The Quietside: Current Draft

Here's the draft of the first six chapters of my novel project. Please note: NO ONE has permission to re-use this text, or any part of it, without my knowledge and permission. Also be aware that this is a draft, and probably still has errors within it--the text is subject to change.

           

The Quietside

To my mom and dad, who have always listened to my crazy dreams and told me to pursue them.

1

            Locals call it The Quietside. Bass Harbor’s faded and worn WELCOME sign approached me on the right, covered with little blue and green splotches. Paintball guns. It was something us kids used to do in Cutler in our free time, leaning out of the passenger window and tapping the trigger as fast as our fingers could, the cool metallic smell of carbon dioxide puffing out from the barrel as the muffled pop was unheard over drunken whoops and yells. I never much liked it to be honest, even though every ball I shot hit my target and I’d get a wet and smoky kiss from some girl in the backseat, two beers long gone.

            The billow of fog was beginning to settle in by the Bass Harbor Head Light as I drove by it just after supper on my first night patrol there. The Hancock County Sheriff cruiser’s high beams started to bounce back off the fog, so I switched them down to low.             I came from the thick spruce forest that held Bass Harbor against the sea, lifted off the gas and let the 4.6-liter V8 hum and slow. I drifted past Kennedy General, a closet of a building with two regular-only gas pumps in front and a diesel on the side. Across the street, two large garages loomed over a sign that read KENNEDY AND SONS CONSTRUCTION.

            It was about the time for the locals to start a good smudge that would burn until early morning, talk about the day, drink shit beer, laugh about relatives and fall asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillows. I had a good idea about how these people acted, and I liked that. Moving downeast to Portland right after I got out of the Academy, I had no idea how city folk acted. I’ve heard that a person’s overall temperament has a lot to do with your home state, but I think it’s more about the size of the town you grew up in and how people live there. I learned real quick that most city folk tend to go with the crowd and not think things through too well. Either that or they’d think about the smallest things, like if they’d manage to get in line for their coffee soon enough so they could still make their bus. The Quietside was just a tad bigger than Cutler, but in both towns they’d think you were joking if you told them people got in a hissy over their morning coffee.

            I continued to coast, letting the car come to a gentle stop right in front of Gerald’s Bar and Mainely Good Cookin’. Piles of weatherworn buoys decorated the front entrance. A plastic deer target with a wide hole above and a little left of the front leg stood leaning against the bar, head turned, staring blankly at me. The neon Budweiser signs were still on behind the bar, surrounded by stools and three booths. There wasn’t a television in Gerald’s like the bars in Portland had. Didn’t need one. The stories and the company of friends were enough.

            I only got to go in to Gerald’s couple times, real brief, to talk to Gerald himself about an incident that happened, as I found out, after he purchased the bar. I never went in to drink. Used to vow against it, thanks to my old man, the notorious drunk Keith Bubba Wakefield. I bet he would’ve fit right in at Gerald’s place with the men whose time for work had passed and time for drinking didn’t have an end in sight. Men who had as many stories about fishing and fucking as I do about death.

            I tapped the gas so the bar was just behind me, stopped again and relaxed in my seat. I rolled the window down. The cool night air hit my face and made it tense up like it does after a couple beers. I smelled the salty water and the seaweed, the smell of hard work and sore bodies. Not a sound though. Dead quiet. I can remember realizing how fitting The Quietside was as another name. Cutler was just Cutler. People knew it was quiet, if they knew about it at all.

            A gust of wind whipped into the cruiser and I caught the smell of the distant but ripe clam-flats. The one and only time I took my girlfriend and future wife, Autumn, to meet my old man, she caught a breeze of the flats near my house and said it smelled like pure shit. I’d never made that connection before. Clam-flats smelled like clam-flats—they’ve never been foreign to me. Autumn’s South Portland roots didn’t include clam-flats. She tarnished the scent, in a way, but I still think they smell like Cutler.

            I smiled, rolled the window up and let cruiser roll forward again, only to stop at a four-way intersection. I was going straight, towards Wayward Lane, past the church and then a left to Pier Drive. I’d been to Bass Harbor a couple times with the Sheriff to look at the house, enough to know my way around the fog. The town was no bigger than a couple blocks in Portland, a lot less ground then I was used to dealing with.

            A pickup with a rusty snowplow hanging off the front-end rolled to a stop directly across from me. The truck looked like an old Ford, maybe an 80’s model, but I couldn’t be sure. I flashed my high beams to let the truck go, wanting to make a good impression. I wanted the locals to like me—better yet, respect me, so they could let their ideas about college pricks out of their heads long enough for me to get my foot in the door.

            The truck didn’t go. That couple seconds was enough to get me jittery so that I went for the lights. I was about to flick them on when I heard the diesel roar from ahead of me. The plow tilted upright, as if the truck was being thrown forward. I watched it accelerate long enough to get a glimpse of some writing on the door, but it was moving to fast for my eyes to catch any words.

            I sat there for a good minute or two, thinking. I knew what just happened. It was a town where almost all the kids at recess played as robbers and that one unlucky sonofabitch who was the cop would always lose. It was a town run by the locals and the locals only.

            Sheriff Wittenburg told me people on that side of the island didn’t care for newcomers. Tourists hoping to see a true costal town instead of the t-shirt shops in Bar Harbor were told to avoid Bass Harbor by the spruce pigs—or Park Rangers, as outerstaters call them. The Rangers followed their own preachings, even though Acadia National Park bordered the harbor. Most flatlanders couldn’t even find it and would turn around somewhere along the narrow winding road before they saw the shot up welcome sign.

