Which in defiance of both logic and expectation it finally did, the dreaded undertow returning his father’s urn in a rush of sand and water, banging it hard against Griffin ’s anklebone, and this time his blind hands located it in the froth. He yanked the urn from the surf intact, its latches, somehow, unsprung.
Found. That was the word that leapt into his consciousness, like a synonym for triumph.
Back at the B and B Joy was packed and waiting. If she noticed the condition of his clothes, she didn’t say anything, nor did she remark on the fact that, when he popped the trunk and tossed in their bags, his father was still in the wheel well. Her silence alone was an eloquent indictment. He considered telling her that he’d stumbled on the very place where his family had vacationed when he was twelve and as a result he at last knew how to go about revising “The Summer of the Brownings.” But why should she care?
They took Route 6 as far as Hyannis, then Route 28 to Falmouth, all of it in silence. His cell phone vibrated once, but he saw it was his mother and let it go to voice mail. He was simply too dispirited to talk to her, especially with Joy in the car. Old habits like taking her calls in private were the hardest to break. In Falmouth they transferred Joy’s bag into her SUV, an act disturbing in its symbolism, since both vehicles were bound for the same destination, their home.
They headed in tandem for the Bourne Bridge, Joy in the lead. What he needed to do was think about the future, to figure out how to get back to the place they’d been the night of Kelsey’s wedding. Hard to believe, but that was just twenty-four hours ago. It felt like a lifetime, as if he and Joy had been traveling, lost, up and down the Cape forever. Odd that the future should be so difficult to bring into focus when the past, uninvited, offered itself up so easily for inspection. According to his mother, he’d pitched a fit, refusing to get into the car when it was time for them to leave the Cape that Browning summer, but that wasn’t how he remembered it at all. As his parents were loading the car, the man they’d rented the cottage from had come by to pick up the keys.
“What’s this?” his father asked when he was offered a bright red folder.
“Next year’s rates and availability,” the man told him. “You get first crack and a hundred dollars off because you stayed with us this year.”
“I don’t think we’re interested.”
The man glanced at Griffin ’s mother, then, to see if husband and wife were on the same page about this, and finally at Griffin himself. “How about you hang on to it, young fella,” he said, perhaps sensing that returning to these same cottages next summer was what Griffin wanted more than anything in the world. “In case they change their mind.”
No one had spoken a word by the time they got to the Sagamore. Griffin ’s mother looked like she meant to say nothing all the way back to the Mid-fucking-west. His father’s thumb had seemed to heal, but the splinter had resurfaced, and he’d chewed on it until the thumb became infected. It was now swollen to twice its normal size, and when the car rumbled onto the bridge, perhaps remembering that this same splinter had elicited sympathy a fortnight earlier, he tried to show it to Griffin ’s mother, but she just looked away. He should’ve quit right then, but knowing when to give up wasn’t one of his father’s strong suits. “Am I running a fever?” he said, leaning across the seat so Griffin ’s mother could feel his forehead. “I’m burning up, aren’t I?”
But she just continued to stare out the window.
“Fine,” his father said, leaning back, his brow untouched. “Just great.”
“Just great,” Griffin now echoed as the Bourne Bridge appeared in the distance. Feeling feverish himself, he put a hand to his forehead, but of course you really needed someone else for an accurate read. If Joy had been in the seat next to him, and he’d asked, she wouldn’t have refused him. He knew that much. But even though nothing in the world would have made him happier right then than the gift of her cool touch, he also knew he wouldn’t have asked her. Because even if he did have a temperature, it would feel like trying to elicit sympathy he didn’t deserve, his father’s son.
A hundred yards from the Bourne, his phone vibrated again. Seeing who it was, he pulled onto the shoulder and answered, just as Joy’s SUV climbed up onto the bridge and disappeared from sight.
“I think I found out what Sid had for you,” Tommy told him. “You remember Ruben Hand? Ruby?”
The name rang a vague bell, but…
“We were going to write that film for him back in the day, but the money went south? Anyway, he’s in TV now. He’s got this made-for-cable movie thing, some story about a college professor. Sid apparently pitched you.”
“You know this how?”
“My guy pitched me. If we could convince Ruby we’re right, we could do it together. Take six to eight weeks, ten at the outside. You’d be back grading your grammar exercises by Labor Day. Decent money. Possible series to follow if it works.”
“Ruby Hand. The guy I’m remembering was an asshole.”
“That’s right, a producer.”
“I’m in the car right now. How about I talk to Joy and call you back when I get home.”
“Not to influence you, but I could use the gig.”
“Okay if I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Are you still in love with Joy?”
Not even a second’s hesitation. “Sure,” said his old friend. “Aren’t you?”
Such a simple question. Such a simple answer. Yet somehow, sitting there in the shadow of the Bourne Bridge, he’d managed to twist it all around. To make it instead a question of whether Joy still loved him. If she did, he told himself, she’d be waiting for him on the other side. Years ago, finally leaving L.A., they’d made the journey in two cars loaded down with things they didn’t trust to the movers. That was before cell phones, of course, but after the first day they had it down to a science, each intuiting when the other was going to need to stop for gas or food or the lavatory. They tried to stay close, within sight of each other, and whoever was in the lead would periodically check the rearview mirror and, if the other car wasn’t there, slow down or pull over until it caught up. Would Joy remember? Had she seen him pull over? If so, she’d be waiting for him on the other side. Or, more likely, farther on. By now, he was sure, she’d have checked her mirror, and noticed he wasn’t there.
Turning off his cell, he put it back in the cup holder. He didn’t want to talk to her on the phone. There’d been too much talk already. He just wanted to see her off on the shoulder, waiting for him, concerned for his well-being. If she pulled over, he’d know that whatever was between them could be worked out.
Carefully pulling out into traffic, he climbed onto the Bourne, passing the sign-DESPERATE?-a group called the Samaritans put there to discourage leapers. From the elevated midpoint of the bridge, he could see a steady stream of cars that reached almost a mile down the highway, but none were off on the shoulder. Half an hour later he switched his cell back on, hoping to see that he’d missed a call, but none had come in.