Catch of the Day

“Angry? Are you sure? I mean, I can’t think of why he’d be mad.”

Mrs. Kandinsky stops on a station. Linda Blair’s head rotates around as Father Damian looks on in horror. “Oh, look, Maggie! The Exorcist is on! Damn it all to hell, I’ve missed the first part!”

“Mrs. K.,” I say, trying to steer her back to our conversation, “did Malone say anything?”

“Hmm? Oh, the angry man? Malone, you say his name is? Well, yes, I told him I didn’t know where you were, and he said he’d see you soon.”

“That doesn’t sound angry,” I say.

“Oh, my! Isn’t she hideous,” Mrs. K. croons appreciatively. “My word.”

“Okay, well, this one is too scary for me.” The priest, however, is quite good-looking, but I have enough good-looking priests in my life. “I’m gonna go, Mrs. K. Enjoy the movie.” She doesn’t acknowledge me as I kiss her goodbye, too engrossed in the terror on the telly. I head up to my apartment.

There’s no note or phone message from Malone. I pick up the phone book, look up his number and call. The line is busy. Fifteen minutes later, I try again. Still busy. The idea that Malone can speak for this long is somewhat surprising. Certainly, he never speaks to me that much. No, we seem to have other things to do than speak.

Well. He said he’d see me soon. Maybe he wasn’t angry. What does he have to be angry about, anyway? It’s not like I was out with my boyfriend…Father Tim is a friend, and I don’t have to feel guilty about having a cuppa joe with him. Besides, he needed me. He was lonely. We spent an hour talking. Just talking. Nothing to feel guilty about at all.

Out of curiosity, I check the Internet dating site I visited last time. The messages haven’t changed. The god is still seeking his goddess, the angry husband is still angry.

“Come on, Colonel,” I say to my dog. “Let’s go to bed.”

I take the phone into the bedroom with me, but Malone doesn’t call.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“FOOSH,” Violet says, patting Colonel. “Mubba.”

“That’s close, honey,” I tell her. “It’s doggy. Can you say doggy?”

She opts to kiss Colonel instead, leaving him with a large wet spot on his side and her with a mouthful of fur. Colonel wags his beautiful tail as Christy swoops in with a tissue, smiling and grimacing at the same time.

“You love Colonel, don’t you, Violet?” she asks. “He’s a nice dog.”

“Maggie, for heaven’s sake, don’t let the baby lick that dirty animal,” my mother says.

“Colonel is not dirty,” I snap. “He’s immaculate. Look at that coat. People stop us in the street to tell me how beautiful he is. I brush him every?”

“Christy, there’s still a hair on her lip. There you go. Come here, Violet.” My mother appropriates the baby, taking her off to an area free from germs and dog hair. We’ve gathered for our command family dinner, and while my mother is a fine cook, I feel as welcome as a cockroach in a salad. Dad is in the den, reading and hiding, and Will, Christy and I sit in the living room, waiting for our summons to the table.

“She’s really on my case these days,” I tell Christy.

“I’ll say,” Will agrees. “That’s all we hear about at work.”

“Are you kidding me?” I ask. “She talks about me at your office?”

Christy shoots Will the “shut up” glare, and he pretends he doesn’t hear me and reads the paper instead.

At that moment, my brother bursts through the door. “You’ll never guess what happened today,” he blurts.

“Three women came to your doorstep, announcing that you’re the father of their babies,” I guess.

“No. Stop joking around, it’s serious.” He flops down into a chair. “Malone went overboard.”

“What?” Christy and I bark simultaneously. Panic floods my limbs, and it feels like my heart drops to my knees.

“He was pulling up a pot, and this Masshole came by in a speed boat, tangled the line, and bam. Malone went right over.”

“So what happened? Is he okay?” I ask my brother. Adrenaline makes my joints feel too loose and electrified.

“Masshole?” Will murmurs. He’s from away, having only moved to Maine during his residency.

“Massachusetts tourist,” Christy tells him.

“Jonah, is he all right?” I repeat. My palms are slick with sweat.

“He’s all right,” Jonah says. “He wasn’t caught in the line, thank God, but he was in the water for about twenty minutes, half an hour. Got wicked cold.”

The water in the Gulf of Maine is cold enough to cause death if you’re in it long enough. Every few years, it seems, a lobsterman drowns when he goes overboard, tangled in the line that connects his pot to the buoy. Even if they don’t get pulled under, an arm caught in the line can be torn right off. Or sometimes they simply can’t climb back aboard. A lot of lobstermen work alone, especially in the off season.

“Was he wearing a survival suit?” I manage weakly.

“No,” Jonah says grimly. “Just his coveralls. Must be colder than a witch’s tit.”

“But he’s okay?” I insist.

“Yeah, yeah. He’s fine. Still out there, though,” Jonah said. “Fuckin’ foolish if you ask me. Said he still had to check his traps. At least he had a change of clothes.”

Christy turns to look at me.

“Mom, I gotta go,” I call, standing up. My knees are weak and sick-feeling, and I stagger a little, knocking into the coffee table.

“Maggie, God, you are still the gawmiest girl,” she says from the kitchen. “What do you mean, you’re leaving? I’ve already set the table.”

“Gawmy is clumsy, right?” Will asks.

“Right,” my father tells him, emerging from the den. “And you’re not, sweetheart.” He pats my head as I shove my arms into my coat.

