Oyster River

Laurel, Summer 2004

Harborview House was well named. Standing on the widow's walk, Laurel looked to her left and could see the Oyster River wind between a tumble of pine covered hills on its way to the ocean. Closer by, the town of Port Harmony itself was clearly visible from her lofty perch.

She had to shake off a hint of vertigo looking down at it. She could see church steeples poking up from the tree tops and the cleared spaces of the town common and the elementary school playfields. Directly before her were the forty or so brick and clapboard buildings that comprised the quaint downtown.

She leaned on the railing and peered intently at the visible storefronts. One looked to be a coffeehouse, another was clearly a bookstore. She made a mental note to check them out when she went into town.

To the right of downtown, she looked out at the harbor, and beyond it, to the open sea. A small boat was heading toward the town landing. She could faintly hear its puttering engine as she watched it deftly pull alongside the dock. When it stopped, she gazed around the harbor area. It seemed to be a chaotic jumble of ramshackle wooden buildings, dumpsters, and boats propped up on tall jacks.

She tilted her head back and felt the sun warm her face. A cool breeze swept across the widow's walk, rustling the hem of her yellow sundress. Inhaling, she could smell the salt in the air.

She heard a sound from below her, and looked over the rail. Her mother had come out to the deck. She set a tray on the round wicker table and pulled out a chair.

"Is that ice tea?" Laurel called down.

Her mother looked up, shading her eyes from the sun. "Yes," she said, "Why don't you come down and have some? I don't like you being up there in the first place. I don't think it's safe."

Laurel rolled her eyes, but smiled and said, "I'll be right down."

She took the stairs two at a time, crossed through the dining room and emerged on to the deck. Her mother had already poured her a tall glass of tea and was dropping a lemon wedge in it when she sat down.

"I don't know why it wouldn't be safe," Laurel said, "It's been there for a couple hundred years."

"That's exactly why it isn't safe."

"The view is worth a little risk."

Her mother slowly shook her head. Then, craning her neck, she said, "Here comes your father."

The main entrance to Harborview House was on the inland side, off of Bluff Road, but on the seaward side, a steep set of stairs led from the deck to a gently sloping path down the hillside to Kittredge Street. Laurel looked over her shoulder and saw her father emerge from the top of the stairway.

"Where'd you go, Daddy?" she asked.

He held up a folded newspaper. "Down to that little store to get the Herald," he said. He sat down, opened the paper and began to peruse the front page.

"Andrew," her mother said, as she poured him a glass of tea, "Would you please tell your daughter to stay off of that balcony? I don't think it's safe."

"It's not a balcony," he replied without looking up from his paper, "It's a widow's walk."

"Why do they call it that?" Laurel asked.

He put down the newspaper, took a sip of tea, and said, "These big houses all belonged to prosperous captains in the old days, when ships from this port, and others like it, traded all over the world. Many of them had these walkways at the top of the house, where their wives could watch for the returning ships."

"But why are they called widow walks?"

"Because sometimes, the husbands, and their ships, would never return. Sometimes the wives would stand up there every day for many years, waiting in vain."

"That's really sad."

"So, what are your plans for today?" her mother asked.

"I thought I'd walk down into town take a look around."

Her mother frowned. "Honey, I really appreciate you spending your summer with us," she said, "I spent the summer after my junior year at Bryn Mawr in Italy. So I know that it's a bit of a sacrifice for you to spend yours here with us in Maine. But you know, you're our only baby and we've missed you so much while you've been away at college."

Laurel smiled, despite her resentment that her mother had brought up her summer in Italy. "That's all right, Mom," she said, "I'm not looking for excitement, I'm happy just to spend the summer relaxing."

"Good place for it," her father said, without looking up from his paper.

Laurel finished her ice tea, fetched her purse from the hall closet, gave them each a kiss and headed down the stairs.

As much as she wished she were elsewhere, Laurel had to admire the beauty of her surroundings as she walked down the gentle slope of Kittredge Street. The houses, large and rambling, all appeared to have been built in the early nineteenth century. Many had plaques beside their front doors; Collins House 1817, Morgan House 1834, Lovejoy House 1825. Each yard seemed to contain either a massive lilac bush or rhododendrons in full bloom. In every open space along the street, pink and purple lupines reached towards the clear blue sky.

