When they got to the rigging shed, Mickey put two fingers to his mouth and gave a loud whistle.
Zee spotted the man Mickey was whistling at, perched high in the rigging of the Friendship’s forward mast.
When the man didn’t turn, he whistled again. Then yelled, “Hey, Hawk, come down here a minute, will you?”
The man started down the web of rope. At first glance Zee thought he had fallen, his descent was so rapid. It was only when he got closer that she saw the way his arms and legs moved in rhythmic coordination. Like a dancer. Or a spider.
He walked over to where they stood. He looked very familiar. She had seen him before.
“What’s up?” He glanced from Mickey to Zee and back again.
“This is my niece, Zee. She needs someone to do some carpentry work.”
“I’m not a carpenter,” he said. “I’m a rigger.”
“Rigger, carpenter, navigator-this guy can guide a ship home just by looking at the stars.”
“That’s a slight exaggeration,” Hawk said.
“Seriously, he’s a jack-of-all-trades,” Mickey said to Zee.
“And master of none,” Hawk said, laughing.
“And he’s modest, too,” Mickey said, slapping him hard on the back.
“Thanks a lot,” Hawk said, and Mickey laughed. Hawk turned to Zee. “What do you need done?”
“Just railings,” Zee said. “And some more grab bars in the bathroom.
“It’s for my dad,” she added.
“I guess I can do railings.” He looked at Zee for a long moment. “I know you,” he said. His eyes did a body scan, and he clearly liked what he saw. He squinted at her face, analyzing. “Where do I know you from?”
“She’s engaged,” Mickey said, lifting her hand to show him the ring, not realizing he’d already seen it. “And she’s a shrink. Meaning she’s far too smart to fall for a tired old line like that one.”
“A shrink, huh?” Hawk said. He grinned and shrugged. But he kept looking at her, as if he were still trying to figure out where he’d seen her before.
She knew immediately where she’d seen him, though she didn’t want to say so. It had been just a few days ago, at Lilly Braedon’s funeral. And before that on the bridge as she watched the television the night Lilly jumped. He was one of the eyewitnesses, the one in the blue van who hadn’t wanted to talk to the reporter.
“When can you do the railing?” Zee asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe tonight or tomorrow night. Are you in a hurry?”
“It’s not urgent, but it is important.” She wrote down the address and handed it to him.
“I’ll get there my first free night,” he said.
“Hey, Hawk, we need you up here!” one of the guys yelled from the rigging.
“I’ve gotta get back.”
“Thanks,” she said.
He nodded and smiled.
Zee and Mickey watched him walk back to the ship.
“His name is really Hawk?” she said to Mickey.
“It’s a nickname. Short for Mohawk, someone told me. That’s his boat,” Mickey said, pointing to an old lobster boat tied up at one of the slips. Instead of displaying a name on the stern the way most of the boats did, this one featured a painted image of a hawk in flight. “I hear he’s the best worker on the ship. Don’t know if he has any Native American blood, but he sure can climb.”
Zee felt her dizzy spell return as she watched him climb back up the rigging. She put out her hand, grabbing Mickey’s arm for support.
“I know,” Mickey said. “I can’t even watch him.” He turned to her. “How much time do you have?”
She looked at her watch. “About an hour.”
“Come on. I’ll buy you a drink,” he said, steering her toward Capt.’s, a waterfront restaurant and bar on the wharf directly across from the Friendship.
17
MELVILLE STOPPED AT THE post office to pick up his mail. Then he walked over to Steve’s Quality Market to get some of the prime beef he knew Finch liked. Finch could no longer chew very well, and he had trouble swallowing. But the butcher at Steve’s would grind the beef for him, and then Zee could scramble it with mushrooms and some garlic and oregano. It wasn’t much, but at least it wouldn’t be sandwiches. He hoped that Zee was giving Finch his vitamins. He’d have to remind her.
For the first time in weeks, Melville felt hopeful. Maybe it was a side effect of the new drug that had made Finch behave so erratically, he thought. That would explain everything. Why else would something that had almost killed their relationship once before have come back so suddenly, as if the whole thing had happened not more than thirty years ago but just in the last few weeks? Melville hoped it could be explained away by the new drug that Finch was taking, the one that was said to cause hallucinations in some people. It would be great if Finch’s rage were mere hallucination. Melville would move back in, and he would never mention the fight they’d had. They would go on as usual, as if the whole thing had never happened.
Finch had been off the drug for several days. It should have cleared out of his system by now. But if Melville were honest with himself, he’d have to admit that the whole thing had started before the new drug. It had begun a few months ago with an offhand remark about Maureen. Before he knew it, they were fighting about everything, from the dripping kitchen faucet to the piles of newspapers in the hall.
The subject of Maureen had come up many times lately. And just as Finch always did when he didn’t know how to say something, he had quoted Hawthorne: “A woman’s chastity consists, like an onion, of a series of coats.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means what it means.”
“If you have something to say, I’d appreciate your saying it straight out,” Melville replied. He didn’t like talking about Maureen. His guilt on that matter had almost done them in. He put a hand on Finch’s shoulder. “Tell me what this is about.”
“I don’t know,” Finch had said, suddenly realizing how confused he was.
Melville leaned over, taking Finch’s face in his hands. “‘This relationship has to succeed, not in spite of what happened with Maureen but because of it.’” He looked at Finch. “Those are your words,” Melville said.
“I know.” Finch was crying.
“You know how much I love you,” Melville said.
“Perhaps you had better keep reminding me,” Finch said.
He was losing Finch to this damned disease. It was a fact he seldom faced directly, yet there it was. He knew the inevitability of demise, but they had been together for so many years, happily together. Even after the Parkinson’s, they had been happy. He knew that the illness would rob him of Finch eventually. He’d found himself looking away when the shaking began, not wanting to see it. Luckily, shaking had not become a major part of Finch’s case, though there were many other elements of the disease that had taken their toll. He had to remove himself sometimes so that Finch wouldn’t see him cry.
He had read all the books, knew that there’d be a time when there was some crossover. If he were to look at things honestly, he would have to admit that it had already happened. Parkinson’s patients, if they lived long enough with the disease, often got what was called the “Alzheimer’s crossover” and started to show signs of dementia. When Finch had initially presented with a bit of dementia, Melville remembered how relieved they were to find out it was only Parkinson’s. Only. That was a joke. To say something was only Parkinson’s was like saying that Hurricane Katrina was only in New Orleans for a day. Parkinson’s was one of the cruelest diseases out there. If you lived long enough with it, if something else didn’t get you first, you’d end up in the fetal position in a bed in some institution, sometimes for years. Melville often wondered-often hoped, in fact-that he would have the strength it took to help Finch end things if it came to that. He knew Finch’s wishes, and he also knew that Finch had been saving pills for years against the inevitable.