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Maine Idyll
By
Ian Woolen, Jan
25, 2007
If you've come for a
distraction, welcome. Nothing to be ashamed of. Minimum daily adult
requirement. Everybody needs some these days. People used to come to
stories for a diversion, a divertissement, as they say. Now distraction is
the thing. Different phenomenon. A diversion implies a path that one
temporarily veers from, but does not forget. Distraction involves
temporary amnesia. Gerald should know. He is a master distracter, a
professional. Gerald distracts people from their belief that Argo
Insurance owes them money, and by the time they remember, they have signed
away their rights to the larger settlement and accepted a smaller payout
sooner.
Does that make him a bad guy? Let him who is without sin - yes, yes, but -
Gerald worries about this. He tithes. He coaches the company's Little
League team. He sends out Christmas baskets to all his current and former
clients.
Gerald to Self: Look, I help people get something out of a company that
would prefer to give them nothing.
Self to Gerald: If it wasn't for your old man pulling strings to get you
the job after a period of youthful indiscretion, and your being too
spineless to say no thanks, you'd have never gotten into this business in
the first place.
Gerald to Self: Shut up.
Gerald Mosley distracts himself by rearranging the many photos of his
family vacation home that adorn his office desk. 'Family' as in 'since
forever'. 'Vacation home' as in 'Maine cottage' - a draughty, rambling,
loveable wreck of a manse on an island near Camden. High profile careers
have never been a priority for the Mosleys, so family life centers around
the annual summer pilgrimage to this house from the netherworld of
Indianapolis.
You may have seen the Sunday spread recently about old summer houses and
the problems created by successive generations, all with opinions about
time-sharing and decor. The Mosley family attempted to address this
problem two generations back. Gerald's grandfather died in 1978, leaving
the property and house in a trust with a provision that the oldest
descendant in each generation has sole authority on repair and remodeling
decisions. The unspoken rule - followed to the letter by Gerald's father -
is that repair and remodeling are essentially moot points, because; unless
the house is about to fall down, nothing is supposed to ever change.
The furniture is a varnished hodgepodge of Bentwood this and Adirondack
that. The cast iron bed frames were made at a nearby mainland foundry that
ceased operations in 1923. No electricity, no telephone, and virtually no
plumbing. Water for cooking and washing runs from a well (located
somewhere in a vast patch of alders) to a red pump in the kitchen. The
woodshed doubles as an outhouse with a 'honey bucket'. Porcelain chamber
pots are provided in each of the five spectacular ocean-view bedrooms.
Gerald is the eldest in his generation and, with the passing of his
widower father last spring, he has decided on a new course. Electricity
and telephone service have long been available on the island via an
underwater cable from the mainland. Gerald and his sister and cousins are
all over forty, with enough aches and pains between them to warrant new
beds, new mattresses, and an indoor bathroom. Gerald hoped to keep his
plans a secret, at least until next summer when the relatives would arrive
and find the changes in place. But the island community being what it is,
and Gerald's local contractor, Cliff Tuttle, being who he is, word is out
by mid-September and Gerald starts hearing from his kin.
Cousin Fred: How could you? This is unthinkable! I'm losing sleep trying
to figure out which circle of hell you're going to burn in! You want to
rent the place out - is that it? Can't resist what those Boston suckers
will pay? Gotta squeeze out every last penny? Well, not on my time, no
sir, you're not renting that house on my time!
Cousin Alice: The grief process is very complicated and I'm sure these
rash changes must have something to do with your father dying. A good rule
of thumb is don't make any major decisions for a year. You're obviously
trying to get back at your father with these renovations - and I can
certainly understand you would have issues with that man, but acting out
this way is not really fair to the rest of the family.
Sister Martha: You slimeball! Our mother was right about you! Gotta have
everything your way! This is probably about some little chippie. You're
putting in a bathroom for some young chippie who can't handle peeing in a
bucket.
Fortunately, Gerald's experiences with irate clients have prepared him for
these exchanges. And, truth be told, his sister may be onto something -
although he assures her that he is finished with chippies. Having finally
lived down his reputation for youthful indiscretions, Gerald claims to be
ready for a more enduring relationship. So, yes, perhaps his decision to
fix up the Maine cottage probably does involve a desire to make the place
more acceptable to a woman. He can't risk another Brook episode. She was
the one he'd hoped would develop into something more. He brought her to
the cottage in 1990 for a two week stay so she could get to know Island
Gerald.
