The Wreck Page 7

  What time was it? He remembered looking through a magazine on wreck diving, sipping whiskey. Then? That was it, he must have fallen asleep.

  Nate looked at the clock on the wall above his workbench and it said 9:00. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept in that late. He grabbed the bottle of whiskey and placed it back on top of the fridge and headed out of the garage.

  A breezy morning greeted him as he moved toward the house. The Jeep was gone from the driveway. Probably best considering how he had not come back in the house last night. Would she be mad? He’d apologize as soon as he saw her.

  Nate entered the kitchen and saw that there was a fresh pot of coffee brewed. He grabbed a mug from the cupboard and then noticed the piece of paper next to the coffee pot as he filled his cup. It was a note from Brooke letting him know that she was at the store and that there was a message for him on the answering machine. Nate looked over at the machine and saw that there was 1 message. The ‘1’ was not blinking so Brooke had listened to at least some of the message. Nate pushed play. The message was received at 8:02 A.M.

  HI, NATE. THIS IS LUCILLE HAWTHORNE. ABNER CAME BY THIS MORNING AND WANTED ME TO CALL AND LET YOU KNOW THAT HE’D LIKE YOU TO COME OUT THIS MORNING WHEN YOU’RE UP. HE SAID TO BRING YOUR BATHING SUIT. HOPE TO SEE YOU. BYE.

  Nate took a gulp of coffee and went to the bedroom. In the closet, he grabbed his leather rucksack—a rarity because he had bought it brand-new and paid full price—and put on a clean t-shirt, shorts, and hiking boots. He put his swimsuit and a towel in the bag and donned his Detroit Tigers baseball cap. In the kitchen he filled a thermos with ice water and placed it in his backpack. He began munching on a snack bar as he left the house. The bike ride to Hutch’s would substitute for his morning run.

  As he wheeled the bike to the end of the driveway he wondered if he should go back and wear the safety helmet that Brooke had made him buy but decided if it was his time to go while riding a bike on the shoulder of US-23, then a helmet would make little difference. Maybe it would, but he’d survived almost three decades of riding his bike in Hampstead without a helmet. He realized that he had forgotten to leave a note for Brooke. No problem, she would check the answering machine if she hadn’t listened to the whole message the first time.

  ✽✽✽

  Bike rides with his father had lasted forever when he was a child. The turnaround point on their route was a hill that led up to the highway from the road that they lived on. For most of the summer, Nate could not make it to the top. At first, his father would stop next to him and together they would walk their bikes to the top, enjoying the fast ride down—coasting for blocks with their feet out to the side. Later, however, his father would not stop to wait for Nate. He would shout words of encouragement over his shoulder as his legs pumped up and down propelling his bike to the top.

  Nate would try to stay with him but wasn’t strong enough to keep going. A few times he cried. His father would always patiently wait at the top, and they would then fly down together. One day, his father was pleasantly surprised when he reached the top of the hill and found Nate a few bike lengths behind, eyes wide open, little grunts of exertion coming out as he made a final push. He ended in his father’s arms.

  The ride down the hill and the cool iced tea waiting for them had never been better. Recently, he had driven by the house. The hill was hardly a mountain anymore, and it was less than half-a-mile from the house.

  ✽✽✽

  The tire tracks from his bike ride the day before were still visible in the loose dirt as Nate rode through the woods. Lucille hadn’t been outside when he had entered the clearing, so he had pressed on to the trail that led to Hutch’s.

  The path continually veered to the right. The hills were challenging as he pedaled fast downhill letting the momentum carry him as far up the next rise as possible until he had to pump for the remainder. Nate eased around another tight curve to the right and at the bottom of the hill, saw the loose sand open up into Hutch’s front yard. The ride seemed to take less time than yesterday.

  Hutch was on the porch with a book in his hand as Nate brought the bike to a stop and leaned it against the wooden post at the edge of the clearing.