            The day the sheriff drove me down to Bass Harbor to show me around, he made it very clear what the locals thought. “These people keep to themselves,” he said, “they like it quiet. We haven’t had any trouble yet. This town hasn’t seen a cop for, I dare say, oh, about a good ten years. Don’t expect they’ll be happy to see there’s one living here now.”

            I didn’t need to hear that. I could tell by the stares the Sheriff’s cruiser got that day. I spent more time staring back at people than at the town itself.

            I turned onto Pier Drive and stopped in front of house number 109. We were moving in the next day. Wittenburg was letting me off. The man was a hard ass, but he had his redeeming qualities. He could have given the offer to anyone else in the station, all of whom had better records than I did. But he didn’t.

            The deal was I live in Bass Harbor as a kind of “outpost,” as Wittenburg called it. I’d be the emergency responder here if things were to get hairy, which he seemed to think they would. Southwest P.D. started complaining just around a month before I arrived, bitching about how many calls they had to handle on top of Southwest’s issues. Bass Harbor hadn’t had any major trouble, not even noise complaints or road kill reports—mostly the occasional property damage the weather was usually responsible for. That’s where I came in. They gave me a foreclosed house and a cruiser and turned me loose.

            The house was as bland as my old man’s wardrobe. The siding was a dull yellow, closer to a cream with the wear and tear of seaside weather. The trim was a forest green and looked like it was a fresher coat than the siding. A covered porch wrapped around the front, slanted downward, heading towards the ocean. Some diagonal lattice had been tacked along the side, but was mostly rotted or flat on the ground. Wittenburg promised repairs, but I didn’t take his word for it. I’ve never been one to depend on another, at least people I don’t know too well.

            I pulled the keys out of the ignition and pushed the door open. The salty air hit me just like the fans they have in the big department stories, blasting more heat outside than the furnace in our apartment could in a whole day. Even though it was just four hours south, Portland was always a couple degrees warmer and the snow never stayed quite as long. Growing up in another coastal town prepared me for cold, but it felt like it’d dropped a good ten degrees in the time it’d taken me to get from the bar to the house.

            I walked across the lawn to the front door, past the foreclosed sign that still sat stuck in the dirt, sagging forward as if it was tired of its job. The tips of my fingers, my ears and my nose were already cold, turning white and stiff.

            I’d forgotten if I’d locked the door behind me when Wittenburg showed me the house and gave me the keys the other afternoon. When I asked him to turn around so I could check, he said that it’d be fine.

            “The people here are kind hearted, Cole. They’re not going rob you. No one’s even going think of robbing you here, neither. It’s a good bet this town has more guns than people. You’ll have a nice break in October when it’s hunting season, I’ll tell you that for sure.”

            The man couldn’t make up his mind about those folk. From what he was saying, I got the impression that one second they needed to be watched, the next they’d be bringing you warm blueberry pie and venison. Wittenburg wasn’t some mall cop. He knew people pretty well, which is why I think I got the job in the first place. Still, he couldn’t make up his mind.

            I pulled the screen door open and turned the stained door’s handle. Sure enough, I’d left it unlocked. The door creaked open as I pushed against it, revealing a dark, barren living room. The previous owners left a couch that must have been added before the doors were installed because of its size. A worn sheet covered it from dust.

            I kept thinking someone could have walked in the front door and could be waiting for me when I started to move in the next morning. Some local who thought he’d take me out before I was able to say hello. No matter how hard I tried, I saw his eyes, squatting behind the oversized couch, .45 in hand. He was wearing that stained white button up that hung from his scrawny shoulders. The gun quivered slightly from his excitement. I went for my holster, still expecting the 9mm Glock, the hard polymer and the cool metal just around the grip only to remember halfway down that I wasn’t carrying it anymore. I took my Maglight instead, clicked it on, and shined it inside, expecting to see his eyes sparkle in the light before the crack of the gun. Or maybe my partner held at gunpoint again. There was nothing but the couch and a thin layer of dust on the wooden floor.

           

            My imagination would run off a lot like that, taking a bizarre trip to the past or the possible future. The therapists told me it would stop after more therapy sessions, imagery rehearsals, more bullshit. Of course they’d tell me that. A treated patient doesn’t make you much money at the end of the week. I stopped going to the sessions about a month before Wittenburg called me and told me he had a spot open and was looking for somebody with experience, right around the same time Autumn lost her job and things started to get tight.

            It was always at night, just before bed. Autumn would give me some books to read, happy ones, to take my mind off the sound in the kitchen, who was outside Tucker’s room, who was watching Maya’s crib, who was in the mirror. It never helped. I’d have all the lights on in the apartment, walk through the apartment once more, and make Autumn get up and shut them off as I got into bed.

            I’d talk in my sleep, screaming and thrashing until Autumn would run her hands through my hair to wake me up. She’d tell me Michael was gone and she was my only partner left. I wouldn’t sleep until the next night, and even that was rare.

            That was when we were still in Portland, only a couple months after it happened, when my imagination was more vivid then it was as a child watching the closet door.

            I scanned the room a couple more times with the Maglight and made sure to lock the door. I triple checked, fingers fully numb and nose running as I walked back the car. Inside the cruiser had already cooled off and would take a good ten minutes to warm up again on the way back to the station in Ellsworth. As I turned the ignition, I took another look at the house. I knew it was going to be the talk of the town the next day, not for the moving truck or the new family but because the Sherriff’s cruiser sitting in the driveway.

           

           

2

I got back to Autumn’s friend’s house in Ellsworth around one in the morning. We were staying there during the transition phase between our old apartment in Portland and the new house. It was a nice gesture, but I was glad to know I wouldn’t be staying there much longer.

