We didn’t talk as the boat zipped around Race Point and into deeper waters. Sal’s boat didn’t have much in the way of navigational equipment, or so it seemed to my anxious gaze. How would we find our way back? Just do a one-eighty? Like a lot of Cape Codders, I rarely went out to sea. That was for fishermen and tourists, not something that ever crossed my mind to do.
As the boat skipped across the choppy waves, I began to know why. If I fell overboard, would I be able to swim to shore? How cold was the water? Were there sharks underneath us? What about giant squid? As we crossed the wake of a bigger vessel, popping over the swells, my stomach rolled, and I clutched the seat.
“Isn’t this the best?” Joe called, the wind whipping his hair around his face.
“You bet!” I chirped, clenching my jaw against the bile that surged upward. Look at the horizon, I instructed myself. My stomach lurched again, making me grateful I hadn’t eaten breakfast. I breathed through my mouth and looked around the boat for flotation devices.
After about an hour, we stopped, and Joe scrabbled about.
“Ready to fish?” he asked.
“Oh,” I murmured, envisioning the effect of bait on my unsettled stomach. “Hey, let’s just sit for a minute and look around.” The boat rocked vigorously. Was this really safe? Normal? Tripod and Joe did not appear worried. Joe came over and wrapped his strong arms around me. He felt solid and warm and safe, and my seasickness released its grip somewhat.
“Lie down, Tripod,” Joe commanded, and his dog obeyed instantly. “You okay?” Joe asked me, kissing my hair. I smiled.
“I’m great.”
The only sounds were the wind and the waves slapping at the sides of the boat. “You know what?” Joe asked.
“What?”
“This is the longest I ever dated anybody.”
“Really?” I answered, remembering to sound surprised.
“It’s the truth.” He kissed my neck, and my heart swelled. I couldn’t be wrong about Joe. We would be perfect together soon enough. Soon, that hidden, heroic side of Joe would emerge once more, and I’d know that I had been right all those years. Pretty soon he’d be saying the L word, buying a ring, and we would be perfectly happy together.
“What about you, Millie? Ever been serious with anybody?”
“Well…” I pretended to muse. The truth of my dating history would never pass my lips, not in front of Joe Carpenter, at any rate. “No, I guess not really serious. Being in medical school and residency and all that…”
“Right.” He didn’t say any else about our relationship, and I decided not to push for more tender words. We were quiet for another minute, as Joe seemed to have exhausted his curiosity about my love life, and then I asked a question my stalking had been unable to answer.
“Joe, how did Tripod lose his leg?” At the mention of his name, Tripod wagged his tail vigorously.
“Oh, that.” Joe stood up and started rummaging in one of the coolers. “Well,” he smiled sheepishly, “I hit him.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I know. It was pretty bad. He was a stray, roaming around, eating trash and all that. I was driving home, and I guess I wasn’t paying attention, had a couple of beers and all, and I just…hit him. Took him to the vet and felt so guilty that I adopted him.” Another sheepish grin.
“Joe! You can’t drink and drive! You could kill someone.”
“I know,” he said, then he began baiting the hook with a small fish. I tasted bile and looked away.
“That’s how Sam’s parents were killed, you know,” I said harshly. The memory of Sam, bent in grief at his parents’ funeral, punched me in the heart. I had cried myself sick that weekend, and I’d barely known them.
“Really?” Joe’s eyebrows raised.
“Yes! Don’t you remember? We were in high school, and Sam had just come back from Notre Dame…. It was on the news and everything, Joe. Half the town went to their funeral.”
Joe obviously didn’t remember. Still, he nodded. “That sucks,” he said.
“It more than sucks, Joe!” I snapped.
“Okay, okay, Millie. You can relax, okay?” He grinned, and I looked away. “Millie,” he continued in a more serious voice, “don’t worry. I learned my lesson. Okay? Forgive me?”
Let it go, Millie. Don’t ruin this day. It was a long time ago, anyway. I took a deep breath and looked at the endless blue sea. “Just don’t ever do it again, okay?”
