Page 50 of Dead of Summer

THE SALTY CRAB

You can’t live trying to avoid all the bad things in the world.

There’s no place you can safely hide and not enough money that will truly protect you.

That’s what Faith’s mother had told her back at their local dive bar, and it’s what Faith and Henry mused about later after everything had finally settled down, when fall came and reclaimed the island for the locals.

Henry had been a fool to try and hide from what happened fifteen years ago.

But there is still a chance for a fresh start.

And for the first time he feels a lightness in his step as he makes his way through town toward the Crab.

Henry gets the occasional look from a local as he walks through town or helps Jean in the bar.

Some of them, especially those who are drunk enough, will ask him questions about that night or the other more recent one, the night when he redeemed himself—or so the gossip went—by saving two girls from drowning.

Though Henry never saw it that way. He didn’t need redemption.

He will answer them honestly and quickly, moving along to change over a keg or ring someone through at the till.

Most people say nothing. He can only see the curiosity in their eyes when they look at him a beat longer than normal.

But he’ll take it. You can’t please everyone. Any place can be hell, even paradise.

He does the books for Jean these days, taking stock of kegs of beer and frozen bags of french fries, of payrolls and the quarters inside the pool table.

It’s fulfilling in its own way. He likes the rhythm of it, the regularity with which he sees people.

They all tell him their business now, freely.

The novelty of saying hi to local passersby hasn’t yet dulled.

He’s even had a few dinners out and has been relieved to find his table manners intact.

Though he misses it sometimes, his old view of the houses lit from within like a Christmas village lined up on a mantelpiece, Henry has been surprised at the relief he feels in being away from the Rock.

If not for the events of last summer, he might never have left.

The house is falling down now, the stilts sagging and bent.

Henry is getting ready to tear it down. The island will be Margie’s memorial.

“Hi, Henry,” Faith says, sliding into a stool in front of him. “Good to see you.”

Henry was surprised that she’d stayed on with Alice after the Fourth, sharing a rental in town.

Alice had some things to take care of, and Faith hadn’t seen any reason to leave.

She wanted to support her friend. And there was the matter of Geoffrey’s impending trial.

In the wake of David’s death, he’d tried to pin it all on his son, but his influence had begun to crumble the moment Gemma spoke into the camera the following morning.

She has a flair for the dramatic, it turns out.

And a face for television, according to Faith.

“How’s Orla lately?” Jean asks, tucking a bar towel into her apron.

“She’s doing fine. Expected to make a full recovery,” Alice, who has seated herself beside Faith, assures Jean and Henry. “We’ll see if our relationship does too. Doubtful.”

“I still feel awful about what happened,” Faith admits. “God, I just wanted to get away from that family. I never wanted him to die . David never really had a chance at a normal life.”

“He had plenty of chances,” Alice reminds her. “All his life.”

Jean slides a drink toward them.

“Is that…?” Henry starts, a laugh beginning in his throat.

“Disgusting.” Alice shudders. “The smell, I can’t.”

“We don’t judge here,” Jean says, looking down the bar at Walter. “Not even people who fraternize with the enemy.”

Henry has stopped with the logbooks. He no longer feels compelled to keep them.

Perhaps he needed them once to keep himself from fading.

To prove he was still here. He doesn’t need that anymore.

The village does it for him. There were more than a few apologies when Henry returned to the island.

“We always knew you weren’t to blame,” a few of them said.

Did they? Maybe not. But Henry doesn’t have the time or energy to be cynical.

Who knows what he would have thought if he’d been in their shoes?

For now, he takes in their goodwill gladly, letting it heal him.

He knows that there are two sides to living someplace so small.

The downsides are obvious—the isolation, the tedium, the relentless gossip.

But there are invisible benefits to everyone around you knowing your business.

It means that there are always people you can call for help, people who know you well enough they can tell your stories for you long after you are gone.