Her name was Francine but she went by Susan, which never made much sense to me. My guess was she didn’t like her name and didn’t want to disrespect her parents and go through the paperwork to change it. She was a single mom with a bratty ten-year old boy that couldn’t get it out of his mind that I was a punching bag. I don’t remember his name. Really didn’t like the kid. I just called him Brat.

Autumn played softball with Susan at University of Presque Isle before I knew either of them. Autumn was calling it quits with the asshole she followed from South Portland up to school. Susan was a shoulder to cry on, which made an inseparable bond between them until I came into the picture. Susan got jealous of us when we started dating, and decided to get knocked up by some business major who ended up not being so good with money or commitment.

The house was a shitty modular that felt half-finished. I was never quite warm enough. I’d catch the shivers just after getting out of bed that would last until I had my second cup of coffee at the station. A house with a fireplace never gets like that.

It was cold when I walked in that evening, but still a paradise compared to the harsh winter night. I felt the wall for the light switch, flipped it on and headed towards what Susan called the guest bedroom but was actually a small computer room. Boxes Autumn got from the grocery store for our essentials were stacked precariously around our mattress on the floor. She was already asleep, face down in the pillow with the light still on.

I started to unbutton my uniform and walked over to the kid’s room, which was nice and quiet. They were sharing with Brat—another reason I wanted out of Susan’s. The room was a lot cleaner than Autumn and mine’s, since we left the toys back at the apartment, afraid Brat would steal or break them.

I finished undressing in the computer room and scrounged around a bathroom box for my toothbrush, making a racket. Autumn rolled onto her back and squinted at me, confused but strikingly innocent and beautiful, even with her dirty blonde hair in a mess.

“It’s already in the bathroom,” she managed, her voice already broken, as if she had been sleeping for days. I nodded and took a step towards the door as she collapsed back into bed.

I cleaned up and did an abbreviated version of my walk around the house, hoping to get to bed early to get some rest for the move. It was exciting, but in a way I felt like I was cheating myself. It felt like a handout or a pity date in high school. I didn’t feel like I earned the new house, or even the opportunity. Autumn told me I did, but her vote of confidence was only part of what I needed, and was only said to calm me down for a while. I was sure she’d turn around and question my decision the next day, saying we were putting all our eggs in one basket.

Mary Ficher, Cutler’s librarian, would always tell me not to put all my eggs in one basket. It’s one of the things I still remember about her. She said it so damn much, I can still hear her say it. When I’d run up the hill from my house as soon as my old man and the armada of fishing boats were too far out in the harbor to see, I’d wait on the library steps for Mrs. Ficher to come at eight on the dot and unlock the door. It’s where I spent my days before I started school and afternoons after school was let out. We’d have the place to ourselves most of the time, so she’d read to me until her voice went hoarse or she lost her grip on the books. At the time, I thought she’d lose grip because the books were too heavy, not knowing about arthritis. So I’d only grab one book, and she’d tell me not to put all my eggs in one basket, every time.

           

I left the kitchen light on and returned to our room. I turned the single-bulb light off and staggered to my side of the bed, lifted the covers and climbed in. Autumn rolled over, giving me the spot she had been laying, preferring the cool, crisp sheets. I inched forward, cuddling against her like I did until I was almost asleep. She was lying on her back, breathing heavy. Not quite a snore, but just enough to make me feel comfortable. The warmth of her soft skin made me want to wake her and make love, but I knew she would protest, even though it had been a couple days since we had been able to. She was hesitant out of respect for Susan, and it was late. She would’ve said we had a busy day ahead of us, which was true.

            I knew taking Wittenburg’s opportunity was the right choice for us. A house, free of charge, and place like Cutler without the bad memories, a new chance for me to prove myself. I figured Autumn could find a job in one of the retirement homes in Bar Harbor—it’d be a twenty minute drive, but it could work. It’d be the hardest for the kids, and I knew that, but they were young enough to make new friends. It was a nice, small school that could help Tucker with what the doctors told us was ADD and let young Maya be a little more creative than the larger public schools would.

                        I knew Autumn would see this was best for us eventually.

The movers were already there when we pulled in the driveway at Bass Harbor. The fog had mostly rolled away and the house looked a lot less depressing with some sun on it, turning the ugly cream to a more vibrant light yellow.

Wittenburg told me it was all right if I used the cruiser to help move things in. Autumn still had her car from college, a lazy maroon Camry that still smelled of her grandmother, who had passed the car down when she went to retirement housing just before the turn of the century. 

Jim, an unshaven guy built like a linebacker, was one of the movers. I didn’t catch the other guy’s name, but he was scrawny and seemed new. Jim already had the ramp lined up to move the couple pieces of furniture we had off the six-wheel truck. As soon as I opened the door, he started moving things in, while the other guy took his time, finishing his coffee. There’s always one like him, no matter what the job is.

I made sure to put the lighter boxes in the Camry for Autumn and the kids, even though I ended up moving most of it anyways. Autumn said she was sick in the morning, nervous about the movers not showing up, and both Tucker and Maya raced to find their rooms and stayed up there while Jim moved the heavy stuff in. Tucker tried to claim the living room but Autumn showed him around and he eventually picked the east bedroom, which had a nice skylight and more shelves for his model cars.

It was a pain in the ass to get our bed frames through the door and up the stairs, but Jim new a couple tricks that made life a little easier. Autumn kept herself to small things, like making the beds and putting dishes away. I saw her try and move the giant couch, but stopped herself after a couple pushes and asked the lazy mover to do it for her, which he did without a word. She acted off, like she was coming down with something.

Whatever it was, she eventually felt good enough to move a couple boxes from the Camry in, one that had some odds and ends of mine in it, mostly from Machias High, my alma mater just fifteen minutes from Cutler. I watched her take it up the stairs, making sure she wasn’t lightheaded or dizzy. It was only a minute or so after when she called me upstairs to the master bedroom, which didn’t seem much bigger than the other two.