Near the bottom of the slope the street curved to the right. She passed between two large brick buildings and stepped on to High Street, turning left. The building on the corner was the Town Hall. In front of it, the bronze figure of a union soldier stood, holding his rifle at parade rest.

Next to the Town Hall, a small variety store was set back from the street. Its windows were plastered with broadsheets advertising Moxie and Shipyard Ale and the Maine state lottery. She assumed this was where her father had bought his newspaper.

The other side of the street was lined with brick store fronts. She crossed over to take a closer look. There was a barber shop, a hardware store and a real estate agency. Past a narrow alleyway, she walked by a jewelry store, a lawyer's office and an empty storefront. A sign in the window read "Coming Soon," but did not say what was coming.

High and Main Street met at an angle. The Port Harmony Congregational Church imposingly faced the intersection. She cut across the shady church yard to Main Street. First Methodist Church was directly in front of her. Looking up the street towards the edge of town, she saw another steeple. That must be the Baptists, she thought.

Main Street was more tightly clustered with businesses than High, and was much livelier. There was a bakery and a little diner and to Laurel's surprise, a Thai restaurant. There were several gift shops, most, naturally, specializing in nautical themed items. To her delight, she found the little book store she had spied from the widow's walk, tucked between Walgreens and Reny's department store.

The day was growing warmer, so when she saw Lovejoy's Old Fashioned Ice Cream Parlor, she went in and bought a cone of mint chocolate chip.

The town common was just up at the next corner, so she crossed and walked there. It wasn't a large park but it was shady and cool and filled with lovely beds of lilies and columbine. At the far end, there was a gazebo. She imagined there would be some old timey kind of band playing there on the Fourth of July, perhaps accompanying a barber shop quartet.

There was another monument in the center of the the park. She walked toward it, wondering which war this one was commemorating. But when she came around to the front of it, she saw that the figure was not a soldier, it was a bearded man in what look like a raincoat and hat, hunched over an old fashioned ship's wheel.

"To The Men Of Port Harmony Who Were Taken By The Sea," the inscription read.

Laurel sat down on a bench across from the statue, suddenly overcome with an uneasy feeling. She looked down at her ice cream cone, and no longer wanted it. She remembered her father's explanation of the widow's walks. Now, this monument, this grave marker for men with no grave, was a second piece of evidence that beneath the town's bright and sunny facade was a legacy of...what? Sadness? No, she thought, loneliness.

She heard children's laughter and looked up to see a boy and a girl running across the lawn, a beagle puppy scampering at their feet. A young woman, presumably their mother, followed behind, smiling at them.

Laurel gazed around the park. A young couple was strolling together, hand in hand. A middle aged man sat on the steps of the gazebo, eating his lunch. An elderly woman on a motorized scooter was tossing peanuts to a small flock of crows.

She finished her ice cream, without really tasting it. You are being ridiculous, she thought, this is Maine, but it's not a Stephen King novel. There is no great darkness lurking beneath the town's surface. People were born here, they lived their lives, they died. It wasn't likely that the people in the park knew anyone who had been lost at sea. That scarcely ever happened anymore, did it?

No, she realized, there isn't any special aura of melancholy in Port Harmony. That feeling was coming from within her.

She had wondered, on occasion, if she suffered from depression. She didn't think so, at least as she understood it. What she felt so often was not depression, but might more accurately be called dissatisfaction.

Recently, she had felt disgruntled about spending the summer with her parents. A group of her friends from U-Mass had rented a house in Amherst. She could have stayed with them and taken a seasonal job, waiting tables or working the register in a local store. But she chose not to disappoint her parents, even if it meant disappointing herself.

She rose from the bench and continued her walk along Main Street, but she was lost in her thoughts and paid little attention to the people and businesses she passed by.

How long have I felt this way, she thought. It certainly hadn't started when her mother brought up the idea of summering in Maine.