“Of course not. Like I said, I learned my lesson.” He squeezed my hand, and my anxiety melted a little. I managed to smile at him, and he kissed the tip of my nose. “Here you go,” Joe said. He cast into the water and spun out the line, then handed me the pole.
We didn’t say anything else for a long time, just watched the water, the breeze ruffling our hair, the waves slapping the side of the boat.
“I can’t think of a better way to spend the day,” Joe said. “Being out on the water with my honey.” He turned and gave me the full power of his green eyes and gorgeous smile, and whatever concern was in my heart melted. Honey. He called me honey. I was Joe’s honey. Even if he had done stupid things in the past, he called me honey.
For the next hour or so, I commanded myself to have fun, to enjoy this lovely day with Joe. Unfortunately, I was undeniably seasick, and of course, I’d forgotten sunscreen. Though it had been cloudy when we’d started out, it was sunny on the water. Joe didn’t have sunscreen (it would be so unmanly!), but he found a foul-smelling Red Sox cap, which I dubiously donned, hoping I looked gamine but fearing otherwise.
We trolled around aimlessly, catching nothing. I had only been fishing a handful of times with my dad and had no interest in actually reeling in a cold, flopping creature. Occasionally Joe would check to see if the bait was still attached, then toss the lines back into the frothy wake, where they were carried out to the mysterious depths. I tried not to stand because each time I did, I staggered drunkenly, nearly falling on my backside.
“Joe, how deep is the water out here?”
“Oh, hell, I don’t know.”
“What if we fell overboard?” I asked. “Are there any life vests?”
“We’re not going to fall in, silly Millie,” he said, playfully pulling the brim of my cap down over my face. “Even if you did, I’d jump in and save you.”
“Thank you, kind sir. But where are the life vests?”
“Oh, they’re here somewhere. Maybe under those seats.” He suddenly looked up ahead at the horizon, then leaped to kill our motor.
“What is it? A tidal wave?” I asked, going to stand next to him, grabbing the waistband of his jeans for safety.
“Shh.”
Tripod began to growl. “Shit, Joe,” I whispered. “What is it?”The answer revealed itself as a plume of water exploded into the air. I let out a scream and held onto Joe for dear life.
Not fifty feet from our boat, a whale surfaced. We glimpsed its huge, glistening, barnacled back and massive tail as it dove again. To our left, another whale crested with a spray of water and air. Tripod barked excitedly, the fur on his back standing on end as he hopped onto the seat.
“Let’s get out of here!” I yelled, tugging at Joe’s shirt. “Come on!”
“Millie, settle down! Look! It’s great!” There was a great splash of water just in front of us as one of the whales slapped its tail. We were so close that droplets of water tickled our faces.
“Joe, they’re going to tip us over! Please!” Tears of panic pricked my eyes.
“They’re not going to capsize us. Just watch.” Joe laughed at the display, ignoring my distress. Barking, Tripod jumped onto the bow of the boat.
“Joe, Tripod’s going to fall in! Get him! Tripod!”
“Get off, Tripod. And Millie, calm down.” Tripod obeyed. I didn’t.
We were surrounded by whales, how many I had no clue. Every time I saw a spout of water or heard that whoosh of air, I thought of Moby Dick ramming the Pequod. Damn my English professor for making me read that book! We were in the middle of the freaking Atlantic Ocean, and I didn’t even have a life vest on! Huge mammals surrounded us, any one of whom could easily overturn our stupid little boat. Tripod would drown. I would drown. Joe would undoubtedly be rescued by mermaids seduced by his beauty.
When a whale actually breached into the air and slapped down, rocking our boat with its power, I began to cry.
“Oh, hey, come on, Millie,” Joe said. “We’re safe. Don’t cry.”
“Joe,” I sobbed, shaking, “I really want to go home.”
“Oh. All right. Okay, we’ll go.”
Finally, he started up the motor, and with a last regretful glance at the whale pod, he turned the boat around. “Too bad,” he couldn’t help saying.
Shaking, I sat down and clutched the seat, still crying. Damn Joe! Couldn’t he see that I was terrified? Why did he have to wait until they were practically jumping on top of us to leave?