I found her crouched over the box on the floor, studying the contents.

“You needed something?” I peeked my head in the door, wishing she would say no so I could help Jim finish so we wouldn’t feel obligated to feed them.

“Hey.” She didn’t turn to face me and sounded more interested in the box. “What’s this?”

“I think that’s my old high school stuff.” I walked in and took a look at what she was so curious about.

“You never showed me this.” She was holding a picture of my parents and me. Autumn moved it closer to my face, as if I hadn’t studied it when it was on my bedroom desk back in Cutler. We had just gotten out of church, I think, because we were dressed nicely, standing in front of the garden just as the orchids my mother planted were blossoming. I was no more than three at the time. “It looks like you and your Dad. I’ve never seen your mother though.”

“Yeah, that’s Mom.” I took it from her. “It’s one of the few pictures I took when I left. One of the few Dad kept of us all.” Autumn stood up and grabbed my cheeks like distant aunts do. “Well, you were cute. I don’t know what happened.”

“Huh.” I smiled and set the picture down on the nightstand next to the bed. “If you say so.”

She knew when to move on, when something was bothering me. “I’ll let you sort though this box later. I’d like to do the bathroom now. You look like you have empty hands, go grab one of the boxes for me.” I rolled my eyes and didn’t move. “Well?” She looked at me expectantly.

I headed downstairs, past Jim and the other guy and outside to the cruiser, where the box of shampoo, soap, makeup and that sort of thing was. I had my hand on the passenger door when a truck drove by nice and slow, eyeing the house. I waved, guessing he was a local by the condition of his truck that looked like it had been patched together from a couple other models that were probably headed towards the scrapper. Wasn’t the truck from the night before. He looked at me, looked at the cruiser, and gave me a good, cold stare. I stared back.

We finished moving all the boxes and furniture in around supper time. Autumn took a break from organizing and made the kids and me some peanut butter sandwiches. She had some cereal, not daring to eat much after her rough morning. 

Some people say you don’t sleep well if you’re in a new place, but more was keeping me up that night. I don’t know what Wittenburg expected me to find there, but I had a good feeling I wasn’t going to like it.

3

            The next morning, Autumn shook me from what little sleep I had gotten.

“We should go to church. It’d be a good way to meet everyone, Cole. You said you wanted to relate to these people.”

            “You know how I feel about church.” I tossed the sheets off and sat up, legs hanging over the edge of the bed.

            “I know how your father felt about church. You didn’t go because he didn’t.” She sat up as well and poked my back, wanting me to turn around. “If you want to do a good job here, than lets go.”

            “You really think the kids would enjoy it? Especially Tucker. I sure as hell wouldn’t. It’s the first day here, we should go for a drive. I’ll show you and the kids around. Something fun.” I stood up and stretched. “I’ll get to know these folk, don’t worry.”

            I went to the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. When I walked back to our room, she was putting on her nice white and pink dress and had a purple vest lain out on the bed.

            “I’m taking the kids to church. Are you coming?”

            Church wasn’t a place of worship or community for me. Never has been. It’s a place of death, where you are only reminded the dead will never come back, no matter how much praying you do. Autumn and my wedding was the only time I’ve been in a church for something other than a funeral.

           

I was four when a state plow truck hit my mother just after one of the worst ice storms downeast Maine had seen in generations. No snow, just layers of ice everywhere, coating anything it touched.

She was a teller at Machias Savings and had to leave for work before the sun came up to get to the bank at six so she could get the drawers ready. In the winter, my old man would have to go and pour hot water into the four-door Ford Escort’s radiator. He slept in that morning. Whether he was hung-over or just overtired, he never told me. My mother had to get the water.

She always backed the car down the driveway so she wouldn’t have to back out into the sharp corner our house sat on. It wasn’t known for being dangerous despite the awkward angle it made you turn, going uphill and sharply left at the same time. Coming up to the corner, you could only see our roof. If you didn’t turn, you’d end up driving right onto our driveway. Mom would drive up the corner and stop, as if she had missed the house, and back it in.

Rumor had it that the corner was there when the town was built. The townsfolk knew about it, and that was everyone that drove on it—besides the occasional visiting relative who had probably been warned over the phone. Didn’t need a name like “Deadman’s Corner” like a lot of towns have. Any accidents that happened in Cutler were on the pier between the fisherman’s trucks. You’d be hard pressed to find a completely smooth area on anyone’s truck, especially in the truck beds, where they stacked their lobster traps higher than the roof. Dents and worn paint gave trucks character, and the men drove the damaged pickups like badges of honor.

Normally, the twenty-three ton plow truck would have also known about the corner and slowed down to compensate for the turn, especially with the thick ice coating the road. Why the D.O.T. in Machias decided to have a rookie plowman drive that day is anybody’s guess, but this young kid fresh out of University of Maine at Machias was behind the wheel, probably nervous as shit. Not nervous enough though. He missed the corner completely.

Mom was leaning over the engine with the hood up when the plow truck came sliding down the driveway, rear wheels locked and front wheels turning as far left as they could go, all in hopes of something catching. The plow sat a couple feet off the ground since it doesn’t do much good against ice.

She turned around to face the truck and didn’t have time to do anything else. The top of the plow slid into her abdomen. The Escort slid backwards, Mom pressed against it, until the rear bumper dragged against the back lawn for a couple feet and hit the old crab apple tree that I watched from my window at night.

The car stopped short, but the weight of the plow truck kept going with enough force to cut my mother in half against the Escort’s engine before finally coming to a stop.

