Elizabeth Hand - Generation Loss

“It’s a respectable old hippie name. He’s not rude, really—”

“Oh yeah? He just picked up my book and—”

“Well, he didn’t hurt it now, did he?” Toby’s voice was low and calming. I imagined he’d be good with fractious children or dogs. “That’s just what he does. He’s a rare book dealer. What about you? You a friend of Aphrodite?”

“Not a friend, exactly. I’m seeing her on business. Assuming I ever do see her.”

He looked surprised, then said, “Well, okay. We’ll get you out to the island. Don’t worry.” He finished his beer. “What’s your name?”

“Cass Neary.”

“Right. Well, Cass Neary, I’m off too. Got to get up at the crack of dawn. Nice meeting you.”

He nodded and left.

I paid my bill then went back outside. Three beers and two shots of whiskey did a lot to neutralize the cold. Gryffin was nowhere in sight. I walked down to the granite pier and looked out across the harbor. I could hear the creak of boats rocking, the thin rustle of wind in the evergreens. The northern sky arched overhead, moon so bright I could read the names of the lobster boats: Ellie Day, Aranbega II, Miss Behave.

Somewhere out there was Paswegas; somewhere beyond that a hundred other islands unknown to me, unnamed. I heard a low thrum, turned to see the running lights of a small boat cruising slowly along the shoreline. A green light on one side, red on the other, like mismatched eyes.

Our gaze changes all that it falls upon .

I stood and watched it move through the darkness. Did people here fish at night? Did they ride around in their boats for fun, looking for frozen lobsters?

My eyes teared, from cold and strain. I rubbed them and looked out again.

The running lights were gone, the outboard’s thrum silent. Nothing else had changed.

I drove back to the Lighthouse. I went slowly; I’d had a lot to drink, and the road wound perilously between woods and steep hills where the shoulder fell off into sheer rock that slanted down toward the sea. Then it was woods again. Even driving slowly, the car seemed to lunge through the forest. Trees momentarily shrank from its passage then loomed back into place. I gazed into the rearview mirror, entranced. It was a spooky effect but also hypnotic. I looked back at the road in front of me again.

A black form stood in the middle of the tarmac. I swerved to avoid hitting it, swerved again so I wouldn’t plow into the trees.

A deer , I thought, my heart pounding, and brought the car to a crawl. But it wasn’t a deer.

It was Mackenzie Libby. She had been walking toward Burnt Harbor, but now she turned to stare at my car, her baggy pants flapping like wings, her face a white crescent in the folds of a hooded sweatshirt. Her eyes caught the red glare of my taillights and glowed like an animal’s. Her mouth opened. She yelled something I couldn’t hear. It wasn’t an angry sound, more questioning or pleading. Then my car rounded another curve and she was gone.

Stupid fucking kid! I thought, but at least the encounter had woken me up. I drove the rest of the way without passing another car, or person, and reached the Lighthouse ten minutes later.

I wanted to be nowhere near Gryffin. I considered asking Merrill Libby for another room, but that seemed a little paranoid, even for me. Plus the office lights were off. I hopped out of the car and ran across the empty lot. I entered my room on tiptoe, locked the door and drew the curtains, then angled the room’s single chair beneath the doorknob. Security didn’t seem a high priority at the Lighthouse—there was no deadbolt, only a flimsy-looking chain.

And, of course, no telephone. But my choices were limited to staying there or sleeping in my car. I’d probably freeze to death if I did that. So I made sure the heat was cranked as high as it would go and got ready for bed.

It was only when I switched the light off that I realized there was no clock in the room and, natch, I had no travel alarm.

I checked my watch. It was just after nine. The last time I’d turned in that early I was ten years old. At least I’d get a good night’s sleep and wake in plenty of time to meet Everett. I lay in bed, listening to the plastic crackle every time I moved, half expecting to hear a knock at my door or on the few inches of sheetrock that separated me from Gryffin. But there was only the sound of wind, and mice scrabbling in the ceiling.

The alcohol had done its job. I was drunk and exhausted. But I couldn’t sleep. I kept listening for the sound of a car pulling up outside. The thought of Gryffin in the next room wouldn’t leave me, like that sick rush when someone else’s pain lingers like the aftertaste of blood. It wasn’t even him I was thinking of, but the photograph of him, that unguarded, reckless eruption of joy on the face of a total stranger.

I switched the light back on and fumbled for the copy of Deceptio Visus , took out the photo and stared at it.

A happy man at a party. Sun, bougainvillea, and a champagne flute. That was all.

Our gaze changes all that it falls upon .

I looked around the motel room. Nothing had changed here in forty years. I slid the photograph back into the book and turned out the light. At some point I fell asleep; I at some later point woke, to the noise of car wheels on gravel just outside my room. I lay there listening to a car door opening and closing, and then as the door to the next room slammed shut.

I held my breath. Would he be able to tell I’d been in there? For a few minutes I listened as someone moved around on the other side of the flimsy wall. There was the sound of a flushing toilet and, finally, silence. I huddled beneath the blankets, telling myself that my anxiety was meaningless, that nothing was different, and that at any rate by the morning I would be gone. Only the last of these was true.

I woke with a blistering headache, reached for my watch then sat bolt upright.

Seven-ten. I was supposed to meet Everett at six.

I stumbled out of bed and pulled on my boots—I’d slept in my clothes—grabbed my bag and ran out to the car, my boots sliding on a sheen of ice. Sunlight streamed across icy puddles; the grass glittered with frost. The Volvo that had been in front of Room 1 was gone.

The door to my car was iced shut. I scraped at it with my room key until I could finally pull it open. Inside, I jammed on the defroster and started backing up without waiting for the windshield to clear. I pulled over by the office, ran inside, tossed my room key onto the desk then raced back to my car. As I started to drive off I saw Merrill Libby yank open the office door.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Did you—”

“I can’t,” I yelled back. “I’m late—”

He stumbled down the steps as I roared off, his face bright red. Maybe he was mad I didn’t stay for coffee.

The road was slick. I drove as fast as I dared until I got stuck behind a schoolbus. By the time I reached Burnt Harbor, it was seven-thirty. I drove to the waterfront and hopped out of the car.

I saw no one. A few pickup trucks were lined up at dockside. Gulls circled above the water, keening loudly. The lobster boats were gone.

I shaded my eyes and looked across the harbor. I could see the islands clearly now, bathed in morning light. The nearest one was a slaty blue, its jagged headland softened by golden mist. A small white shape churned toward it from the harbor’s mouth.

I hoped that wasn’t my ride. I turned and headed for the Good Tern.

It was more crowded than it had been the night before. A different waitress hurried between tables and gave me a brusque nod. “One?”

“I’m looking for Everett Moss.” I scanned the room, trying to figure out which burly man in a Carhart jacket and gimme cap might be the harbormaster. “Is he here?”