The scent keeper, p.24
The Scent Keeper, page 24
A few minutes later, the front door opened and an older man, tight and wiry, walked in, accompanied by a large black dog, which seemed as calm in demeanor as the man was sharp. I was surprised, not only because the two didn’t resemble each other, the way dogs and owners often do, but because I didn’t think animals were allowed inside bars. No one said anything, however, and the dog wandered through the tables like a familiar shadow. It was the same size as Dodge, even if the coloring was different, and I longed for the feel of its fur between my fingers. It was all I could do not to reach out.
The dog raised its nose, tested the air, and then came over and sat down next to me.
“Who are you?” I asked, letting my open palm run along its backbone. The dog looked up and put its chin on my knee, its eyes brown and waiting. I could feel the tears starting in mine.
“You like him?”
The man’s voice was loud and amused, as much for the room as for me. I glanced up and saw his face, too close. His eyes were the dark blue of a bruise, his mouth pulled into a smile. Behind him, I noticed a movement and saw Fisher, his eyes growing wide as he caught sight of me.
“He’s a good dog,” I said to the man, shifting back in my chair.
“I’m a good trainer,” the man said. His smile grew wider. “I could train you.” He laughed, inviting the bar to join in, but Fisher had appeared beside him.
“Knock it off, Frank,” he said. He looked at me once, quick.
“Emmeline,” he said, and for a moment the longing was there in his voice. I wanted to grab it, and him, and run away. But I wasn’t the only one who heard it.
Frank raised an eyebrow and stepped a bit closer to me. “Come on, Fisher, I’m just talking to the girl. She likes my dog…” He was grinning now, an ugly thing.
Fisher’s fist rose fast, but the man caught it in his hand. They stood there, their arms a tight bridge over me, their faces contorted. The room waited; I could feel the warmth of the dog’s breath against my leg.
With a flurry of movement, an older woman with bottle-orange hair stepped up and slapped their hands down, the shock of it more effective than force.
“What have I told you about this, Fisher?” she said.
“Wait,” I said, trying to stand, but there was no room.
The woman looked me over. “And you are…?”
“Leave her alone, Izzy,” Fisher said, turning on the woman.
“Really, Fisher?” She gave a disgusted shake of her head. “You’re gonna pull that shit on me? Okay, you and the girlfriend—out. I’ll take the bar tonight.”
The dog’s owner gave a small, victorious smile. One of the dockworkers leaned back from the bar. “Aw, come on, Izzy. Give the boy a break.”
She ignored him and flicked a dishtowel toward the bar, never taking her eyes off Fisher. “I don’t care how good you are—this is the last damn time this happens. Don’t come back until you can control yourself.”
Fisher seized my hand and headed for the door. As we left, I looked back and saw the dog’s big, dark eyes watching me.
THE BOAT
As soon as we got outside, I yanked my hand from Fisher’s and stomped down the wooden stairs toward the water.
“Hold up!” Fisher said, catching up with me as I reached the docks. I turned on him.
“You said you didn’t want to be your father,” I said, breathing hard. “I waited for you. I looked for you. And I find you here, in a bar? Getting in a fight?”
Fisher’s face flushed. “I was protecting you.”
And now he sounds like his mother, I thought.
“That turned out well,” I said, my bitterness sharp and undisguised.
He stared at me, his eyes running across my face, taking in my fury, the makeup on my face. “You’ve changed,” he said.
“No choice.” I shot the words home like the bolt of a lock. Fisher pulled back as if I’d punched him. I knew I had no right to be so cruel—I was hardly blameless. I had set so much of this in motion.
Fisher’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry,” he said.
The words fell on the dock in front of me and broke, the sound jagged and sad. And just like that, I could see my twelve-year-old self again, riding my wave of righteous indignation toward my father.
You lied, Papa. There are no mermaids.
I remembered how that wave had crashed on all of us. My father, Cleo, me. I’d been so focused on the ride, I hadn’t even tried to stop it. And here I was now, doing the same thing again.
Fisher stood in front of me, waiting.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
I took a long, shuddering inhalation, slowing my momentum. I could smell our scents reaching out toward each other, searching, slipping underneath our words, caring not at all about the ways humans tried to hurt one another. I waited for a moment, letting the air move around me—and then I knew. The question I hadn’t asked my father, the one that might have changed everything.
“Tell me why,” I said.
* * *
Everything grew still. Then Fisher spoke, slowly, gradually, as if easing himself down from a high ledge. “Okay. Can we go someplace else, though? There’s something I’d like to show you.”
When I nodded, he took us toward a wide channel that headed out of the harbor. A footpath ran along one side, and we followed it, away from the center of the city. We didn’t speak. Everything still felt raw; we needed time to let our old and new selves find their positions in the space between us. I listened to the sound of his footsteps, their familiar, steady rhythm, and I wondered how much of my Fisher was still left inside the man next to me. As his arms moved with his stride, I felt the heat of his skin come close, then swoop away. I wanted to take his hand, but then wondered who else had.