I woke when the plow first hit Mom and looked out the window when my mother was cut. The plow driver shifted into reverse in a panic. The tires spun on the ice, but he kept accelerating. The diesel engine rumbled the house like a constant burst of thunder, rattling the pictures on the walls and the china in the kitchen.

I didn’t rush outside like my father, or go to the living room to call for help. I sat in bed and watched my mother weakly flail her arms at the heavens with her last controlled and conscious movements. I watched the blood mix with the blue antifreeze and drip onto the yard. I watched my mother’s face, her mouth open in shock, eyes as wide as possible, darting back and forth as the trauma took her sanity and then her life.

I couldn’t take my eyes from the scene, no matter how much I wanted to. Nowadays when I respond to a fatal and it’s on a popular strip of road, I see people stare as they drive by. Only difference is that they can keep driving past. I couldn’t.

My old man ran over to Mom and pulled her top half from the wreckage. He sat her down in the yard as delicately as a man’s touch allows, but she was already gone. There were no cries to bring her back, nothing asking for God’s forgiveness, or for a second chance. A man that fishes his whole life can easily lose his faith in the good Lord after a couple rough seasons. It makes for a heart as cold as the March tide and a mighty temper as rough the seas in a Nor’easter.

The driver must have been in shock, as he kept his foot on the gas pedal until my old man climbed up to the cabin and threw him onto the solid ice. Luckily my old man didn’t have a lot of time with the driver, as the neighbors had already called the sheriff, who brought two deputies with him since he dealt with my father’s drunken strength on a regular basis. It took all three to cuff the old man. The poor kid was in the hospital for three months before he was able to leave. Pictures in the paper compared what he looked like before and after. Lifting traps all day builds muscle fast, and fishing was all my old man did during the season. No one said it, but everyone was surprised there wasn’t another body taken away that day. The driver—Peter, if I remember right—didn’t have the heart to charge my old man like people do nowadays. He knew he was in the wrong and deserved it.

There wasn’t a soul in Cutler that wasn’t at the funeral. No suits or fancy dresses, but the nicest clothes everyone had and the most flowers you’ve ever seen. Mom was one of those women who was never a bother to anyone, and people respect that downeast. When someone knocks on your door to give you some extra venison for the winter or just to say hi, it doesn’t go unnoticed.

My old man didn’t speak for Mom. Not a word. Most people just thought he was too beside himself, shell-shocked. I know that not to be the case now that I’ve seen some more of life and more of my father. He’s not one to show his emotions when he’s sober. Even the woman he married fresh out of high school wasn’t enough for his manhood to be tarnished in front of the whole town.

I don’t remember him kissing Mom, holding her hand even. I remember them laughing while watching t.v. after I was put to bed, and them going out once a year on what was then Washington’s Lady, my old man’s boat, to celebrate their anniversaries. He renamed it The Lovely Lady a couple weeks after the funeral, but you still see the old name, a faded memory beneath a white layer of paint. I remember these things because they stood out amongst the normal. The normal times when they didn’t get along, when Mom and I would eat alone while he went out to forget us with his friends. A plate piled with the night’s supper would sit in front of his chair until it was cold to the touch.

The night after the funeral, he must’ve put down more than half of the liquor and all the beer he had around—no easy task, even for him. I stayed in my room, considering shutting the door like Mom used to when he’d get home late. Instead, I was captivated with the destruction he was causing, and just like a fish out of water, he stumbled and thrashed around the house, desperate and crazied, throwing everything that reminded him of Mom. He picked some things up again in guilt, then realized his guilt meant nothing and threw them down a second time.

Sometime in the mess, I was brave enough to get up and shut the door while he was in the kitchen, turning the knob so the latch wouldn’t click into place. I was worried he’d hear me. I hopped back into bed and stared at the door. I assumed he’d forgotten I was in the house until the thought popped into my head that he was saving me for last. He’d never hit me when Mom was around. For the first time, Mom wasn’t there.

When his staggered steps found my door, he stopped, holding the doorknob with his drunken strength, rattling the whole door. He opened it quickly, but with a somewhat calculated ease, as if he was worried I would be in its path. His knuckles were bloodied. He breathed through his nose, nostrils flaring, lips twitching, unsure what to say.

He stood in the doorway, staring at the floor and never at me, for what must have been thirty minutes. I waited for his eyes to meet mine, wishing he’d say something to make it better, but he couldn’t find the words.

If he had looked at me, he would’ve shed a tear. I know it, and so did he.

            Autumn made the kids a quick breakfast and took the Camry down to the church, the biggest building in all of Bass Harbor, besides the garages near the quarry at Kennedy and Sons Construction. I stayed in the shower so I wouldn’t have to say goodbye.

            I figured it would be a good time to get my headings while everyone was in church. Instead of taking the cruiser, I put on my running gear—some lightweight pants and under armor with one of my old Presque Isle Cross Country shirts that had the sleeves cut off and frayed. My sneakers had seen better days, but I kept any pair that I liked until the treads started peeling off or the arch gave out. I grabbed a five from my wallet for the general store. Just a bill, so the wallet wouldn’t flop around in my pocket.

            I opened the front door to a bitter cold salty gust that made me grab the door so it wouldn’t blow wide open. Days like that, it wasn’t the cold that got to you, but the dampness. It crept through however many layers you had on and sunk into your bones, giving you the chills until you found a healthy fireplace and some chowder.

            Starting was getting more painful each year, my aging knees and the ankle I hurt running in the last college meet of my cross country career fighting my natural stride. While running’s physical, a good ninety percent of a runner is dependant on their mental capacity to overcome pain and that voice in your head telling you to stop. Instead of thinking about my knees or the ankle, I listened to my breathing, focusing on taking deep long breaths so I wouldn’t cramp. I listened to my feet hit the asphalt, a steady thud, thud. The cracks in the pavement were wet, like someone drew them on, and looked like dirt that’s been exposed to a drought for months. I relaxed my hands, creating a loose fist, and pictured holding sticks so I would pump my arms enough, but not too much. My throat began to burn with the salty, cold air, just like Cutler.

