The Revolving Heart

Laura would call from Ray’s Tavern, where the locals drank, and tell us she was going home with some guy she just met, a great guy, really, she’d say, slurring her words, the great guy’s hand no doubt clamped to her ass while Laura shouted into the phone over the Guns N’ Roses song playing on the jukebox. She’d promise to pay Amy another twenty if she’d hang out until morning, and though the twenty never came, Amy always stayed. I might have stayed, too, but late nights were a time of heightened creative energy for me, at least back then, and I needed to be at my desk, in my room, at home, writing for at least an hour before I went to sleep. No matter how enticing a night on the couch with Amy might seem, I kept to that routine like a budding monk, yet whenever I left Laura’s house, I always felt like the neighbors were watching me. What exactly is he doing there so late at night?

Were people checking their windows and thinking the same as I left Amy’s house? Just nerves, I thought, but the moment I hit the driveway, a car across the street turned its engine, popped its lights, and drove away, the car’s interior too dark for me to spot the driver.

Something about it felt personal, the timing too synched with my departure for it to be coincidental. The car had been parked beyond the range of Clyde’s camera set-up, though if the driver had gotten out for a closer look, perhaps it had caught him.

I stopped myself. Mr. Ronan was alive, but why would he be stalking Amy now when, according to Cobb’s report, his life was a success. Just nerves, I thought, but before I unlocked the rental car, I checked the backseat to make certain it was empty.

For a while I drove around with no purpose except avoiding the B&B. In Holman Beach, when you have no place else to go, you head for the water.

In a few days Ocean Avenue would be buzzing with tourists, the scent of fried funnel cakes and cotton candy seizing the ocean breeze, but for now things were dark, except for Ray’s Tavern. I parked the car and climbed the wooden ramp to the boardwalk.

I checked for a message from Kelly but so far nothing, so I slid the phone into my pocket and started walking. The ocean, as always, reminded me of Sarah. The spot on the beach where she’d disappeared wasn’t far, but I kept to the opposite direction. I found a bench and tried to get my head straight, a hopeless task, as all I could think about was everything.

Why hadn’t Amy told me after that first time, before he’d ever touched her? Was she afraid I wouldn’t believe her? And was it possible that she was right?

Suddenly I yawned, my fingers tingling.

Twenty minutes later, I woke up with my head under the bench, my legs curled around a metal garbage can. Every muscle ached as I sat up and rubbed my eyes, my head still foggy as I reached for my wallet and keys. While I rarely dreamt during my blackouts, this time I dreamed that I was at the Jaybird with those pizza boxes from the other night, revising dialogue and adding a scene in the middle of the first act. I couldn’t remember what I wrote in the dream, only the feeling that it was good, the best thing I’d ever done. Unlike Kelly, I didn’t believe in dreams, but maybe my subconscious was nudging me. I needed to re-read those boxes.

I stood up and looked around, didn’t spot a soul, and checked my phone. It was almost 2:00 AM.

At the far end of the boardwalk, fifty yards ahead, I saw a light outside of Toby’s Rock Lobster, the music shop surprisingly still bright. I pulled myself up and started walking in that direction, the light useful in waking me; if I hadn’t started moving, I might have lay there forever, my bones melting to a paste, my hair like strands of old cotton candy hardened in the sun.

When I reached the front window, I saw Toby standing beside the CD racks tuning an acoustic guitar.

Next to him, his back to the door, was Uncle Dan.

I must have lingered too long because Toby looked up and saw me in the window, waving me inside as if he’d been expecting me. The bell over the door chimed twice as I entered.

Uncle Dan turned, startled to see me. An open bottle of Sam Adams stood on the counter, a second one by the register.

“Donatello, welcome: there’s always room for one more penitent at midnight mass,” Toby said, “which tonight, at least, started well past the witching hour.”

His priest collar was missing, but a gold crucifix hung low around his neck, Jesus’s pointed feet dangling between the two Z’s in “OZZY” printed across his T-shirt.

“What are you doing here?” Uncle Dan asked.

“Just walking.” We hadn’t spoken since he’d stormed out of the Jaybird.

Toby smiled. “I’m always surprised how many pilgrims wind up at my door.” He tightened one of the guitar strings and plucked it, a single flat note ringing out, his fingers turning the knob until each note sounded right. “Guitars are wonderful instruments, aren’t they? Each string holds equal potential for beauty and pain. It’s all in how you tune it, and even then, play it long enough and the sound will slip.” He paused, making sure we were paying attention. “Consider life a perpetual exercise in re-tuning. The pitch-pipe, the tuning fork…I call them God.”

He plucked another string and tweaked the knob.

“Thanks for closing up the other night,” Uncle Dan said.

“Jill did most of the work.”

“Tell her stop by tomorrow. I’ll pay her for the hours.”

He grabbed the Sam Adams bottle and took a long swig.

“But that’s not all, is it, Dan?” Toby said. “Isn’t there something more you need to say?”

He finished the bottle, holding