  “Mornin’,” Nate said. He walked up the slope to Hutch’s porch and removed the backpack. His shirt stuck to his back.

  “Mornin’ was a few hours ago,” said Hutch. “When do you cottage folk get up?”

  Nate pulled the thermos from his backpack and drank. He was thirsty and it gave him time to think of a response.

  Hutch started again. “Thermos, huh? At least there’s somebody else in this world who hasn’t succumbed to buying goddamn bottled water.”

  Nate swallowed and recapped the thermos. “Tap water and ice cubes from the tray in my freezer haven’t killed me yet,” he said.

  Hutch couldn’t hide his smile, but quickly recovered. “Amen,” said Hutch. “C’mon up here and have a seat.”

  Nate took a seat next to Hutch. Hutch had a beer in his hand.

  “What did you find?” Nate said.

  “It’s more about what I didn’t find.”

  14

  Brooke arrived home at half-past noon. She had been to Family Video (Netflix had yet to run it out of business), a department store, the post office to pick up their withheld mail and arrange to have it start coming to their mailbox again, and finally the grocery store to get the things she had missed yesterday.

  Brooke shut the door to the Jeep and peered around. Her husband was nowhere to be seen. He should have been back from his run already. Was he still asleep in the garage? She stopped and opened the door. Everything was where it had been, but there was no Nate and his bike was gone. She shut the door and headed indoors. Since she had left him a message earlier explaining where she was, maybe he had left one inside the house for her.

  She set her sacks down on the kitchen table and looked around for a note but only found the one she had left for him. With his bike gone, there was little possibility that he was inside, but she called his name and checked each room anyway—to no avail. She retuned and put the groceries away, then, she remembered the message on the answering machine. She played the entire recording this time.

  At least now she had a good idea where Nate might be. However, not knowing when he would be back and the disappointment of not making love last night had her feeling edgy. She remembered trying to stay up when he went to the garage, but hadn’t made it long. Today and tomorrow were still in the window, so instead of exerting negative energy wondering when he would be home, she poured a glass of iced tea and sank into the couch with her book. The sun hid behind a cloud and the room went gray. A box fan was pointed at her, making the condensation drops on the outside of her glass shiver. She tried to get back into the book, but the fan felt good and her thoughts turned to an early night in their relationship a few years ago.

  ✽✽✽

  It was October and their house sat quietly, surrounded by a forest of trees with their leaves in full color. Nate had cut the lawn, now a thick carpet of green, and the last rays of sunlight were fading into the purple sky. They had returned from taking a walk in the woods and were sitting on the back deck drinking hot apple cider.

  “I thought we handled the situation well,” Nate said.

  He was referring to the stupid fight they had had earlier over him not showing much appreciation for the gift she had picked up for him yesterday. There was no special occasion, she had been in JC Penny’s picking up a pair of pants for herself when she spotted a polo shirt she thought he would look good in. When she returned home, he was in the closet taking off his shoes, and she handed him the bag. He took the shirt out and held it up to eyeball the fit. After realizing it would work, he said “Thanks,” and put the shirt in the laundry basket.

  “I think we learned a lot about each other,” Brooke said.

  On the walk, they had discussed that next to someone spending quality time with her, she felt love and showed love
through gifts. When Nate asked her why she hadn’t discussed this with him earlier (it could have prevented the argument), she didn’t know why. As they talked it out they agreed that after only being married for six months, they were still adjusting to the communication and compromises that marriage requires.

  “I spoke to my mom about it,” Brooke said.

  Nate took a sip of cider. “What did she have to say?”

  “Typical mom. She dismissed it as me just getting worked up over nothing.”

  Nate laughed.

  “What?” Brooke said.

  “Your mom is a hoot. She can double-barrel you sometimes,” Nate said.

  “Like I said—typical mom,” Brooke said.

  “Did the conversation end there?” Nate said.

  Brooke shook her head. “I tried to change tactics and asked what the secret to her marriage was.”