                        Pier Drive had another ten houses other than ours. They all were two stories but modest, cozy looking homes, packed tight to keep the heat in. A couple had garages—only one door, just wide enough for a car and some walking space. Most were probably filled with things other than cars: boxes full of belongs passed down for generations but not quite important enough to be on the mantle, workbenches filled with projects to putter on, firewood from two or three years ago, drier than a popcorn fart, and even some traps that didn’t fit outside. The garage was just as much a part of the house as any other room. Lots of times you’ll be able to get a better idea about a person by their garage instead of their living room.

                        There wasn’t a library in Bass Harbor for me to run to, so I ran to the docks to stop and quickly stretch. Under armor wasn’t tested in Maine, I’ll say that for sure, but it started working after a couple minutes, holding in my heat and sweat, something that’s fine while running but dangerous when standing still. The breeze blew against me and gave me the shivers. As I flipped his right foot behind me for my hand to catch and pull up on, I calmed my breathing, listening for the rumbling waves, wondering how long The Quietside would stay true to it’s name.

            There was something off-putting to the silence. Dogs in the yard hardly ever barked, the gulls never called each other, no music or doors slamming. It was like the whole town was holding its breath. I thought it was just a drastic change from Portland, the city landscape that never slept. Bass Harbor was like stepping out of those clubs the young people binge drink in—the silence creates noise in its own way as you realize your ears are ringing steady as white noise.

            I started getting too cold for stretching to do any good, so I ran back the way I came, down Pier Drive, and took a right onto Wayward Lane, the main street of the town. If I took another right, I’d head back down towards the docks, past the church, a couple dirt roads, and some more houses. Left was the way out of town, towards Kennedy General and the construction garages.

            I didn’t have to ask Wittenburg about the Kennedys. I already knew what they were—it was the same thing with the Walls in Cutler. If you weren’t a Wall, it was a good chance you were either related to them, married to them, or weren’t as local as they were. Small towns promote heritage, tradition, sure—but families will still leave, eventually, for whatever reason. Families that stay become the elders of the town. The wise folk who had seen all the land and sea had to offer. In most cases, they had a reason for their kids to stay, like a family business. The Walls had a small but efficient live storage business that sold and shipped whatever the boats brought in. Kennedys probably had a hand in that too, but it seemed like they were focused where the real easy money was—building and maintaining the rich flatlander’s summerhouses in the other towns on the island.

            I ran down towards the general store, thinking I’d get some coffee and wait for church to get out to meet some locals and socialize a bit. The parking lot looked just as empty as the town, with only one shitty Datsun parked alongside the shingled red building, just behind the icebox.

            The store was smaller now that I wasn’t in the cruiser. The side that faced towards the woods was only as tall as a mid-sized SUV, while the side facing town was only a bit taller than a living room ceiling. It made the building look like fuckup, like someone didn’t measure quite right and went with it anyways. Plastic brick siding ran along the front at waist height, the pinkish hues clashing with the red shingles.

            I stopped running when I crossed the road, not bothering to look for any cars, and walked between the pumps to the front door. KENNEDEY GENERAL was eye level to the left of the door with Pepsi logos on either side, faded so the red looked pink and the blue like an off teal. A lone security camera stood watch over door where the roof peaked, but wasn’t wired to anything. Just for show. My guess was that what ever was under the counter was deterrent enough. To rob a store in Maine and not think you were going to get a Remington 870 stuffed in your face was a rookie mistake, and most robbers were rookies, young guys just out of high school desperate for whatever they need—usually drugs. Too young to realize what a mistake they were making.

            The door opened hard, like it hadn’t been greased since it was installed. A small bell rang. Not a chime, but a physical bell. Inside smelled like a normal chain grocery store—disinfectant and cardboard—but was definitely a family run operation.

            The shelves were wider than the isles, with cans and bottles and boxes piled up to the roof. They weren’t that tall—the ceiling was just short, even shorter than it looked outside. Almost all the cheap white ceiling tiles you see in office buildings or hospitals were stained brown with water damage. Dull yellow florescent lights that may have been white at some point tried to light the products, but only managed to hide some of the dried mud caked on the floor, probably from the construction guys across the street. The sagging left side that faced out of town was home to the coolers and freezers. About half the coolers where filled with beer while the rest had only the bare necessities. Well, beer was a necessity—there was probably a Budweiser plant out there somewhere that dedicated all their time to making products for downeast Maine. Fisherman could put them down. My old man certainly could.

            The right side had a small counter for the register that was cluttered with candy bars, condoms and other convenience items. Only a couple types of gum and no on-the-go clothing cleaners. A couple of stools that had lost their stain coating were to either side of the register. It left a path for people to pay who didn’t want to hear how some guy named Jonesy was banging a girl from Northeast or how shitfaced his friend Tony had gotten last night with the boys—though my bet was most people took their time getting any change.

            A short but thick man built like a fisherman came from out back, where there was another counter for food orders. Just pizza, soup, coffee and sandwiches, nothing fancy but all homemade. A Dale Earnhardt Jr. cap sat on a graying head of hair that probably was falling out. His apron had several layers of food on it, a colorful combination compared to the two brown streaks on his hips where he must’ve wiped his hands when a towel wasn’t around. He was cleaning his hands while walking, looking behind him like a person does when they’re unsure if they locked their car. His pace was steady besides a slight limp from his right leg, probably why he wasn’t fishing anymore. Either that or age caught up to him. He held a relaxed composure until he looked up and saw me. It became calculated, wary. He stopped wiping his hands and sized me up as he made his way to the register. I took a seat on one of the stools, which felt as worn as it looked, and folded my arms on the counter.