Gerald believes himself to be a different person in Maine, a better
person, more relaxed, easy-going, in tune with nature, more tolerant of
difficulties - when things break down, hey, stuff happens, and it can be
sort of fun to while away an afternoon fixing a bike tire. He firmly
believes that his island self, usually ten pounds lighter, is his true
self. But with Brook, poof, everything came to an abrupt end when she fled
the place after two days.
Trying to help, his family slapped him on the back and explained that she
had obviously failed the island test - a long-standing gauge of character
among the Mosleys - and he should be relieved to have discovered this flaw
about her. That explanation worked for awhile. But, now, fifteen years
older and wiser, Gerald feels that life itself provides enough tests and
he is no longer interested in the island house being a test for anyone.
The reason for the landline phone (besides the spottiness of cell
reception) is to contact Cliff Tuttle and make sure he is actually doing
the renovations. Cliff has a reputation for solid work, but also for
needing encouragement to complete it.
The first time Gerald, in Indianapolis, dials the new number of the Maine
house and hears the phone ringing - he struggles with a brief,
gut-wrenching fear that he has committed a sacrilege. He imagines the new
phone looking badly out of place on the wall of the pantry. He senses the
pantry, the kitchen, the parlor, the entire house itself disturbed by the
strange ringing sound. He imagines his father and his grandfather cursing
him from beyond the grave.
Finally Cliff answers: Mosley Home for Aging Hoosiers.
You might be expecting some sharp-vowel Maine accent out of Cliff. No.
Cliff was born and raised in Cleveland. The only alteration to his flat
Midwestern accent comes from talking around an everpresent cigarette
parked in a corner of his mouth that no one has ever seen him actually
smoke. Cliff is an example of another island-rules phenomenon warned
against in Mosley family lore - every generation of summer people produces
at least one kid who 'goes native', and it never turns out well. His
marriage to a girl from a neighboring island who came with two
step-children is iffy. Cliff attempts to provide for them with carpentry
and caretaking jobs. There are persistent rumors of off-season partying in
the cottages he looks after. For this reason Mosley Labor Day departure
protocol stipulates that no liquor is to be left in the house.
Gerald: Hello from the hinterlands! How's the weather out your way?
Cliff : Got us a nice stretch of Indian summer. With the house getting
fixed up - you oughta come out sometime in the fall. It's the best time of
year. We hadn't talked about insulation, but while I got the walls opened
up to do wiring - I could lay in some stuff that would keep you cozy
enough.
Gerald: Sure, well, why not, while you're at it, yeah...any surprises? Is
it going okay?
Cliff : Bit of rot here and there. Nothing I can't replace easy enough. I
think your place likes the attention. Long overdue.
Gerald : Good, good...that's very reassuring...I mean, it feels very
personal in a way, having the house worked on, being cut open, like I'm
undergoing a surgery...
Cliff : Right, so you can just call me 'doctor'...my neurologist parents
would get a kick out of that.
Gerald: Okay, Doc. I'll phone you again next week.
But Gerald can't wait till next week. He calls twice more from the office.
He tries to sound low-key, just a friendly check-in. He banters with Cliff
about the weather and scallop season and the wintering abilities of the
wild turkeys that have recently been introduced to the island. Cliff
responds with in-kind queries about the Pacers' roster and the new
mattress selections.
Listening to the phone ring while he waits for Cliff to answer is now a
soothing experience for Gerald, like starting up a new car just to hear
the engine purr. He visualizes bright afternoon sunlight cascading in the
south bay windows. He telescopes through the windows to the ocean, to the
foamy spume breaking over the ledge at the mouth of the harbor.
Simultaneously, outside his office, he sees rain falling on four lanes of
Meridian Street traffic underneath the Argo Insurance sign.
Gerald begins calling at times when he knows Cliff won't even be in the
house, just to hear the line ring, just to let his imagination roam
upstairs to his favorite bedroom with the view out over Spinnaker Head and
downstairs to the library stacked floor to ceiling with bird and
wildflower guides, Sarah Orne Jewett, Stephen King, torn-cover beach
novels, local cookbooks and his sister's comics. He wanders to the shore.
Examining periwinkle shells. He strolls, more patient than ever in real
life, along the path to the diving rock, remembering how his mother could
take a full hour to walk down there, stopping every other step to peer
into the grass for blueberries. Gerald is not a 'visual' person, so this
is all very surprising.
He forces himself out of his reverie and glimpses his
not-so-pretty-boy-anymore face reflected in the glass of the picture
frames on his office desk. Like with his father and grandfather, his ears
seem to be getting larger as he gets older.
