Page 5 of Dead of Summer

HENRY

Now that people are returning to the island for the season, Henry’s days have become busy.

There is so much to keep track of. Families are arriving on the ferry and people are congregating at the beach.

The restaurants along the pier are open for the first time this year.

They are all filling up, their back patios lively with people drinking martinis and eating oysters over the water.

After a long and dreary spring, all the activity always fills him with a newfound sense of vitality and optimism.

Soon all the summer residents will have arrived, along with a fresh boatload of tourists every day, and the island will be so active that Henry will have trouble keeping up with his logbooks.

This is his favorite time of year. When his mind is occupied, and he can let himself get lost in the comings and goings, when he can, for a brief time, forget about the past.

“It’s not nice to spy on people, Henry,” Margie’s voice comes from behind him, scolding.

His wife has never liked him watching through the telescope.

Though she’s never turned down a piece of gossip that was offered to her.

Despite her disapproval, his passion for watching the people of Hadley has only grown over time, turning into more of an obsession.

A need. So much so that he feels as though he personally knows each of the families whose homes he can see on the shoreline.

He is invested in all the lives he can see.

It is what happens when you don’t have much of a family of your own, he supposes.

It’s natural he should want to connect. No harm in it.

That’s what he tells himself anyway. Even though a part of him knows that it’s wrong.

Henry knows, for example, that Marty Fredrick’s wife has recently started going to sleep in a different bedroom.

And that Penny Gallagher spends most of her nights in her bathrobe staring sadly into the glow of her computer screen.

And he knows that little Mary Elizabeth—well, not so little anymore, she must be nearly sixteen—has a boyfriend.

He’s seen her duck out though her bedroom window onto the porch roof and climb down the trellis to meet him.

He’s watched the two of them kissing down by the water, their bodies mashing together, arms groping in the dark, where they think no one can see.

He hears the newspaper rustling on Margie’s lap. She tuts disapprovingly.

They built the Rock on high stilts, which are anchored precariously atop a craggy piece of shale that cleaves up through the sound.

It had been nearly a decade in the making for Henry, a retirement present for the both of them, he’d said when at age fifty-five the house was finally completed, and his pension had started.

Once a local contractor, Henry wanted to make something special for Margie.

He’d planned it all meticulously, even teaching himself to make rudimentary architectural sketches.

The construction of it over nearly ten years had presented so many challenges—electricity and plumbing and permits—that he nearly gave up, but Margie always encouraged him to keep going.

“It’s a masterpiece, Henry,” she’d said when it was finally done, and he’d brought her to see it for the first time.

He beamed with pride as she took his arm and he walked her around the house.

He had carefully considered every detail, a galley kitchen with tile the colors of sea glass that faced a wide, open living room with enough space on one side for their large dining table.

A bedroom off the back had a skylight above the bed.

The wood floor was reclaimed from the old pier, taken down by a storm, sanded into imperfect strips that he’d carefully arranged to match up.

The ceiling also was crossed by two large beams that had once belonged to an old fishing vessel.

An iron woodstove in one corner, a beast to bring up the narrow steps, would pump out enough heat to keep them snug in the winter.

It was a space at once airy and cozy and when the windows were open it felt like being at sea.

He’d designed the layout to be open so that no matter where the other was in the house they’d be together, able to banter back and forth, the way they liked.

Henry had watched with pride as Margie walked around the open floor plan, marveling at the view from the wall of wide-paned windows in the sitting area.

She threw open the French doors and went out on the deck, leaning over the railing and closing her eyes as she felt the fine spray from the water on her face.

“A sanctuary, truly. I never want to leave.” Margie had turned to him and smiled.

She didn’t know that soon she wouldn’t really have a choice.

Now the windows provide the perfect vantage point for watching the comings and goings of the houses on the western shore of Hadley Island.

If anyone knew Henry was watching them, they’d probably put in window shades, which would be a shame.

But no one has ever known about Henry’s little hobby. Except Margie.

“You’re going to have to go down there again soon and take care of things,” Margie says.

“Yes, dear,” he replies noncommittally, hoping she’ll let it go. He is watching the ferry come in. The upper deck is nearly full today. He leans in, squinting to see if he can recognize any of them.

“The sediment’s probably washing away after that last full moon tide. It’ll become a liability soon.” She presses. “Any boat that’s passing could see if they looked hard enough.”

“I heard you,” he says impatiently and holds up a hand, trying to shush her. A mistake. Henry should know by now never to shush his wife.

“You know it’s true. I’m just trying to take care of us.” Margie’s voice is clipped. He can tell he’s hurt her feelings. And moreover, he knows she’s right.

“I’m sorry. I’ll go soon,” he says quietly, a hard lump in his chest. He turns his attention back to the ferry, but he’s missed it docking and the passengers have already scattered around the village.

“What do you see?” she finally asks.

“Well, the Clarkes are back for the summer,” he says, knowing it will get her worked up enough to hopefully leave the other topic behind. She coughs, and it rattles like a warning in the back of her throat. Henry winces.

“Those monsters,” she says. At one point he would have told her she was overreacting. But this time Henry doesn’t correct her.