Osprey Island

anyone come by—police, security, the usual nosy Islander—to see why on earth someone—My goodness! Not just someone! Suzy Chizek!—was sleeping in a beat-up truck in the Osprey Island Ferry lot? Or had they slept there peacefully until the horn awakened them? Or maybe Suzy set an alarm, making sure they were on the first ferry across, in time to catch the six o’clock train for New York? No, he realized, they had to have gone over the night before; the guys on the morning boat didn’t know who’d left the truck; they hadn’t seen her go over. That she’d left it in a No Parking zone was nothing but a final fuck you to her father. Even through his confusion, Roddy was able to see that Suzy Chizek was the kind of person who really did need to have the final fuck you. He had at least that much objectivity left.

What was he supposed to have done? Begged her to stay? Agreed to go with her? Watched her sail off toward the other shore, then realized— I cannot let you go!—and dived into the water after the ferry, trying to grab on to something that was already half gone? That wasn’t Roddy. Truth be told, it would have been just like Roddy to waffle and hedge, agonize over the decision, entertain every option: stay, leave, stay, leave . . . And then he’d finally say, Yes! I’ll come with you! I’m coming! They’d board the boat together for their final crossing. And then, about halfway across the bay he’d realize, I can’t do this. A moment later he’d be leaping from the back of the ferry, going down in the foam and waves, choking, sputtering, and then finding his breath as the boat moved on, left him treading water, exhausted, in the middle of the bay, with a lot to explain to a whole lot of people on both shores.

Stuck between the steering wheel and dashboard she’d left a note on a folded flier from the Harbor Department Store, Menhadenport. The outside was not addressed. Roddy unfolded the paper. As he read the note, and read it over again, and again, conflicting emotions vied inside him. He didn’t know whether he felt more heartbroken or disappointed.

Dad—Please try to forgive me. I’m sorry. Suzy

Suzy Chizek couldn’t let a burning bridge burn.

It was seven before Roddy got back to the Lodge, parked the truck, and went up the hill to find Bud to ask for a lift down to the ferry to retrieve his own truck. He found the Chizeks eating breakfast at their kitchen table. If they had any inkling of what their daughter had just done to them they didn’t betray it; they looked just as discontented as usual.

Nancy was already standing as he came in the door. “Coffee, Roddy? I’m sure you haven’t eaten. You want some pancakes?”

Roddy looked to Bud. “I could use a ride down to pick up my truck at the ferry.”

Bud nodded squarely at the table, mouth full, jaw working. When he finished chewing he said, “Sure, sure, have a bite first,” and pointed his chin toward an empty chair.

“Thank you,” Roddy told Nancy. He took a seat, removed his cap, hung it on the back of the chair, and smoothed his hair down with his hands. Nancy brought him a Pyrex mug of coffee, weak but hot.

Bud wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Lance?” he said.

Roddy waited a moment for more, but nothing came. “Lance?” He shook his head, not understanding.

Bud looked back, confused by Roddy’s confusion. “Was it Lance that left the truck in Menhadenport?” He said it the way they all did, fast, and dulled: m’NAYdnpore.

“No, sir,” said Roddy. Nancy passed him a plate of pancakes and bacon, which made him feel even stranger. It didn’t seem likely he’d get to eat a bite of it. It was hard to imagine that once the news had been sprung Bud was going to stay at the table sipping coffee. Or that he’d leave Roddy there to finish breakfast.

“Syrup’s on the table,” Nancy told him.

“Thank you.” He reached for the bottle.

Bud watched impatiently. “You planning on telling me anytime this morning who did?”

Roddy set the syrup back down without using it. If it crossed his mind just then to say, You planning on telling me about how you got a seventeen-year-old girl pregnant? You plan on telling that to your wife here? he managed not to. For all he knew, Nancy might be well aware of it all. He looked to her apologetically as he reached into his back pocket for the note. He passed it to Bud. “This was in the truck.”

Bud eyed Roddy suspiciously, took the note without lifting his gaze from the man across the kitchen table. Then he looked down at the paper. There wasn’t much to read. He stared at it longer than necessary, then lifted it in his hand and slammed it down as he stood. “Jesus!” he cried, and stormed away from the table.

The contents of the breakfast table jumped, and so did Roddy and Nancy. Then the front door slammed, and the bang set them in motion again like a starter’s gun. Nancy moved to the table, a dishrag in one hand, her eyes questioning Roddy, and picked up the note. What Roddy really wanted to do was pour some syrup on his pancakes, eat breakfast, and get to work. What he most wanted to do at that moment was to act as if nothing had happened. But before he could think even a step beyond that, Nancy had finished the note and was shaking it in her hand, saying, “Did you know about this?” She looked at the pancakes she’d given Roddy as if she meant to take them back. “Do you have something to do with this?” she asked, then, at a loss, repeated herself. “Does this have something to do with you? Did you two have a fight or something?”

“What?” Roddy couldn’t help but feel like he kept missing something.

Nancy jumped on him: “You can’t tell me you think we don’t know what’s . . . going on between the two of you.” She gestured back and forth with her dish towel, as though pointing between Roddy and an invisible Suzy she’d decided to seat beside him. “Christ Almighty, you’re smarter than that!” Nancy spat out her words, and the effort turned her ugly, made her mouth large and gummy. She looked, Roddy realized, like her son. She looked—he could see the resemblance so clearly now—like Chas. Her mouth open in shock, she just kept looking at him, expecting something.

Finally he said, “She came by my mother’s last night to say good-bye.” And maybe during that moment’s admission Nancy could see for herself—maybe it was written right there on his face?—the magnitude of the loss that he was suffering in the wake of Suzy’s departure. Something in her shifted, as if she’d lost her train of thought and instead of searching just decided to shake it off and move along. There was a moment more of silence while they got their bearings and reclaimed their places in the world, and then Nancy took off her apron and went toward the staircase. Halfway to the bedroom, where she would take to her bed for the day like an invalid, she paused on the step and turned back to Roddy. She said, “Don’t let your breakfast get cold.” He took it as a blessing, for which he was thankful, and he poured the syrup and began to eat, realizing something as he chewed. Suzy’d left a note for her father, and she’d come by Eden’s place to say good-bye to Roddy before she