COLLEGE DAYS
IT WASN’T A long drive, just over two hours, and my father kept a running conversation all the way about the perils and pitfalls I was to avoid once I got there. No drinking, no drugs, and, most of all, no girls. I was to focus on my studies and do him, my mother, and the island proud.
By the time we arrived at the dorm, my other two roommates had already claimed the more desirable beds and desks. Archie was from Bangor and looked like a jock. Ken, my other roommate, was from Wiscasset. He was a gangly kid with long hair and wire-rimmed glasses. My father eyed him suspiciously and, before leaving, took me aside once again, to lecture on the evils of pot and other psychedelic drugs. He also was sure to remind me that the whole island was counting on me.
I nodded; glad when his harangue was finally over. I’d said “Yes, sir” more times that I could count.
My mom’s lower lip trembled as she tried to hold back tears when she said goodbye. My dad shook my hand and, cornering me with a steely gaze, said, “You remember what I told you, boy. Do us proud.”
I nodded one last time and uttered one more “Yes, sir,” then gave him a manly hug and sent them on their way.
Back in the dorm room, finally on my own, I tried to get acquainted with my roommates.
“You from one of the islands?” asked Archie.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Cutter.”
“Must be cool,” said Ken. “You work on a boat in the summer?”
“Yup—my dad’s. He lobsters during the season and drags for scallops in the winter. We do all right.”
“Yeah. My dad works at one of the boatyards in Wiscasset. He’s an accountant. You on scholarship?”
I nodded.
“Me, too. Where they got you working?”
“Student Union . . . waiting tables.”
“Cool. I’m there, too. What about you, Archie?”
The big guy smiled. “I’m on athletic scholarship—football. My work will be on the playing field. Hey, you guys want to take a walk over by the girls’ dorm and check out the action?”
It was college in the late sixties and I relished it. Things were cool. Girls wore their hair long and straight; tall leather boots, bell-bottom jeans, and floppy hats completed the look.
I let my hair grow, much to my mother’s chagrin, and wore it tied back in a ponytail. I became good friends with Ken, who was also an English major and while he sported the hippie look, he, like me, was focused on making it to graduation with honors. We shared many of the same classes and double-dated often.
Late in our freshman year, Archie pledged one of the jock frats and, as soon as allowed, he moved from the dorm to their house, leaving an empty bed in our room. As luck would have it, just as soon as Ken and I got used to having the extra space, they moved in another guy. His name was Russell and he was a real party animal . . . out late every night, drinking and carousing. More often than not, he’d invite his friends to our room for a party and Ken and I found ourselves spending more time at the library to avoid them.
As much as I loved college, I was surprised that first year at how much I missed the island. There were days when I longed to run on the beach and climb the craggy black rocks that circled my home. My parents came to visit often, my father always bringing me some article about the dangers of drugs and the hippie lifestyle. However, even though I wore my hair long, he didn’t have anything to worry about. I was focused on my studies and, like a sponge, tried to absorb as much knowledge as possible.
And still, I wrote to Andi, although the frequency decreased. What had been once a week when I was in high school, now stretched to twice a month and, sometimes, during exams, only once. But the letters themselves were longer and, I believe, richer.
My junior year, I left the dorm and rented an apartment with Ken and another guy named Ross. We were all considered nerds by the best of college norms, spending most of our free time at the library or at “art” theaters watching the latest foreign or independently produced films. I dated some, but never found a girl I wanted to start a relationship with. I guess, in the back of my mind, I was keeping the hope alive that Andi would contact me and that, someday, we would meet again.
It was a cold, blustery day in late October when my hopes and prayers were finally answered. I was sitting at my desk, working on a paper for my creative writing class, when Ross came in, the mail in hand.
“Man, it’s getting cold out there,” he exclaimed as he pulled off his jacket and tossed it on the couch. “Think this winter’s goin’ to be a bitch.”