            “Help you?” He leaned forward, not in my personal space, but testing the waters. He had a fisherman’s squint, a side effect from years of exposure to reflected sunlight of the Atlantic. Any flatlander would have taken it as a look of uncertainty. This case, they would’ve been right.           

            “What kind of coffee do you have?” I took my arms off the counter and sat up straight. He didn’t take his eyes away from me.

            “Regular.” Even I waited another second, expecting another option. When you got far enough north, you’d be hard pressed to find extravagant flavors of anything. Bass Harbor was a last haven for simplicity. In other towns on the island, especially Bar Harbor, the cashier would be taken aback by a coffee order that wasn’t blueberry or some tourist flavor that tasted like shit.

            “I’ll have a cup of that, with just a little sugar.”

            He slid a glass shaker of sugar across the counter in front of me and went back to the food counter to grab the coffee.

            The doorbell rang, jumping me a little, no more than a twitch. I didn’t swivel around, just looked over my shoulder. Four men stepped in, all wearing what must’ve been their nicest clothes from church, all far dark-skinned from summer, all over thirty, only one over six foot.

            “I don’t know Harvey, I just think it’d—“ Whatever conversation they were holding stopped as soon as they saw the stranger on one of their stools. I kept my head turned.

            “Mornin,’” I said. There was a pause. They didn’t look at each other. Didn’t need to. They all were thinking the same thing.

            “Not anymore.” The one who looked the oldest beckoned outside to prove his argument. One snickered.

            I chuckled. “No, guess not.”

            “You’re the new flatfoot.” The man who spoke stepped forward, waving an accusatory finger, and took at seat on the stool to my right. It didn’t shock me he knew already. Church was just as much about God as it was a chance to gossip. That’s why I think Autumn liked it so much.

            “I guess so.”

            “You guess a lot,” another said from behind me. The one next to me piped his two cents in with a smirk.

            “Typical cop.”

            I could feel my face getting warm. In an odd way, I liked being called a typical cop. It was a fresh start with people who didn’t know about me, who wouldn’t for quite some time. Still, the compliment was in a bad context. Being a cop is all about getting along with the public, being their friend and, although it may sound cheesy, their protector. The guy who’ll get their cat down from a tree or hunt down a serial rapist.

            There are times, though, that you need to put your foot down. When the public sees you as too gentle to yield to. A person can only take so much until they need to stand up for themselves, but a cop has to put their foot down a step before others would. It’s one thing my old man never told me—just assumed I’d get it from experience. I learned the hard way, so before Tucker even went to preschool, I started drilling that into his head. That no one has the right to hurt you. That turning the other cheek like teachers tell you to do is a load of shit. That if the other guy throws a punch, he better expect one from you. These guys were just the type to look out for, to be ready to stand up.

                        I was new, and the running gear wasn’t helping—wasn’t a working man’s clothing. The uniform and pistol let people see you’re an authority. I just needed to change my image before they thought they had me figured out. I turned just enough to face the older man still standing by the door.

            “I’m not a typical cop. I’m a lot like you boys, raised in Cutler, got a wife and kids. You best remember that.” Most cops don’t have a family, or had one that couldn’t put up with long nights and missed baseball games. I kept looking right at the older man, making sure the others noticed.

            The employee came back with my coffee. Good timing on his part. I turned around and took a sip. It was hot as hell but I drank it anyways.

            “Fellas.” The man behind the counter nodded, but the others weren’t paying attention to him. The oldest thought what I said over for a couple seconds, then replied.

            “Cutler. Huh, you got a lot to learn about the Quietside, boy.”

            Might as well been words straight out of my old man’s mouth. By my tenth birthday I’d read more books than he would in his whole life, but I was still an idiot to him. He’d call me nummer than a hake and said I had a lot to learn about the way things worked.

            As the men got what they wanted and left, I sat in silence, looking my coffee, worrying that my old man was right.           

4

Autumn was home when I got back. My quads burned as I walked up the front steps, and I realized that I wasn’t looking forward to the talking to Autumn was going to give me. Not a speech, but a word here or there that would make her point.

I opened storm door and was greeted with the smell of floor cleaner. The place already looked better, the hardwood floors regaining their former shine. I stomped my shoes on the floor mat. A couple chunks sand and chips of salt from the road littered the carpet, but didn’t hit the clean floor. I left the sneakers by the doorway. Autumn already had her hands full with the kids and their grime, she didn’t need any from me.

I felt the bottom of my socks grow damp as I walked across the hardwood, the cleaner still drying. Normally, my feet would’ve been a sweaty mess, but it was cold enough that they didn’t have a chance to heat up nearly enough.

“That you, Cole?”

Her voice came from the upstairs hallway, still empty and noisy, adding a touch of reverb. I heard her footsteps creak over to the head of the stairs, her head peaking around a wall.

“Hi babe, place looks great.” She snickered. We both knew the place wouldn’t be home until next week at the earliest—not until the last cobweb was found and cleaned up. She grew up in a clean house and wouldn’t stand for hers not following suit.

“Have a nice run? You missed a nice service.”

There it was, with a hint of disappointment.

“I’m sure I did.” I stupidly looked around, as if the little ones were hiding from me. “Where are the kiddos?” Autumn leaned back, pulling the bucket of cleaner to her feet and picked it up, balancing it so it wouldn’t splash as she began to walk down the stairs, leaving the mop behind.