On the next phone call meditation Gerald conjures up an image of his
tanned island self - or a close enough resemblance - in shorts and
flip-flops - sidling in from the porch, drink in hand, to answer the new
phone in the pantry.
Island Gerald: Hi, pal. I knew it was you.
Indiana Gerald: Hello.
Island Gerald: You sound a little down in the mouth.
Indiana Gerald: Tired, just tired. It's been a long week.
Island Gerald: And lonely too.
Indiana Gerald: Well...yeah.
Island Gerald: You can admit it to me.
Indiana Gerald: I think it would be easier to hassle with all these claims
and quotas if I was doing it for someone else too, a partner, you know.
Island Gerald: I'll be your partner.
Indiana Gerald: Very funny. I mean, not funny. At my age I'm beginning to
wonder if anybody would want an old crank like me.
Island Gerald: Listen - don't be afraid of aging, buddy. You'll always be
young at heart.
Indiana Gerald: How do you know?
Island Gerald: If you weren't - you wouldn't be able to hear me.
Indiana Gerald: Oh.
As odd as it sounds, Gerald feels very encouraged by this 'conversation'.
He is also bolstered by progress reports from Cliff on the renovations -
the bathroom is almost done. Although Cliff warns that he may need to hire
somebody, once the fishing season ends, to help dig the septic tank bed
and install the tank before the ground freezes.
Gerald enjoys further conversation with his alter ego, who is pictured
wearing a favorite lambs wool sweater from Gerald's island wardrobe. Each
closet in the house is redolent with mothballed clothes that no one can
bear to throw away. Gerald jokingly begins asking his island self for
updates from the job-site.
Indiana Gerald: Hello from the hinterlands! Did Cliff show for work today?
Island Gerald: Right on time.
Indiana Gerald: Great. How's the weather?
Island Gerald: Oh, now, you don't really care about the weather. I
remember us out sailing a peapod around the thoroughfare in a squall.
Indiana Gerald: More than once.
Island Gerald: Another time we had to be rescued off the lighthouse ledge
in six foot seas.
Indiana Gerald: Don't exactly remember that.
Island Gerald: Grandmother was worried sick. But grandpa said you had nine
lives.
Indiana Gerald: He did?
Island Gerald: Then father said you'd need that many to figure out that
you weren't God's gift to women.
Indiana Gerald: That sounds just like father.
Island Gerald: Well, was he right?
Indiana Gerald: On that one, yeah.
Laughter and then something happens and the line goes dead. Gerald tries
calling back, but no one 'answers', as it were. For the next couple of
weeks he can't even get a hold of Cliff.
But no matter. Gerald's ringing phone daydreams continue to provide
pleasing distraction. He can extend them now to include sails in the
peapod. Pushing the boat into the water below the schoolhouse, hoisting
the little gaff rig and sailing down the thoroughfare past the town dock,
or if the wind is too light, rowing it out around Moxie. He swings in the
hammock. He fills vases for the dining room with wild daisies and Queen
Anne's Lace. All his long distance phone reveries transpire in the warm,
placid serenity of August, despite Gerald being fully conscious that
summer and fall have now definitely turned to winter in Maine.
Sometime in early December he manages to again summon a clear connection
with Island Gerald, wearing the same loose, frayed sweater.
Indiana Gerald: Hello from the hinterlands! Any snow out your way?
Island Gerald: Damn ton of it.
Indiana Gerald: Must be pretty.
Island Gerald: A pretty pain in the ass, as father would say.
Indiana Gerald: Septic get installed okay, I hope.
Island Gerald: You mean that plastic two-man submarine sitting out in your
yard under the white stuff?
Indiana Gerald: It isn't installed?
Island Gerald: Never do today what you can put off till tomorrow. Can't
deny that's the way you operate. Part of your daily head game at work,
right, Gerry? Delay, delay, put people off, try to make them think their
claim is being seriously reviewed by important committees.
Indiana Gerald: Excuse me?
Island Gerald: I know you too well, Gerry.
Indiana Gerald: If that were true, you'd know that nobody calls me
'Gerry'.
Island Gerald: I do.
Indiana Gerald: Something's wrong.
Island Gerald: No kidding.
Indiana Gerald: The line's breaking up. I'm getting static.
Which isn't exactly true. Gerald's 'something wrong' refers to a
pre-migraine throb in the left front of his head. But his 'static on the
line' explanation is enough of an excuse for Gerald to hang up the phone
and end this disturbing exchange.