It’s nearly dark by the time I reach the harbor. Malone’s boat isn’t back yet, and the adrenaline continues to zing through my joints. As I stand on the boardwalk, looking down at the many berths, Billy Bottoms come along. He’s a fifth-generation lobsterman and looks the part?white hair, chiseled, leathery face, crisp, snowy beard. In the summer, tourists often ask to take his picture, and his accent puts the rest of us Mainahs to shame.

“Hello theah, Maggie.”

“Hey, Billy,” I answer. “Listen, did you hear what happened today?”

“About Malone? Ayuh. He’s not back yet.”

“So what happened?” I ask.

“Some flatlandah was flyin’ by in a sweet little corker. Buoys so thick you could walk home, but this guy don’t care. Seems Malone was haulin’ a pot when his line got picked up by the out-a-townah and he got pulled in. Flatlandah didn’t even stop. Your brother saw the boat circlin’, came over to see what was what. Said Malone was madder than a bucketful a’ snakes.”

“Shit,” I whisper. “He could have died.”

“Well, now, Maggie, most of us go ovah at one time or anothah. Malone’s fine, I’m sure.” He pats my shoulder. “You have a good night, now, Maggie, deah.”

The images in my head are too terrifying. Malone being towed to the bottom of the ocean by his weighty trap. Malone trying helplessly to climb back aboard the Ugly Anne until his strength is sapped away by the cold. His head slipping under, his body floating?

I can’t bear those thoughts. Before I’ve fully decided what to do, I’m running to the diner, Colonel loping happily at my side, and burst in through the kitchen door. Among the items in the freezer are a quart of potato soup and an apple pie. I grab them, add a block of cheddar and a loaf of pumpernickel and bag them up, then head for Malone’s.

That will be just the thing, I think as I climb the hill. A house filled with the smell of hot apple pie, a hearty soup simmering on the stove, a sympathetic woman and an excellent dog. What could be a nicer homecoming? Certainly, it’s what I’d want after a shitty day. Aside from the woman thing, of course.

His house is locked, which presents a problem. I put the food on the porch and walk around, wondering if there’s a spare key hidden in an obvious place, like under a doormat or in a pot, under a rock near the porch. No such luck. But in the back, the window is cracked, and without too much struggle, I lift the window and manage to boost myself in, flopping onto the floor with the grace of a dying haddock. But I’m in.

After I bring in the food, preheat the oven and find a pot, I take a look around. I’ve only been here twice, I realize, and I haven’t seen much of the house. Not that there’s much to see. It’s a bungalow, three rooms downstairs, a bedroom and bathroom upstairs. It’s a bit sloppier than last time; there are dishes in the sink, a cup and plate in the living room. It’s chilly, too. After a dip in the frigid Atlantic, Malone shouldn’t have to come home to a cold house.

Because I’m a Maine native, I have no problem starting a fire in the woodstove. I tidy up the pile of newspapers in the woodbin and refold the afghan and drape it over the couch.

There are a few photos here and there; snapshots of a younger Malone and the little girl who grew into such a beauty. I study the photos, unable to see Catherine Zeta-Jones in the chubby-faced child. Well. People change. I touch Malone’s image, his chipped tooth smile makes my chest tighten. A few books are scattered around the living room, and I stack them neatly on the coffee table. The Perfect Storm. Cheerful little ditty, that. In the Heart of the Sea, which apparently tells about cannibalism after a whaling accident. Jeezum. No wonder Malone scowls all the time.

Still restless, I walk past the piano, which has a light coat of dust on the top. I push a few keys. The Beethoven sheet music I saw the first time I was here is gone, replaced by a Debussy piece. It looks hard, but I never was any good at reading music, despite four years of clarinet lessons in school, so everything looks hard to me.

Malone can play the piano. So I do know something about him, I realize. He likes classical piano music. It’s a nice little fact.

Colonel is snoring quietly in the kitchen. The oven has reached four hundred and twenty-five degrees, so I brush the top of the pie with some milk, sprinkle it with sugar and pop it in. I look at the clock. It’s seven-thirty, and the temperature is dropping outside. It’ll probably be in the thirties tonight. I hope Malone gets home soon.

The dishes beckon, and as I’m still filled with nervous energy, I wash them, then figure out where they go through a process of elimination. For the most part, Malone is pretty neat. His bed isn’t made, though, and the sheets are tangled and twisted. I open a closet in the hall and find some clean flannel sheets and remake the bed.

There. I turn down the heat on the pie, set the timer, check the soup. What a nice little place this could be with a few personal touches here and there, a few more prints, maybe some better furniture…

I sit on the sofa and wrap up in the afghan. Leaning my head back, I close my eyes. Colonel comes over and sits next to me, putting his big head in my lap. Worn out from worry, I find myself getting drowsy. Poor Malone, I think. But lucky, too, because God knows he was spared today. And I’ll be waiting for him when he comes home from this terrible day, offering both comfort and company. I can’t wait to see him, to make sure he’s okay.

Some point later, I jerk awake at the sound of the door and scramble off the couch. The smell of apple pie is rich in the air. Relief and joy have me leaping off the couch. “Hi, Malone!” I call. “How are you? Are you okay?”

He stands in the doorway, his orange coveralls balled up beside him, a length of line coiled on top. He looks thinner, gaunt instead of lean, and utterly exhausted, the lines on his face seemingly carved by a heavy knife today. I’m already in the middle of the kitchen, headed straight for him, when his voice, scratchy and hoarse, cuts me off.