Mark Mills - Amagansett

He climbed into the patrol car, lit a cigarette, and added the name to his memo pad along with that of Richard Wakeley. It was an old habit. Names on a page obliged you to consider connections your mind might normally pass over, like deciphering a crossword anagram by writing the letters in a circle.

Watson and Wakeley side by side. It was an unlikely association, but you never knew, not till the affair had played itself out.

Hollis slowed as he passed the Clinton Academy, but his courage failed him at the last and he drove on down Main Street. Fifty yards along he was given the opportunity to reconsider.

Mary Calder was walking toward the center of town, stepping through the dappled shade cast by the tall elms. He drove past her then swung the wheel, carving a long turn and pulling up at the verge.

‘Maybe I’m mistaken,’ said Mary, ‘but wasn’t that an illegal maneuver?’

‘Was it?’

‘Bylaw 18, I think you’ll find.’

Shit, maybe he’d misjudged their last exchange; there was still no trace of a smile.

‘I’m on official police business,’ he said.

‘Oh?’

‘In pursuit of a suspect.’

She held up her hands in mock surrender. ‘I demand to see my lawyer.’ And there it was—the smile—clutching at his breast.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Home,’ she said. ‘For lunch.’

‘You want a ride?’

She glanced around her. ‘What ever will people say?’

‘You’re right. It’s more than your reputation’s worth.’

She laughed.

‘What?’

‘Well, you obviously know nothing about my reputation.’

True. He didn’t.

‘All right,’ she said suddenly, as if surprised by her decision. She crossed to the other side of the car and climbed into the passenger seat.

‘Where do you live?’

‘Three Mile Harbor Road.’

‘It’ll mean making another illegal maneuver.’

‘Not if you head up Dayton Lane there.’

This time she wasn’t joking.

The house was set some distance back from the road down a cinder track. It was a large, squat two-story farmhouse with a shed-roof extension on the side and two end-wall chimneys jutting from the shingled roof. Behind it stood a barn, dwarfed by an enormous tree with a dark crown. Beyond lay a paddock—a neat square of pasture hacked out of the dense oak woods and enclosed by a white post-and-rail fence.

‘A farm,’ said Hollis, pulling the patrol car to a halt.

‘That’s very observant of you.’

‘So where are all the animals?’

‘Well, there’s a truculent old goose called Eugene, but he takes a nap about now—lucky for you. He doesn’t like strangers.’

‘And your dog?’

She hesitated before replying. ‘She’s with my son. He’s staying with his father.’

Ah, thought Hollis, that is news; two big pieces of news, in fact.

‘Now I’m offended,’ said Mary.

‘How’s that?’

‘You really haven’t checked up on me, have you?’

He had done a bad job of concealing his surprise, and an awkward silence settled around them.

‘Thanks for the ride,’ said Mary, getting out of the car.

Hollis felt bad. He wanted to make amends for his reaction, to tell her that he didn’t care, but he couldn’t find the words.

‘Do you always drive so slow?’ she asked.

It was a fair question. He had meandered through the maze of roads north of Main Street, crawling along, the needle barely nudging fifteen miles an hour. He had asked her about the LVIS summer fair, less than three weeks off now, and she had pattered away indulgently.

‘I was enjoying myself.’ No lie there, he hadn’t wanted it to end, the low hum of the engine, her voice washing around him.

‘Well, if you’re lucky, next time we meet I’ll fill you in on the rummage drive we’ve got planned for September.’

He laughed, relieved that he’d been able to turn the situation around.

She was halfway to the side door when he called after her.

‘Mary.’

She turned back.

‘The times you saw Lillian Wallace down at the beach, was she ever with anyone?’

She weighed the question for a moment. ‘Once. About a month ago. There was a man, a young man, tall, rangy. Why?’

‘Blond?’

‘No. Auburn hair.’

Well, that excluded the brother, Manfred, but it hardly narrowed the field of lanky young men who moved in the elevated circles of the Maidstone Club. Only an hour before he had seen two such specimens at the Wallaces’ house, friends of Gayle.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘It’s nothing,’ he shrugged. ‘Are you going to the funeral?’

‘I think so.’

‘I’ll see you there. Chief Milligan’s got me on traffic duty.’

Her eyes held his for a moment. ‘Don’t let him get you down,’ she said. ‘He’s just a big old blowhard.’

Hollis laughed.

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. Yes, I suppose he is, isn’t he?’