He dropped his lanky frame onto the couch, propping his feet up on the coffee table. “You got a letter, Jake-O,” he drawled. “Coming from the great state of Massachusetts. Now, who do we know that lives there? Could it be that chick you’re always writing to?”
I froze, my heart leaping into my throat. I took a deep breath and, trying to act cool, I turned in my chair toward him.
“You don’t say,” I replied, my voice shaking slightly. “Hand it over.”
Grinning, Ross handed me a brown, eight-by-ten envelope. The postmark was Brighton, Massachusetts and the return address was one I knew very well: It was the psychiatric hospital where Andi was a patient.
With shaking fingers, I tore it open.
Inside were two items: the first a sealed envelope and, the second, a letter from a Dr. Julius Brown.
I stared at the unopened envelope. It was the last letter I had written to Andi, now returned to me, unread. I placed it aside and opened the doctor’s letter.
“Dear Jake,” it began. “I hope you don’t mind if I call you ‘Jake.’ Having shared so many of your letters with Andrea (Andi to you), I feel as if I know you. However, now it is my task to inform you that she is no longer a patient here at the hospital. She has been discharged and, thus, I am returning your latest letter.
“Unfortunately, because of patient-doctor privilege, that is all I can tell you. She has left my care and is getting on with her life and has asked me to urge you to do the same. She is a fine young lady who I feel will do well on the outside.
“On a personal note, I have to tell you that your letters were greatly appreciated. In fact, because of them, next summer my wife and I plan to spend a month touring your beautiful state. Hopefully, we will have the chance to visit many of the places you described so vividly.
“Good luck to you, young man. I feel you have a marvelous future ahead of you.”
The letter was signed, “Dr. Julius Brown, Psychiatrist-in-Residence, Brighton Psychiatric Hospital.”
I stared at the letter until the words began to blur, then crumpled it into a ball and threw it, along with the one I’d written, into the trashcan. Without a word, I rose and left the apartment.
Once outside, the wind, which now had the first real bite of winter to it, swirled around me. But the cold air was nothing next to the icy chill that gripped my heart. I stood on the stoop for I don’t know how long, feeling as if I’d lost something . . . something I would never regain.
Then, I ran.
I don’t know how far I ran or for how long, but it was dusk when I finally stopped. I looked around. I was outside the narrow brick stairwell to the basement of the Chemistry building where the labs were housed. The wind, more than just biting now, whipped around me, causing the dead, decaying leaves at the bottom of the stairs to dance in the air. My hands were freezing. In an attempt to get out of the cold, I ran down the stairs and sat on the bottom step, hugging my knees to my chest. My body trembled violently, not only from the bitter wind, but from the grip of despair that held me tightly in its grasp.
Time seemed to stand still as I sat in that dank, dirty stairwell and unashamedly wept for what I’d lost on a deserted beach the summer when I was just sixteen.
But as a part of me drowned in sorrow, another part knew that I had also gained something that summer—something that would eventually shape the man I was to be. Without Andi, I would never have made it to this place and, sitting in that stairwell among the used condoms and decaying leaves, I knew what I had to do.
I stood, resolved, brushing the dirt and debris from my jeans. Taking a deep breath, I slowly climbed the stairs and returned to my apartment where I sat down at my typewriter and began.
All these memories came rushing back as I stood in the bow of the ferry watching that skinny kid, a lobster trap in his hands, stare at the boat with longing. My wife placed her hand on my arm, bringing me back to reality.
“Jake?” she asked. “Are you sure you can handle this? You’re crying.”
I reached up and touched my cheek, surprised to find my fingertips wet with tears. I looked down at her hand.
“Just memories. Sometimes they creep up on you, you know. I’m okay.”
My elder boy tugged at my shirt sleeve. “Dad,” he exclaimed, “I think we’re going to hit the dock!”
I laughed and tousled his hair. “No, we won’t hit it. The captain knows what he’s doing. He’s done it hundreds of times before. We’ll be okay. Now, look over there. See that big guy standing on the wharf . . . the one in the blue work shirt?”