How many hobbies and activities did you pick up, then decide you weren't interested, she asked herself. There were ballet and tennis lessons. Art classes. Yoga. Track...she had given up after the first meet.

Boys. How many boys had she dated once or twice, and then moved on? How many dates had she gone on, spending the evening listening to them talk about themselves, pretending to share their interests, smiling at their jokes, nodding at their opinions? How many times had she gone home frustrated by their clumsy kisses and awkward gropes?

She broke out of her reverie when she realized that she was walking past the small local movie theater. The sight of the marquee, with its big neon letters reading "Seaside Cinema," raised her spirits, if only a little. The movies would give her something to do over the summer.

She stepped closer to look at the posters advertising the coming attractions. The first one was for Shrek 2. She had already seen it. Such a small town theater probably didn't get the movies until they had been out for a while, she realized. She looked at the next poster. Brad Pitt seemed to be fighting in the Trojan War. That seemed silly, but if any boys asked her for a date, that would be the one they would want to see.

There was one more poster, on the other side of the theater's entrance. She stopped and stared at it.

The image at the center of the poster was a closeup of a beautiful young woman. She had dark hair and eyes so large they were almost cartoonish.

The title of the movie was Ella Enchanted. She did not know the actress, but under her picture was the name Anne Hathaway. The name of Shakespeare's wife, Laurel remembered.

She could not take her eyes off the poster. It had brought back a memory she thought she had buried.

It had been during her freshman year, on the last night before winter break. Of course, there had been parties. She had gone with her roommate and some of the other girls from their dorm to an off campus kegger.

The party was held in a large, rambling Victorian house. The place was packed. It wasn't long before she was separated from her friends by the crowd. Someone handed her a red cup that was a quarter filled with beer and three quarters with suds, and she sipped it as she wandered from room to room. Despite the number of people there, she did not see anyone she knew. Meeting new people had never been easy for her, so she nervously sought her friends.

The kitchen was as crowded with partygoers as the rest of the house, but they were not among them. Through the windows, she could see people standing outside, despite the bitter cold weather. Probably smoking pot, she thought.

The back door was on a small landing, a few steps down from the kitchen. She went toward it, thinking she should at least check outside. When she reached the landing, however, she could hear music coming from the staircase on her right.

She went down and found herself in a large finished basement. There was a full bar near the bottom of the stairs where a large number of people congregated. Most of the space, however, had been cleared of furniture and converted to a dance floor, wildly lit with strobes and rotating colored lights.

Laurel found a secluded spot in the corner where she could stand alone and look over the crowd. There were probably two dozen twirling, dancing bodies moving under the flashing lights, and it was hard to make out anyone's faces, never seeing any of them for more than a second or two uninterrupted.

As she watched though, her gaze began to fix on one face. She was pretty, with large eyes, like the actress on the poster. With each snapshot of the strobe, her body was in a different position, but the expression on her face did not change. She looked like she was lost in a blissful dream. At one point, Laurel was sure their eyes met, but that could not be; she was hiding in the darkness, while the woman was in the bright glow of the lights.

Someone danced between them and Laurel thought that she was gone, but after a few more confused flashes, she realized that the figure who had stepped into the way was dancing with the woman. They turned, and frame of light by frame of light, Laurel saw that it was another woman.

She stared intently at them, determined not to lose them from her sight. With each strobe, she made out more detail. The first woman had her arms draped over the other's shoulders, her partner held her by the hips. They moved together as if they were reading each other's minds.

The music paused and they stopped moving. Laurel watched, her mouth dropping open, as they leaned toward each other and kissed.

The music started again, but they stood motionless, their arms around each other, their lips pressed together.

Laurel struggled to identify what she was feeling in that moment, as she watched them. She thought it might be anger or even disgust, but then she realized that it was envy.

With that thought she turned her head, embarrassed and confused. She had no qualms about homosexuality, regarding men or women. She had no moral objection to it; she strongly believed it was normal, natural and none of her business. So why should the sight of these two beautiful women and their loving embrace upset her?