  “Oh, I can’t wait for this,” said Nate.

  Brooke couldn’t hide her smile. “She said, ‘Oh, he’s just my best friend.’”

  “Now that’s philosophical,” Nate said.

  “Hold on, because she did end up making one good point,” said Brooke.

  “Which was?”

  “She looked at me after I asked her about her marriage and said, ‘You and Nate starting to bump into each other’s edges?’”

  “What did you say to that?” Nate said.

  “I told her that we were,” Brooke said.

  “I guess we don’t know it all yet,” Nate said.

  “Think we ever will?” Brooke said.

  Nate stood up, finished with his cider. “I don’t think anyone ever knows it all. I’m just glad that we have our parents to talk to, because they’ve seen more than we have.”

  “Promise you’ll always be open to talk like we did today,” she said.

  “I promise,” said Nate, “Now, how about going inside and getting the chess board out? I’ve got a big rematch with my father over Thanksgiving.

  “You’re on,” Brooke said.

  Within minutes the board was set up on the kitchen table, the pieces in place, and Nate was back from his pre-game ritual of changing into an old pair of running shoes. “Black or white?” He asked.

  “You can pick,” Brooke said. He chose black.

  Three moves in, Brooke brought out her queen and Nate lost his focus.

  “You never bring your queen out this soon,” Nate said.

  “You want to play or chat?” Brooke asked.

  An hour later, Nate was done, and Brooke was doing her best to hide her own smile by refilling her water glass at the sink. “Want some water?” she asked him.

  “Only if it’s deep enough to drown in,” he said. “Why did I ever suggest we bring out the board? My father is going to destroy me next month.” But he was grinning, and patted her tush as she returned to the table.

  “What now?” she said, setting the game aside.

  The clock on the wall confirmed that the first game of the World Series was starting soon. Besides, it was barely eight o’clock. Still, she knew the answer she wanted. They had made love every night for the past week—minus last night because of the argument—and, according to her, were still on their honeymoon.

  He walked out of the kitchen and sat down on the couch. “How about watching the Series?”

  She followed him and sat on the other end of the couch. “Need a break from me tonight, babe?”

  “How about after the first three innings?” He grinned at her.

  She slid over and fit into his waiting arm. “I can work with that,” she said and kissed his cheek.

  15

  Nate sat in his swimsuit on the gunwale of Queen as Hutch secured the anchor. They were in fifty feet of water directly north and approximately five hundred yards offshore from Big Sanisstey Island.

  Little Sanisstey was five square miles smaller and lay south of its larger sister. The two islands had no more than fifty yards of water separating them. There was a sandbar that nearly ran the coastline in the middle of the canal separating them, and in years when the lake level was down, the sandbar broke the surface of the water giving the canal a Mohawk. The Sanisstey islands had been uninhabited since Sanisstey Light went from having a lightkeeper stationed on the big island with his family, to being an automated light in 1895. In 1930, the light was abandoned due to the construction of a new light nearby, rendering Sanisstey Light unnecessary. The lighthouse still stood along with a ramshackle series of small houses.

  The sun beat down on Nate’s neck and Queen’s varnished teak. The temperature was over 80 degrees and now that the boat was anchored there was no breeze for relief. Sanisstey Light was off the stern as the boat rested in the water.

  “Want a beer?” Hutch asked as he came down from the helm console on the top level.

  Nate nodded yes.

  Hutch hopped down onto the deck and went into the wheelhouse. He emerged with two cans and threw one to Nate.

  “So, you didn’t find anything out about the coin, but you think there is some connection to the Sanisstey Islands?” Nate said, recapping their brief talk at Hutch’s house before they loaded up Queen and left the dock. Hutch hadn’t said much on the ride out, just the information about the islands.

  “Sort of,” Hutch said.

  Nate waited.

  Hutch pulled a packet of papers out from the backpack he had brought aboard and handed them to Nate. “Take a look at these.”