Driving away, his thoughts returned to the scene he’d glimpsed at the Wallaces’ swimming pool—the young couple romping in the water, the other couple observing from the shade, Gayle stretched out in the sun, all limbs, her face shaded by the brim of her straw hat.

People dealt with grief in different ways, but somehow he couldn’t see himself lounging by a swimming pool just four days after his dead sister had been plucked from the ocean in a fisherman’s net.

Ten

Conrad uncoiled. The cane rod bowed under the strain then whipped through the air, the reel singing as the lead weight arced high up over the surf into the flat water beyond.

Not as far as the last cast, but far enough if they were out there.

He started to reel in—inexpertly. When it came to rod-and-line fishing there was a certain truth to the phrase ‘beginner’s luck’. The jerky, unskilled actions of a child were, if anything, more likely to attract a fish to the bait.

It was a lesson first learned on the stubby harbor breakwater at Guéthary, back in the old country. His first fish, caught under the watchful eye of his father—a three-pound sea bream—enough to feed the family that evening. Conrad on his father’s lap at the table in the kitchen, swollen with pride, his father’s meaty paw wrapped around his little hand, steering the gutting knife. His mother slashing the sides of the fish then grilling it over coals, serving it with a garlic sauce, the cloves browned in a pan then crushed in the stone mortar. Everyone agreeing that it was the finest sea bream they had ever tasted, though the same couldn’t be said of the local txakoli, the sharp dry white wine made by their grandfather, and which both boys were permitted to taste for the first time. The wine driving them to early slumber, curled at their mother’s feet while she read to them, the logs in the hearth crumbling to embers.

Was that really how it had been? Or had sentiment got the better of him over the years? He no longer knew, or cared. He was entitled to the memory, for it was the last pleasing one he had of his mother before she was taken from them.

The menace, when it came, was from a completely unexpected quarter. The war rumbling away in a distant corner of France had barely touched their village, their lives. It was spoken of, but not feared. One boy, the mayor’s son, had headed north, carried on a tide of patriotism, only to lose a leg on a muddy hillside near Amiens. Remarkably, he survived and was shipped back to Guéthary.

In view of what followed, it would have been far better for all if that German artillery shell had caught Tomas Errekart squarely between the eyes, for when he returned home he carried Death with him.

In Guéthary, it became known as ‘Spanish flu’. A few miles to the south, across the frontier in Spain, it was referred to as ‘French flu’. The disease itself respected no boundaries, spreading like wildfire, laying waste to whole communities in a matter of days. To the puzzlement of all, ‘La Grippe’ appeared drawn to those in the prime of their lives, passing over the young, the elderly and the infirm; and the end came fast to those touched by its hand. A burning fever rapidly gave way to a crippling pneumonia that flooded the lungs.

Conrad’s father was the first in the family to be struck down. By then the whole village was firmly in the grip of the disease and Dr Barron was able to do little more than pay a cursory visit and wish their mother well in the trial ahead.

Terexa Labarde nursed her ailing husband for two days and nights, the boys ferrying buckets of icy water from the well in the yard. On the morning of the third day, she was too weak to wring out the rags with which she cooled his body. Breathing hard, her own clothes sodden with perspiration, she pleaded exhaustion and asked the boys to take over, instructing them from a chair across the room.

Just before noon, she slid silently to the floor.

She didn’t die immediately, but lay there on her back, the shallow rise and fall of her chest almost imperceptible, a reddish foam oozing from the corners of her mouth, the veins in her slender neck standing out like cords of rope. Antton insisted that he go for help, but she wouldn’t release his hand, a feat of superhuman strength given her condition. She wanted to die with her boys at her side. And that she did, just a few minutes later. Mikel Labarde, lost in delirium, did not witness his wife’s passing.

Antton displayed great presence of mind for a seven-year-old, turning his attention once more to their father, placing Conrad on bucket duty. Just before dusk he went for help, only to return an hour later in tears. The mayor, the doctor, even the priest, they were all dead. Guéthary was like a rudderless ship, with everyone looking to their own affairs, their own survival. Antton had been driven off, at gunpoint in one case, by people he’d known all his life.

The boys hacked ham from the bone in the pantry and settled in for another long night.

Mikel Labarde’s fever broke at dawn the next morning. He woke to find his naked body covered in damp rags, his two sons intertwined on the bed beside him, fast asleep, and his wife dead on the floor in the corner of the room. He was too weak to do anything but cry; Conrad and Antton were woken by his sobs.

