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Authors: Lewis Robinson
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The highway toward the state beaches to the south was a wide smooth road built for Boston-style traffic, though it was often deserted. Someone in the state government had severely miscalculated and there it was, not far from the island, this superhighway. Back then, it felt as though the Littlefields were the only ones who used it. They were headed to Cape Fred for one of their regular visits to the back shore. During the ride Coach was keeping the kids updated on the story the
Press Herald
had been tracking, about a serial house thief whose ritualized break-ins up north were becoming big news. Bennie still remembered this clearly: the paper called the guy the Somerset Marauder. Most of what he stole (jewelry, cash, antiques) he sent to the Christian Scientists in Portland—to their headquarters, the First Church of Christ, Scientist. This was what Coach loved about the Marauder most of all—Coach wasn’t a Christian Scientist himself, but he liked the idea of a group of people who renounced doctors and medicine. It was all part of his ongoing battle with his wife, who was a therapist and who believed in such things. She took his teasings well. He deserved a swift kick to the crotch, but she was respectful in holding her line. Even though the First Church of Christ, Scientist in Portland was publicly rejecting these gifts, Coach was cheering the thief’s efforts. It was a good rivalry. Eleanor was primarily concerned with making sure the story wasn’t scaring the kids—Gwen especially. Gwen may have been a wiseass, but she was prone to nightmares. A wiseass with a delicate heart.
Without turning around, Coach said, “You read the paper thismorning? He’s still out there.” The ice crystals on the window beside Bennie were curved white ferns, and through them he caught glimpses of the plowed snowbanks beside the road. They were driving through the tundra; everything in the world was dead or sleeping. Bennie looked up and caught Coach’s eyes in the rearview mirror as he said, “You hear me?”
Bennie didn’t respond, not right away, but Coach could see him smiling.
“ ‘Out there’? What do you mean, ‘out there’?” said Littlefield. “Those guys on Deer Isle—didn’t they get him?”
“Well, they screwed up,” said Coach. “He’s loose. They lost track of him.”
Littlefield coughed out a laugh.
“You think this is funny?” asked Gwen. “This guy’s going to get us.”
“He won’t
get
us,” said Littlefield. “He doesn’t
get
people. The worst he could do is steal our shit. That’s what he does—he’s a thief.” Littlefield had recently gotten his driver’s license, but when they traveled as a family, Coach always drove.
“Oh, he’ll get us, all right,” said Coach. “And he’ll send the proceeds to Portland.” He put his blinker on a quarter-mile from the exit, and when they finally turned off the highway, he glided to a stop at the end of the ramp.
“Stop that, William,” said Eleanor. “Stop that right now.”
That year had been a good one for Gwen and Littlefield and Bennie, biathlon-wise—they were interested in the training (not just to appease Coach) and they were becoming proficient skiers and even better target shooters. Gwen and Bennie were tall for fourteen—Bennie was still shorter than his twin sister by a few inches, then—and despite their awkwardness, Coach was making minor adjustments (pole placement, ski kick, wax, breathing) to help them put it all together. Littlefield, at sixteen, with strong legs, was starting to win races.
Coach went on, “They were taking him to the police, those guyswho found him—they were clammers, and they were looking for attention. They made a big deal about how they’d caught the guy, but then they got into some kind of accident,” he said. “I think they panicked. They didn’t report it until they were sure they couldn’t find him.”
“Clammers,” said Littlefield, cracking his knuckles.
The highway toward the state beaches to the south was a wide smooth road built for Boston-style traffic, though it was often deserted. Someone in the state government had severely miscalculated and there it was, not far from the island, this superhighway. Back then, it felt as though the Littlefields were the only ones who used it. They were headed to Cape Fred for one of their regular visits to the back shore. During the ride Coach was keeping the kids updated on the story the
Press Herald
had been tracking, about a serial house thief whose ritualized break-ins up north were becoming big news. Bennie still remembered this clearly: the paper called the guy the Somerset Marauder. Most of what he stole (jewelry, cash, antiques) he sent to the Christian Scientists in Portland—to their headquarters, the First Church of Christ, Scientist. This was what Coach loved about the Marauder most of all—Coach wasn’t a Christian Scientist himself, but he liked the idea of a group of people who renounced doctors and medicine. It was all part of his ongoing battle with his wife, who was a therapist and who believed in such things. She took his teasings well. He deserved a swift kick to the crotch, but she was respectful in holding her line. Even though the First Church of Christ, Scientist in Portland was publicly rejecting these gifts, Coach was cheering the thief’s efforts. It was a good rivalry. Eleanor was primarily concerned with making sure the story wasn’t scaring the kids—Gwen especially. Gwen may have been a wiseass, but she was prone to nightmares. A wiseass with a delicate heart.
Without turning around, Coach said, “You read the paper thismorning? He’s still out there.” The ice crystals on the window beside Bennie were curved white ferns, and through them he caught glimpses of the plowed snowbanks beside the road. They were driving through the tundra; everything in the world was dead or sleeping. Bennie looked up and caught Coach’s eyes in the rearview mirror as he said, “You hear me?”
Bennie didn’t respond, not right away, but Coach could see him smiling.
“ ‘Out there’? What do you mean, ‘out there’?” said Littlefield. “Those guys on Deer Isle—didn’t they get him?”
“Well, they screwed up,” said Coach. “He’s loose. They lost track of him.”
Littlefield coughed out a laugh.
“You think this is funny?” asked Gwen. “This guy’s going to get us.”
“He won’t
get
us,” said Littlefield. “He doesn’t
get
people. The worst he could do is steal our shit. That’s what he does—he’s a thief.” Littlefield had recently gotten his driver’s license, but when they traveled as a family, Coach always drove.
“Oh, he’ll get us, all right,” said Coach. “And he’ll send the proceeds to Portland.” He put his blinker on a quarter-mile from the exit, and when they finally turned off the highway, he glided to a stop at the end of the ramp.
“Stop that, William,” said Eleanor. “Stop that right now.”
That year had been a good one for Gwen and Littlefield and Bennie, biathlon-wise—they were interested in the training (not just to appease Coach) and they were becoming proficient skiers and even better target shooters. Gwen and Bennie were tall for fourteen—Bennie was still shorter than his twin sister by a few inches, then—and despite their awkwardness, Coach was making minor adjustments (pole placement, ski kick, wax, breathing) to help them put it all together. Littlefield, at sixteen, with strong legs, was starting to win races.
Coach went on, “They were taking him to the police, those guyswho found him—they were clammers, and they were looking for attention. They made a big deal about how they’d caught the guy, but then they got into some kind of accident,” he said. “I think they panicked. They didn’t report it until they were sure they couldn’t find him.”
“Clammers,” said Littlefield, cracking his knuckles.
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