“You okay?” he called, glancing back at me as he steered us.
Go screw yourself, I thought, wiping my eyes with my arm. He did something at the controls, then came back to sit next to me.
“Aw, Millie, don’t cry. Come on. Wasn’t that great?”
“No, Joe, it wasn’t! That was terrifying!”
“They weren’t going to hurt us.”
“How do you know? Are you a marine biologist? A cetacean expert? We’re just in this tiny little boat…”
“Okay, Millie, calm down. It’s all right. The big bad whales are way behind us now.”
“Oh, screw you,” I said, giving him a halfhearted shove. He smiled back. “You’re an ass,” I added.
“You’re cute when you’re mad,” he said.
“I’m also seasick.”
“Very cute.”
“Not when I’m puking.”
“I guess I’ll have to wait and see.”
Oh, damn. That smile could end wars.
“I’m sorry,” he said, tucking some hair behind my ears.
“Hmmf,” I said, pouting.
“I’ll take you to my house when we get home,” he cajoled. “I know you’ve been wanting to see it. I’ll even cook you dinner. Okay? Don’t be mad anymore, Millie.”
How could I resist? I couldn’t.
BACK ON LAND, I STARTED to feel better. We drove down Route 6, not talking much. I wanted to stop home and shower, feeling sweaty and salty, but curiosity about Joe’s house outweighed my need for cleanliness. Digger would be fine, as I’d asked Danny to swing by and let him out for me.
We trundled down Joe’s washed-out little lane, locust and bayberry branches scraping along the sides of the truck. At last we pulled into Joe’s sandy driveway. As soon as we stopped, Tripod jumped neatly out Joe’s window and disappeared into the yard. Joe turned to me, fiddling with his keys.
“Millie, I know you didn’t exactly love it out there on the water, but I had a great time with you today. You were a really good sport.”
I melted. Warmth began at my toes and flowed upward, suffusing me with love. “Oh, Joe, I had a good time, too. Being with you, I mean.”
“Good.” He slid across the seat and kissed me, long and slow and hot. The boy could definitely kiss. On trembling legs, I got out of the truck.
Of course, I’d seen Joe’s house from the outside, but I had to pretend I hadn’t. I exclaimed over the funky shape of the house—not quite a Cape, not a ranch, not a farmhouse—as I followed Joe up the path to the back door.
“Now I wasn’t exactly expecting you, so it might be a little messy,” he warned me. “But I’m glad you’re here.” Another kiss. His hands wandered down my back, and more heat threaded through me. I had a feeling that our sex life was about to go from mediocre to unbelievable in about half an hour, and it would be about time.
He opened the door and let me in. The blood drained from my face.
Might be a little messy. A little messy. The words echoed in my head.
The large room I surveyed was under construction. Most of it was framed out, but not in a new, expectant way. In a way that said, “A few years ago, somebody started doing this to me, but I don’t know what happened.” The wooden studs were grayish-brown, not the creamy-blond of new lumber. Pink insulation sagged wearily between them, defeated. The floor, at least the part that could be seen, consisted of warped sheets of old plywood. A stained, bluish-gray square of carpeting, edges curling and frayed, covered the living-room area. From a liver-colored couch with a tear in the back drifted a very unpleasant damp, moldy smell. I forced myself to close my gaping mouth.
“I still have a lot of work to do,” Joe explained, tossing his keys on a…table? No, a giant wooden spool, the kind that holds cable or wire, a big, rough thing lurking before the couch. It was covered with two pizza boxes, a couple of beer bottles and old newspapers. Oblivious to my horror, Joe wandered into the kitchen, a crude area containing a fridge, stove covered in dirty pots, and a huge black plastic trash barrel filled to the brim. Two sawhorses supported another sheet of plywood. The kitchen table, I presumed. It was covered with a half-dozen cereal boxes and some cans, as Joe apparently had no cupboards. A bare lightbulb swayed from a thick wire in the middle of the room. Perched precariously on a stack of crumbling Sheetrock sat an enormous, early-model microwave.
“I don’t have too much time to work on it, but it’s getting there. Little by little. You want a beer or anything?”