Life never returned to normal, not for their father. He became sullen and withdrawn. In spring of the following year, when a second, more deadly wave of the disease swept the country, Guéthary was spared. But while others gave thanks for this, their father remained plagued by thoughts of those who had spurned his son that day.

It was something for which he could never forgive them, especially the lehen auzo, the ‘first neighbor’. Basque custom dictated that the occupants of the nearest house be treated as kin, and in return behave as such when the situation called for it. The lehen auzo had thought only of himself and his family when he turned Antton away, he had reneged on the relationship, causing mortal offence.

In a clear and vindictive break with tradition it was their father, not the lehen auzo, who carried the cross the day of their mother’s burial. Still weak from the flu, his black mourning cloak billowing in the stiff November breeze, he stumbled and fell twice at the head of the procession as it threaded its way from their house to the church.

In August he abruptly announced to the boys that they were moving away—to America. This news wasn’t as startling as one might have imagined, even to their young ears. Basques had been crossing the ocean since the Middle Ages, voyaging to the rich cod fisheries of the Grand Banks and pursuing whales into the treacherous subarctic waters off Greenland. Indeed, John Cabot’s celebrated discovery of Newfoundland in 1497 was greeted by the Basques with something approaching wry bemusement, for it was hardly a new-found-land, two of their own captains having dropped their anchors off the very same coast over one hundred years before. The Basques felt no need to justify this claim, nor did they doubt for a moment that the Vikings had been there well before themselves. Amerika had made rich men of many Basques over the centuries; and the belief that it still could was firmly embedded in their culture.

The boat and the gear sold promptly and well to a fellow tuna fisherman. The house would have gone for more had the highest bidder not happened to be the same individual who’d leveled his rifle at Antton less than a year before.

They sailed from Bordeaux on a converted whaling ship mobbed with American servicemen returning from the War, still drunk on victory. The crossing was rough, enough to blunt the merry-making and fill the narrow steerage compartments with the rank odor of sea-sickness. Sixteen days after she put to sea, and following a brief stopover in Havana, the Chicago crept past the Statue of Liberty and sank her anchor into the deep Hudson River mud.

On disembarking they were immediately ferried from the quayside over to Ellis Island. Conrad could only recall brief moments of the lengthy processing. He remembered being tagged, doctors prodding and poking, sticks of blue chalk raised menacingly, those marked with a cross screaming in protest as they were led away. And he could remember thinking, his heart drumming a terrified tattoo in his breast: What if they mark me and not Antton or Papa? They’ll take me away, I’ll never see them again, and then there’ll be nobody, not till I die and we all meet again in heaven. And the prospect of seeing his mother again washed through him, and suddenly things didn’t seem quite so bad.

Then there was the vastness of the Registry Room with its seething mass of outlandish humanity—men in dresses, others with whiskers that reached to their waists, women with their faces shrouded in veils, children with pointed shoes that curled at the end—the deafening clamor of their unintelligible voices rising to the rafters as they slowly shuffled forward. A man behind a tall desk fired questions at their father, and then they were out, down the stairs, into the rain.

They were greeted warmly in their own tongue by a man with a kindly face. He ruffled the boys’ hair and thrust candy into their hands, helped them recover their baggage then led them over to the Manhattan ferry. Valentin Aguirre was something of an institution for Basque immigrants, many of whom passed through his New York boarding house, Eusko-Etxea, on their journeys westwards to Nevada and Idaho. Most of the guests were single young men, looking to make their fortunes in the New World. Others were married, with wives and children back home, who would be joining them once the cost of their passage had been earned out west. A widower with two young sons was a novelty, drawing bucket-loads of sympathy from the serving girl in the dining room, who kept seizing Conrad and Antton to her ample bosom, until one joker proclaimed, to everyone’s amusement, that his mother was also dead.

Guests tended to stay no more than a few days, time enough to recover from the crossing while Valentin arranged their railroad tickets for the onward journey. And it would have been no different for them if their father hadn’t struck up conversation in the barroom with a fellow by the name of Eusebio Landaluce. He was tall, with a stooping gait and a feral expression that belied his good nature. He laughed heartily at the slightest inducement and he was immensely proud of his black Borsalino hat, which, he swore blind, was made from the hairs of wild Argentinian rabbits. He plucked coins from behind the boys’ ears, stuffed his silk kerchief into his fist only for it to vanish before their disbelieving eyes. He made his ears dance, his nose wiggle, and he could break wind on command.