Now the reveries take on a different tone. No more August. No more sun
dappled meadows. As much as Gerald tries to maintain a pleasant tinge to
his phone purring half-hours - imagining birch bark crackling in the
Franklin stove - his mind veers off to the frigid, dark corners of the
attic where mouse turds accumulate and dormer windowpanes crack from the
relentless winds during storms that have no emotional internal equivalent
- the way that summer storms always have at least some correlate mood to
curl into as a shield. Gerald's raw, uncontrollable pictures of the island
in dead winter feel alien, inhuman, wrong. All attempts at sighting Island
Gerald - during awkward lucid dreaming brain squeezes - yield only furtive
glimpses of a dark, hunched figure skulking around the premises.
And he still can't get hold of Cliff. Except for one not-very-reassuring
message he receives on his voicemail about a delay in a hardware shipment.
Gerald impulsively decides to make an unscheduled visit. No advance notice
to anyone, other than his secretary. He leaves her the Maine phone number
and instructs her to tell clients that he'll be back in the office the day
after tomorrow. Ostensibly this trip is to check on Cliff and his progress
with the renovations, but also Gerald hopes to find that the reality of
winter in the house is not as depressing as his visions. And - illogic
truth be told - he feels Island Gerald is in some kind of trouble and
needs help. This plan takes hold with alarming, uncharacteristic speed - a
result of more strange logic that says Cliff will find out about it if
there is any delay.
Within an hour Gerald is at the airport. Over the years Gerald has flown
to Maine on just three occasions. Most often he drives, a grueling two day
journey which perpetuates his geographic notion of the island being far,
far away. However, with some lucky timing, and a direct flight to Bangor
on Northwest, Gerald's rental car pulls up on the ferry dock outside
Camden at two o'clock the same afternoon.
Gerald climbs aboard the ferry wearing a ski mask. A black ski mask
purchased at the Bangor airport. Continuing migraine logic insists on the
importance of arriving unrecognized. He is the only passenger aboard the
unfamiliar vessel, which is much smaller than the boat used in summer.
Darkness is falling and there is nobody present on the island dock to
recognize him anyway. No one visible on the road as Gerald trudges past
the few houses, the meeting hall, the one-room school that constitute the
town. All in icy hibernation. His head throbbing again. What if this pain
is something more serious, a brain tumor? He slips and falls. Forgot to
wear gloves. The whole place looks so miserably desolate that Gerald is
forced to confront the fact that what he considers his deep love for this
island is based only on its cyclical beauty. He has no capacity yet to
love the rock for its ugly side.
Could the same be said for women too? Don't want to think about that right
now.
Gerald pauses by the shore below the schoolhouse to check on his peapod -
flipped onto sawhorses and wrapped in a blue tarp. Thank goodness for
something familiar. Tire tracks in the driveway snow leading up to
Spinnaker Head are also a positive sign.
But where is the septic tank? As Gerald approaches the house across the
front meadow, he sees nothing in the way of a large, plastic 'two-man
submarine' out in the yard - either front or back - or any sign of digging
or digging equipment.
He registers a mysterious sound coming faintly from the house. No lights,
just a sound. The sound is mysterious only in that the new context
prevents him from identifying it at first. He reaches the porch and
realizes that he is hearing the sound of the phone ringing. So the new
phone is actually there. Good. He pulls the porch door slowly open against
the snow. Yes, the phone is there on the wall of the pantry, exactly as
he'd pictured it. Even down to the particular sound of the ring, a
percussive, washboard 'tat-tat-tat'.
He must have been spotted by someone. Probably Cliff calling, or his
secretary. If it's Cliff, he needs to be firm. He pauses to prepare
himself. He pulls off the ski mask. Again comes an odd worry - that he
will pick up the phone and hear his own hello-from-the-hinterlands voice
back in Indiana. Although, at this point, what the hell, get it over and
build a fire. If he has somehow psychically flipped into a moody, winter
island alter, so be it.
He picks up the phone.
Nothing.
Gerald: Hello?
Nothing. Faint breathing or the sound of wind or water lapping,
shell-like, or the habitual sound of his father and grandfather making
their harrumph swallowing noises before speaking, as if preparing to speak
from the Beyond.
Gerald: Hello? Who are you trying to reach?
Woolen's fiction was previously published in the
Massachusetts Review, the Mid-American
Review, and the Tennessee Quarterly.
His first novel,
Stakeout on Millennium Drive,
won the 2006 Best Books of Indiana Fiction Prize.
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