My boy nodded. “He has a beard like Santa Claus.”
I had to laugh. My brother, James, was indeed sporting a long, full beard.
“That’s your uncle,” I said. “We’ll be staying at his house. Wave to him.”
My boy did as I asked and my brother, laughing, waved back.
I took my boy’s hand as we waited for the captain to announce landfall and give us permission to debark. And, as this part of our journey ended, my mind, once again, became clouded over with memories.
I spent the remainder of my junior year using every spare minute to write. The story I started the night I received the letter from the hospital flowed through me and, at times, it seemed as if some otherworldly force had entered my brain, insisting its story be told. By the beginning of my final year in college, I had the first draft done. Not knowing what else to do, I took it to one of my professors.
“So, you’ve written a novel, Jake,” he said with a smile. “Do you have an editor?”
“No, sir,” I answered. “I was hoping you might be able to find time to take a look at it.”
“I’m flattered,” he replied. “You’re a good writer. One of the best I’ve had in my class for a long time. I’ll give it a look-see and let you know what I think.”
He took the manuscript from me and slid it into his briefcase.
“I’ve got to warn you, however,” he said. “I’m a pretty tough editor. I hope you can take criticism.”
“I can, sir. And thank you.”
About two weeks later, I received a message from him asking me to meet at the Student Union the next afternoon. I found him sitting at a table, a cup of coffee in hand and my manuscript laying in front of him.
“Take a seat, Jake,” he said as he sipped his drink. “I read your book.”
I nodded and braced myself for the harsh criticism I knew was coming.
“Yes, sir. What did you think?”
He smiled. “It’s good. No, it’s better than good. It’s remarkable. Of course, it’s got some rough spots; several, in fact. It’ll need a good deal of rewriting and editing, but it’s good.”
He handed the manuscript to me. “I’ve made notes in the margins where I think you need the most work. Take it home. Look at it with fresh eyes. When you’re done—and you’ll know when you’re done—bring it back to me. If you make it as good as I think you can, I’ll talk to a friend of mine who’s a literary agent and see if he’d be willing to read it. It may not end up being a bestseller, but I think it will start you on your way.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. He liked it—called it “remarkable.”
I stammered a “thank you,” shook his hand, and stood to leave.
“Don’t go without the manuscript, Jake,” he laughed. “I think you’re going to need it.”
“Yes, sir!” I said, blushing, as I took my book from his hand. “I’ll get it back to you.”
He grinned. “Take your time, boy. Good literature can’t be rushed.”
Of course, he was right. It wasn’t until six weeks before graduation that I had the manuscript completed to my satisfaction. After that, I let it sit a week, then I re-read it.
It was done.
I took it right over to my professor, hoping he hadn’t forgotten about me. He accepted the edited version, saying he would take it home with him that evening to read over the weekend. He called me late Sunday night.
“You did it, Jake,” he said. “You made it the best it could be. With your permission, I’ll pass a copy on to my agent friend. You got a pencil? Here’s his name and number. I’ll tell him to contact you directly after he’s read it. Good luck to you. I expect the next time I see this novel, it will be in a bookstore window.”
And that, as they say, was that. Two weeks later, the agent called and sent off a contract for me to sign. After that, it was a waiting game.
I graduated with honors. My parents and brother came to watch me get my diploma and then, we went home to Cutter. I spent the next month on the island, helping my dad and just enjoying life.
I landed a job at one of the local mainland newspapers in the editorial division. It was tedious work, but I spent most of my spare time writing. The commute was difficult, so I left home and rented an apartment in town, only returning to the island on weekends.
I began dating one of the office secretaries and, for a while, thought that she might be “the one.” However, when she unceremoniously dumped me for one of the sexier crime reporters, I knew it wasn’t to be.
Summer soon gave way to fall and I wondered if I would ever hear from my agent. I sent off several of my short stories to various publications and was pleased when one of them was accepted.