Just as I was starting to question how much farther we would go, the path opened into a wide street that ran between a row of elegant houses and a dark green slope of grass that rolled down to the channel. Out on the water, I could see a cluster of ramshackle boats—an antiquated tug, some battered fishing trawlers, a couple of bedraggled yachts, and half a dozen sailboats, their masts like a row of fingers obscenely gesturing at the houses up the hill. A part of me drew back at the sight. But there was another part of me that remembered how it felt to be different, set apart.
Fisher, of course, led me toward the boats.
When we reached the edge of the water, he whistled and a man popped his head out of the closest sailboat. A black flag hung limply from the mast, and what looked like wet laundry was draped along the railing.
“Ferry?” Fisher called out. The man clambered down a ladder into a dinghy and headed toward us, oars slapping at the water.
“Will we all fit in that thing?” I asked.
“Don’t worry,” Fisher assured me. The dinghy scraped against the shore. “This is Jim. He’s our ferryman.”
Jim clambered out of the boat. His hair was ragged and his arms were like wire. He reminded me of the men who stood on the corner by Inspire, Inc., sometimes. Victoria refused to give them money. You need to make your own way in life, she always told me as we passed. You can’t rely on anybody else.
Now Jim turned to Fisher. “Did you bring any beer?”
“Couldn’t. I got kicked out,” Fisher said. “Next time.”
“Man, you know that’s not how it works.” Closer up, Jim’s face was as craggy as cedar bark. He looked at me, head cocked, and then said, “I’ll give you a pass this time because I like her curls.”
I braced for Fisher’s reaction, but he just smiled. “Thanks, old man,” he said.
I looked over at the dinghy, which was as battered as its owner. “Seriously, it’s fine,” Fisher said to me, and Jim held out his hand.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, motioning to the back bench.
Fisher took the oars. As we approached the boats, I saw they were in even worse condition than I’d thought, rust running down the sides, blue tarps forming temporary roofs, windows sealed up with cardboard. Two of the sailboats appeared to have sails, but something told me none of the vessels had pulled up their anchors recently.
It took Fisher no more than ten good strokes of the oars to get us out there. When we arrived, Jim secured the dinghy, and we all climbed the shaky metal ladder onto his boat.
“Welcome to the Desolates,” Jim said, and I heard the note of proud defiance in his voice.
From this vantage point, I could see the boats were arranged around a floating deck made of pallets and plywood. Four mismatched plastic chairs surrounded a barbecue grill, a five-gallon jug of water, and a single terra-cotta pot with a pink geranium in it. Still life, courtesy of a yard sale.
“Thanks, Jim.” Fisher smiled at him and took my hand, gently this time. “We go here,” he said, leading the way along Jim’s deck and across a wide plank onto an old tugboat. Its once-white paint and the wood of its trim were so faded that they’d blended together into an indeterminate gray. If that vessel was a log, it would have been sprouting new trees by now.
“You live here?” I asked.
“No choice,” he said, echoing my words with a sideways smile.
He was different here. Something calmer, less obvious had replaced the roughness I’d seen in the bar, the despair he’d shown on the dock. Even as the boat rocked in the current, his feet seemed steadier.
Fisher opened the cabin door and ducked inside. I followed him, cautious, then stopped in stunned silence. Looking at the interior of the boat was like gazing at clockwork, each thing in its own, well-loved place. The wood and metal gleamed; every surface was clean. There were books, lined up along a shelf, five bottles of spices, a pot and a pan, each hanging on its own hook. Behind the kitchen I could see a cubbyhole of a room with a bed, neatly made with a plaid blanket.
“Wow,” I said, forgetting my doubts, my anger, falling back into the way he and I used to be, two children creating worlds of their own.
Fisher grinned. “I did it myself.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said. “But how does this all work?” I motioned to the boats around us, and the opulent houses beyond. I didn’t see how the two could coexist.
“We’re outside the city limits,” he said. “A couple years ago, rich people started abandoning their old boats here, and some folks thought it was a shame to let them go to waste. We’re kind of like hermit crabs.” He smiled. “Everybody wants to kick us out, but so far they can’t figure out whose jurisdiction we’re in. Thank God for bureaucracy.”
He leaned toward a cabinet. “Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got water, and water.”
* * *
We went back outside and sat on the dilapidated deck, leaning against the wall of the cabin, looking out at the canal. For a long time, we were quiet. The sky still held the light of late summer, and I could hear rustling from the boats around us, men’s voices, the sounds of cooking and settling in. In the houses that lined the channel, illuminated windows held small moments, like the open doors of an Advent calendar. A woman walking back and forth, a baby in her arms. A couple sitting at a table. A boy playing with a dog. All those stories, all those lives, each one an entire world to the person living it, and yet I knew none of them. Maybe that’s how it always is, I thought—we all just go along, catching glimpses of one another, thinking we know everything.
“Okay,” I said, turning to Fisher. “Tell me.”
He took a slow sip of water, put the bottle down. “I don’t know,” he said. I waited, and he shrugged. “Everything started out well enough, I guess. I got the job in the nursery, found a room in a shared house. It wasn’t great, but I could afford it.”
