in town. Perhaps the cormorant would be as common and as little mysterious as the
gull had it, too, learned to live on human waste rather than relying on the dwindling inshore fish population.
And once again not exactly a memory, more a sensation, of Dee Dennis passed across her mind.
As if her consciousness were a cormorant, floating on the surface of the sea before, unexpectedly, plunging underwater, out of sight, and emerging with a tiny, struggling, wriggling piece of
hope.
3.
And while she thought that, Dee Dennis stood at the lead-glass window of the Wright House in Menemsha, staring across the manicured lawn that sloped to the harbor under lowering
clouds: the dry spell, it appeared, was coming to its end. Far out, a ketch-rigged yacht, a reef in, heeled heavily in the blow, reaching for harbor. Seen through the window, a vast silence seemed
to play over the scene, over the sloping lawn to the water and through the low-ceilinged rooms of Sarah Wright’s house in which ticked, tocked, a massive seagoing Breguet, a family
heirloom.
He lifted his eyes to the high sky of running clouds and saw Allison draw away again, her moving body flashing chiaroscuro under the absolute shadow of roadside trees. Then his eyes closed, and
opened, and again he was watching the parched lawn sloping down to the harbor under lowering clouds.
Alley girl. That was what Martha Ohlinger had always called her. He had never been friends with Martha either; they had just been thrown together within that loose group of kids that gathered on
Hancock Beach every summer. Alley girl: wiry thin, tough, quiet. He had never thought even to question her presence, so long had he known her, since his earliest youth: he remembered her in sailing
lessons at the harbor, riding lessons at Scrubby Neck, all the way back to day camp at Chilmark Center.
He hadn’t really thought of her even as female. Until the day they found themselves alone on Hancock Beach at night and she came walking out of the dark, moving water with the light on her
skin, a black Speedo over a golden tan, and she had held his hand to her shivering lips to pull on a joint and a surge had gone through his groin while his heart stopped, stopped, then launched
into a tattoo.
But someone was talking. With effort, his heart batting, Dee Dennis brought his attention to the room around him.
The dry spell, it appeared, was coming to an end. Such, at least, was the general feeling in Sarah Wright’s living room, where Dee and his aunt Mary had come to dine.
Returning to his seat on the couch, Dee rattled ice in his glass and concurred with this popular opinion as it was proffered by some niece of Sarah’s. The niece was wearing riding boots
and smelled vaguely of horse, and as he politely directed his gaze at her, he tried
by then, she was sure, she’d have found a way to tie up the money so tightly that it would take the government’s accountants months to sort it all out.
She stood now and stretched, feeling—as after each of her forgeries—satisfied. That she had no real intention of keeping the money seemed to remove the risk. Five o’clock on
the wall clock. Time enough to shower, dress, and drive down-island to the Oyster Bar. She crossed to the liquor cabinet, under a small, beautiful still life of wine bottles and flowers, poured a
bourbon, and carried it onto the porch.
The wind had come up, with a faint hint of cold, perhaps of an approaching storm. She lay on her stomach and, chin in hands, looked out at the surf. On a lone rock in the water cormorants
gathered, oily black birds coming in to land for the winter; on shore a herd of huddled gulls watched them sleepily. When she was a child, she thought, the gull had been a beautiful bird of flight
rather than the ill-mooded, cheeky beast that sidled up to picnickers on the beach and settled around garbage cans in town. Perhaps the cormorant would be as common and as little mysterious as the
gull had it, too, learned to live on human waste rather than relying on the dwindling inshore fish population.
And once again not exactly a memory, more a sensation, of Dee Dennis passed across her mind.
As if her consciousness were a cormorant, floating on the surface of the sea before, unexpectedly, plunging underwater, out of sight, and emerging with a tiny, struggling, wriggling piece of
hope.
3.
And while she thought that, Dee Dennis stood at the lead-glass window of the Wright House in Menemsha, staring across the manicured lawn that sloped to the harbor under lowering
clouds: the dry spell, it appeared, was coming to its end. Far out, a ketch-rigged yacht, a reef in, heeled heavily in the blow, reaching for harbor. Seen through the window, a vast silence seemed
to play over the scene, over the sloping lawn to the water and through the low-ceilinged rooms of Sarah Wright’s house in which ticked, tocked, a massive seagoing Breguet, a family
heirloom.
He lifted his eyes to the high sky of running clouds and saw Allison draw away again, her moving body flashing chiaroscuro under the absolute shadow of roadside trees. Then his eyes closed, and
opened, and again he was watching the parched lawn sloping down to the harbor under lowering clouds.
Alley girl. That was what Martha Ohlinger had always called her. He had never been friends with Martha either; they had just been thrown together within that loose group of kids that gathered on
Hancock Beach every summer. Alley girl: wiry thin, tough, quiet. He had never thought even to question her presence, so long had he known her, since his earliest youth: he remembered her in sailing
lessons at the harbor, riding lessons at Scrubby Neck, all the way back to day camp at Chilmark Center.
He hadn’t really thought of her even as female. Until the day they found themselves alone on Hancock Beach at night and she came walking out of the dark, moving water with the light on her
skin, a black Speedo over a golden tan, and she had held his hand to her shivering lips to pull on a joint and a surge had gone through his groin while his heart stopped, stopped, then launched
into a tattoo.
But someone was talking. With effort, his heart batting, Dee Dennis brought his attention to the room around him.
The dry spell, it appeared, was coming to an end. Such, at least, was the general feeling in Sarah Wright’s living room, where Dee and his aunt Mary had come to dine.
Returning to his seat on the couch, Dee rattled ice in his glass and concurred with this popular opinion as it was proffered by some niece of Sarah’s. The niece was wearing riding boots
and smelled vaguely of horse, and as he politely directed his gaze at her, he tried
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