She rushed up the stairs just as her friends were coming in the back door, smelling of pot. They all hung out in the kitchen for a little while, making small talk and finishing their beers. Every time someone would come up from the basement Laurel glanced over, but she did not see the two women again.

After that night, she tried to put the images of them, their dancing, their kissing, their embrace, from her mind, and for the most part she had succeeded.

Now she stood in front of the Seaside Cinema in Port Harmony, Maine, on a warm summer day, staring at the poster of the beautiful actress, and those feelings came back to her as strongly as they had on that cold night in Amherst.

She continued to stare at the poster, and it seemed as if a fog was lifting from her mind. She focused on the actress's full red lips and she was not confused. She knew what she wanted, what those odd feelings meant. She understood the reason for her long dissatisfaction with her life.

As she walked back to Harborview House, her thoughts swirled in her head. Could that really be true, she thought, and immediately answered herself. Of course it was true, and she had known it for a long time, but would not acknowledge that truth. When she had watched the two girls kissing at that party, she had been aroused, but would not admit it.

She considered how her parents would react if she told them that she had realized she was gay. They were generally open minded, but might it not be different when it was their daughter? Despite a desire to talk to someone, she would not tell them. There was still a whispering voice in her mind, telling her that this, like ballet, like track, might be just another passing fancy.

Michelle, Summer 2004

Moonlight faintly lit the kitchen when Michelle came downstairs. She flipped on the overhead light, then put the coffee pot on the propane stove and lit the burner. She stopped to yawn and rub her eyes, then went to the refrigerator and got out the bacon and a carton of eggs. As she took the skillet down from its hook, she heard her father's feet clomping down the hall.

"Coffee will be ready in a minute," she said.

"Alright honey." He peered out the window and said, "Looks like fair weather."

"That's what the reports say."

"I don't trust those reports."

"I know, Pop."

She laid strips of bacon in the skillet, then fixed two cups of coffee. Her father took one, kissed the back of her head and said, "You're a good girl, Michelle."

"Thank you, Pop."

She went back to the stove, flipped the bacon and pushed it to the back of the pan. "You want to drop some toast?" she asked her father as she cracked eggs into the sputtering grease.

He sat down at the small formica table and put two slices of bread in the toaster. Michelle plated the bacon and eggs and sat with him.

They ate in silence, and when they finished, Michelle rinsed the plates in the sink. Her father pulled on his boots, then stood and snapped his suspenders into place.

"I'll get her started," he said, opening the kitchen door. He inhaled deeply, blew it out, and said, "Ayuh, fair weather."

Michelle put on her own boots, then took her white cable knit sweater off its hook and pulled it over her t-shirt. She heard Carol Anne's engine cough into life as she went to the refrigerator and took out the bag of bologna and cheese sandwiches she had made the night before. She poured the rest of the coffee into a red and black thermos and went to the door.

"Come on, girl," her father shouted over the boat's engines when she stepped outside, "The day's wasting."

"The day ain't started yet," she muttered, looking downriver, where the slightest hint of a pink dawn was peeping over the horizon.

She stepped down off the back porch and crossed the narrow strip of yard to the dock. She hopped on board and stashed the sandwiches in the cooler.

"Here's your coffee, Pop," she said, handing him the thermos.

"Thank you, honey, now let's get a move on."

Laurel unwound the lines holding the boat to the dock cleats. "Casting off!" she shouted as she tossed the last rope on to the dock.

Her father opened the throttle and Carol Anne moved into the slow current of the Oyster River.

It was just over a mile from their dock to the harbor. The left bank was studded with small docks like their own. A few lobster boats and fishing trawlers were docked here and there, but they were outnumbered by sailboats and motor yachts. A few docks held only a rowboat or a rack of kayaks.

The right bank was wooded. Where the opposite shore was lined with docks, on this side, natural outcroppings of rock protruded into the river here and there. Gulls and cormorants took to the air as Carol Anne glided by.

After they passed under the Muscongus Road bridge, the river widened and the landscape changed. The bank receded on the left, and the small clapboard houses with their weathered docks were replaced with newer, grander homes. A few still had docks, but most were on higher ground, forfeiting access to the river in favor of a view of it.