I considered the boats around us, their slow but certain future at the bottom of the water. What could wasn’t great mean?
“Why did you stop writing me?” I asked, and steeled myself for the answer.
Fisher just sighed. “I thought everything would be different. You know, away from my father. It turned out I didn’t know as much as I thought. I know about growing vegetables—but that nursery was all about fancy names and colors and landscaping.” His voice shifted to disdain. “It sucks to go to a place where you don’t know what you’re doing, day after day. Nothing I did was right. And the manager hated me from the start—said he didn’t have time to babysit.”
“What about the girl?” I asked, breaking in.
“What girl?” He looked at me, puzzled.
“The one who got you fired.”
He almost laughed. “So you do care,” he said. “Jesus, Emmeline. She was just somebody who worked there. The manager was hitting on her. I told him to leave her alone. That was all the excuse he needed to get rid of me.”
I had been wrong for so many months. So much time spent imagining, hating, longing.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
“I got fired, Emmeline. I screwed up at the only thing I thought I knew how to do. How was I supposed to tell you that?”
“I would have understood.”
“Says the girl wearing a two-hundred-dollar pair of jeans.”
I felt a sudden rush of shame, sitting on that boat, knowing where I lived. What I did.
“I’d say you’ve got a story or two to tell me yourself,” he added.
“My jeans don’t get you off the hook,” I said, though I realized that, as always, Fisher had seen more than I wanted him to.
He shook his head. “I didn’t want you to know, okay? And then later, it was just easier to be here—to be who I am here—if I could pretend you didn’t exist.”
I had a sudden vision of the blinking red light on Victoria’s answering machine. The messages piling up. The push and pull of my old and new selves.
“So, what happened?” I asked.
“I couldn’t pay my rent, so I got kicked out of there, too. I just kept walking around the city, thinking about all the things my dad used to say about me. Thinking he was probably right. I couldn’t go home like that.” He laughed, but it was more of a chuff. “I mean, I couldn’t go home, in any case. But then I saw that bar, and I went in.” He shrugged. “Turns out, I’m pretty good with alcohol. I started out bussing, and then Izzy trained me to be a bartender.”
He looked around. “A guy told me about this place, said there was an available boat. I know how it looks, but you’d be amazed. Jim used to be an aerospace engineer. Lost his wife to cancer and just fell apart. Jamie,” he nodded toward the old fishing trawler, “ran away from home, just like me. Wants to be a musician. He’s always talking about living intentionally and trying to get us to eat vegan.”
“But you’re getting paid now, right?” I asked.
As soon as I said it, I wanted to grab back the words. Fisher’s face darkened.
“I happen to like it here—and I can feed a lot of these guys on what I make. Seems like a better use of my money.”
A boat motored through the canal in front of us, new and glaringly white, slowing as the people on board pointed and stared at the enclave of moldering boats. A woman pulled out a phone and aimed it at us. Took one photo, then another. I felt Fisher tense beside me.
“You know what you learn bartending?” he said. “People never order what they really want. That lady there,” he pointed straight at the woman, who was taking another photo, this time horizontally. “She’d order a glass of chardonnay, but she’d guzzle a shot of scotch if you gave it to her.”
He stood up. “We’re not a damn tourist attraction!” he yelled. The woman’s hand dropped and the boat sped away.
I hugged my knees with my arms. Fisher glanced over, flushed, and sat back down.
“Sorry,” he said.
The wake of the departing boat rocked us toward and away from one another.
“You should have told me,” I said.
“Really? Don’t you think that’s a little hypocritical?” His voice had an edge to it. “Look,” he said, “I was wrong not to write you, and I’ve told you everything you wanted to know because I am sorry. But that’s an awful lot of stones you’re throwing from your big glass house, Emmeline. You shut me out first.”
My mind filled with the image of him standing on the trail at the turnoff to the bluff. The confusion and pain on his face. The way he’d turned around and left.
“I’ve told you everything,” he said. “Again. Will you ever do that for me?”
I still wasn’t ready, even though telling Fisher my secrets had been the reason I’d come to the city in the first place.
But he was right, I knew that. I also knew this was the last time he’d ask. He might not leave me completely, but in all the ways that mattered, he’d be gone. I’d lost almost everything I loved because of secrets—Cleo, my father, the island, Dodge, the stories in the smells. I was about to lose more, and I was sick of it.
Fisher reached out his hand and took mine. “Tell me, Em,” he said.
No, I thought. No, no, no.
I took a breath. The water stilled around us.
“I killed my father,” I said.
COCKTAILS
Fisher and I talked and talked, while the sky went black and fell asleep. I went back to the beginning of everything, told him about my father’s machine and the scent-papers, the bear and Cleo, even about pitching the bottles off the bluff.
“They were yours?” he said. “The ones that washed up on the beaches?”
I nodded.
“That one I found,” he marveled. “It came from you.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought he’d be willing to leave the island if they were gone.”