Then, one day at the newspaper office my phone rang. It was the agent. He had presented my novel to a well-respected but small publisher and it had been accepted. He went on to describe the details of the contract and the timeline for publication. Needless to say, I was totally blown away. My novel might actually make it to the bookstores, just like my professor envisioned.
My first call was to my parents and we planned a big celebration for the upcoming weekend. However, fate intervened and that party was never to be. My father, while working on his boat, had a massive heart attack and died almost instantly. He was only fifty-four years old.
The funeral was held on the island and the place that had once held so much wonder for me now seemed dark and foreboding. After the interment, I went home to the mainland vowing never to set foot on the place again.
Two months later, my mother, unable to pay the hefty taxes on our waterfront property, sold the family home for an outrageous sum of money and moved to a townhouse in upscale Falmouth Foreside. My brother stayed on the island. He lobstered full-time and had become engaged to a local girl, one we’d known since we were kids.
I remained on the mainland, working and writing. By the end of the year, my mother announced she was remarrying. The man, a retired stockbroker, was, in my opinion, a blowhard and a braggart and I had no use for him. My book was coming out the next month and, throwing caution to the wind, I packed my bags, hopped in my Chevy convertible, and headed west. I was California-bound . . . searching for the good life, far away from my island home, and the memories of my life there that haunted me.
I got a job teaching at a local community college in Southern California. My book was published and received some very good critical reviews. It was not by any means a bestseller, but it was in bookstores and on weekends I did readings and signings. My next book, a mystery, destined to be the first of a series, was a more commercial success. I was reviewed by the New York Times and not found wanting. However, I continued to teach and, at a faculty party, met the woman who later that year would become my bride.
Amanda (Mandy to me) was a math teacher and very methodical, not like me at all. But somehow our yin and yang seemed to mesh. We dated for six months before I popped the question. Happily, she replied “yes” and we were married in a civil ceremony two weeks later. Three months after the wedding, she announced she was pregnant with our first son.
The marriage was a good one, based on mutual respect. And, while it might not have been the most passionate of couplings, it was solid and I considered her my best friend.
I was writing the third novel in my mystery series and royalties were coming in to supplement our teaching salaries. The frosting on the cake was when Hollywood beckoned, optioning the first book in my series.
Life was good. Our second son came along and Mandy retired from teaching to become a stay-at-home mom. I continued at the college and turned to writing the screenplay for the second novel in my series. The movie based on the first one, while not a critical success, was popular with teens and the studio was anxious to start on the second installment. There was even talk of a potential television series based on the main character.
About this time, Mandy began asking about my family back east and suggesting we travel there for a visit. She made the argument that it would be good for the boys to know where I came from and that they also would benefit from meeting their cousins and spending time with their grandmother. She kept at it until, reluctantly, I agreed. My brother still lived on Cutter, now married with two kids. We’d kept in touch so he wasn’t surprised when I called. But the subject of my call caught him off guard.
“How would you and ’Tilda like some company this summer?” I asked.
“Huh,” he replied. “You mean you?”
I had to laugh. “Yes, me and the family. Mandy wants to see where I grew up and it would be good for the boys to know their cousins. If you don’t have room, we can stay at the inn or rent a cottage.”
He only hesitated for a moment. “We’d be happy to have you. I just put up a little guest cottage behind the main house. The kids use it as a fort. You and Amanda can bunk there. The boys can stay in our spare room. When were you thinking of coming?”
“July 1st,” I said. “I’ll let you know the exact time after I make the reservations. Is Mom still with that jerk?”
My brother laughed. “Yeah, Nils is still in the picture . . . pompous bastard. But I guess he’s good to her. She’ll be glad to see you. It’s been a while.”
“Yeah, I know. Listen, I won’t keep you. I’ll call when our plans are set. Okay?”
We exchanged a few more pleasantries before signing off. Mandy, who was listening from the doorway, came up behind me, putting her arms around my waist.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I know this isn’t easy for you, but it will be good. You’ll see.”
I turned to face her, nuzzling her neck.
“I think you owe me one,” I said as I pulled her close.