  On the top of one of the pages was the date July 7, 1859. “Looks like some sort of diary,” he said.

  “Wait until you get to the last four pages,” Hutch said.

  By habit, or impatience, Nate flipped to the end. The last page was blank. So was the second and third to last pages.

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Hutch said. “Start at the beginning. Helps you get a feel of the whole thing.”

  Nate started over and read. Hutch disappeared into the wheelhouse and soon sounds of charts being shuffled and cabinets being opened and closed could be heard.

  When Nate reached the fourth to last page, he brought it close to his face and held it steady. The top three-quarters of the page was filled with cursive writing under an entry dated July 28, 1859. Under the writing was a sketch—a sketch of the exact coin that he had found.

  “Look familiar?” Hutch said, entering the stern.

  “It’s my coin,” said Nate. “Whose diary is this?”

  “Have you ever heard that that place is haunted?” Hutch said pointing at the lighthouse.

  “Haunted?”

  “I don’t believe it, but that’s what’s been said.”

  “I’m confused. You told me that you wanted me to come out today because of what you didn’t find,” said Nate, “and why didn’t you show me these papers back at your house?”

  “Because that’s how I work,” Hutch said. “I think more clearly out here than I do back on shore. It’s true; I didn’t find anything out about the mystery owner of your coin, but I’ve got Tyee getting some books for me that might help. They should be here tomorrow.”

  “And the papers?” Nate cut in.

  “From my library. I have various ship logs, records, memoirs, articles, and artifacts from shipwrecks and lighthouses on the Great Lakes. After I gave up on my coin collecting hobby, I became a Great Lakes history nut. I’ve got a network of friends who alert me when somethin’ new is up or been discovered. The papers you’re holding are an example. When Sanisstey Light became automated, all the records were brought ashore. Lighthouses originally fell under the responsibility of the Treasury Department and later the United States Lighthouse Service, so the records were shifted from department to department until the decision was made for lighthouses to be maintained by the U.S. Coast Guard. So, the records for Sanisstey Light eventually ended up in a back room at the old Hampstead Coast Guard Station where they did nothing but collect dust. When the station was shut down a decade ago, a friend of mine discovered these and asked me if I wanted them
because they were going in the trash otherwise. The stuff he brought me is a stack about four feet tall that I have piled in one of the closets in my library. After you left last night, I looked at the rubbing and started thinking that I had seen something similar to it somewhere—maybe it was the fact that I was looking at the rubbing on a piece of paper. Anyways, I started to dig through the stack and around two a.m. I found that drawing.”

  “These are diary entries from a lighthouse keeper on Sanisstey Island?” Nate said.

  “Correct. They’re from the very first keeper,” said Hutch. “The lighthouse was finished in 1858, and the first keeper’s name was Captain Stuart Daniels.”

  “Captain?”

  “Being a lightkeeper was a prestigious profession and much sought-after. When applying, one had a better chance of getting the job if he was a Captain or a war veteran. Of course, having political connections always helped. Hence, Captain Stuart Daniels was hired to keep the Sanisstey Light. Daniels was a recluse though. Had no family and preferred solitude, probably why no one knew something was wrong for awhile.”

  “What do you mean, wrong for awhile?” Nate said.

  “Well, that’s where all of this haunted shit comes in. The original lighthouse settlement on the island was just the tower and the keeper’s house. As you see now,” Hutch pointed again to the lighthouse, “other buildings were built later: a boathouse, workshop, carpenter’s shop, smokehouse, and generator house. In fact, the original keeper’s house was torn down and the boathouse was built in its place. The keeper’s house that was constructed after the old one had been destroyed eventually became a rendezvous for Hampstead high schoolers to come out and screw, suck down liquor, and God knows what else.”

  “Do they still come out here?”

  “Not anymore. It’s been vandalized and graffitied so much over the years that no one bothers. Plus, if kids wanna mess around nowadays, they just do it in their own homes.”