“They’re still at church, some of the other parents and their kids were staying late to do some finger painting. They offered for Tucker and Maya to stay and make some friends, and I figured I should start working on this mess.” My stomach complained, so I moved over to the kitchen, still cluttered with boxes full of dishware, some surviving from our college years.

“Probably didn’t know who you were just yet.” She stopped in place.

“Oh, so they would’ve treated me different if they did? That’s ridiculous Cole. Just drop that kind of thought. I got along just fine with the other women there. They seem perfectly nice.”

“Yeah—“

“I’m not in the mood, Cole.” She paused, set the bucket down, and looked at the clock hanging above the kitchen sink. “Now that you’re home I’m going to the store to get stuff for supper. Could you pick up the kids in about thirty minutes?” I nodded. “And try not to walk on the floor when it’s wet, right after I’ve cleaned it.” She motioned towards where I had stepped.

Autumn didn’t understand what it felt like to be public enemy number one, the guy who puts people away, who ruins families. It’s one thing to not get along with a couple people, but another to have a job that makes folks not care too much for you. The ones who appreciate you change their minds pretty quick when they look at how much the speeding ticket is when they’re already late for work.

I tried explaining it to her when we lived in Portland a half-decade in our marriage after graduating from Presque Isle. She needed to move back, away from the maroon sea of blueberry bushes and back to the exhaust fueled city life. She wanted to move back with her parents to let us get on our feet, but I wouldn’t have it, so times were especially tough with only my paycheck. I was still getting used to being on beat and Tucker was around five. Maya was becoming noticeable around Autumn’s abdomen.

Every rookie has their first scare, the first time they feel the rush of adrenaline as they look into somebody’s eyes that wants desperately to hurt them. It usually comes when they least expect it, and doesn’t when they’re ready, the academy and textbooks still crisp in their memory.

It was just barely a month after I started in Portland, still a little uneasy, but not uneasy enough. It was a Monday morning, meaning my partner Michael, who had been on beat for nearly a near, was getting our coffee while I had pump duty at the 7 Eleven on the corner of Federal and Crockett. The Crown Victoria had plenty of power even after five years of service before I drove it, but it used gas like a lobsteryacht. Michael had enough time to run inside and pay before I had it filled up.

I had the rear driver’s-side window down so I could hear dispatch better than my waist radio would allow, but it normally just let all the hard-earned heat the cruiser had managed to produce after the first ten minutes of driving in mid-January. The radio clicked to life, and I leaned towards the open window.

“Available units, report of a 10-65 in progress at the Walgreen’s on 347 Federal. One suspect, armed, wearing a black hooded sweatshirt.” Michael beat me to it, already pushing filthy station door open with his foot, clutching the half-full four-cup cardboard coffee holder in his left hand and pressing the talk button on his responder just below his collar.

“10-4 dispatch.” He cocked his head to speak into the mic, looking at me, saying ‘Get the car going’ without having to talk. “Unit 27 en-route, ETA 60 seconds.”

“10-4 Unit 27.” The radio beeped as the transmission ended, and I was already in the driver’s seat, turning the ignition, gas nozzle door still open and sticking out in the side mirror’s view. Michael practically fell in the passenger seat, setting the coffee between our seats in front of the 870 I thought we might have to use in less than a minute.

The cruiser accelerated onto Federal and we spun on gravel and salt from the last storm that would blanket the streets until early June. Michael hit the lights, and the sirens blared their obnoxious, adrenaline-pumping whine. Traffic wasn’t bad—the morning rush had long passed, and the second rush that brought the kids to school ended about 30 minutes before we stopped for gas. Still, swerving in and out of lanes was nothing like we practiced in the academy parking lot. Practice didn’t have the slightest possibility of babies in the backseat of a minivan coming the other way, or grandmothers who forgot their glasses on the kitchen table that morning but needed to make the doctor’s appointment on time. It’s a fine balance between speed and smarts, knowing when to challenge the cruiser and when to back down. Hearing the V8 engine growl as your right foot touches the floorboard is a rush like no other, a dedicated officer’s substitute for sex, a power that’s easy to abuse.

We sat in an adrenaline-fueled silence. I slowed for a red light we came across, checking to see if everyone heard us coming and didn’t push their luck at beating us across. Walgreen’s was just past the next light on the left. I turned and looked at Michael, expecting to see beads of sweat down his cheeks, or his right leg twitching—any sign of nervousness. Instead, he sat as stiff as a pole, looking straight ahead, focused on what awaited in the pharmacy.

“Why’d you bother bringing the coffee?” He looked at me, then the coffee, obviously a little puzzled himself, wondering why he didn’t just leave the holder on the counter and let the cashier deal with it.

“Let’s just do this, Cole.” I leaned forward, taking the mic from the center console as I let off the gas and made a hard left into the Walgreen’s parking lot. “Unit 27 10-23, do we know the weapon?”

“10-4 Unit 27. Weapon is a steak knife. It appears the call button was pressed, but we have a caller on the line, a cashier, uh, caller is still on the line, standby.”

I stopped facing the automatic front doors, leaving enough space to do a U-turn back onto the street without having the back up. We opened our doors almost in synch, standing behind them as cover, watching the door, listening for dispatch, for screams from inside. I scanned around the general vicinity, looking for a black hoodie, suspecting that if the caller was still on the line, the suspect was probably not inside, but could still be within sight. My right hand sat on my cool Glock, still in the holster, security strap already undone.

I spoke to Michael without looking at him, still surveying the scene. “No sign of the him outside.”

“Haven’t seen movement inside.” Michael glanced around the parking lot, biting his bottom lip. He took his hand off his own Glock, reaching up to his mic. “Dispatch, help us out here. Is location of suspect known?”

Nothing. I felt the cool breeze hit the sweat forming around my armpits. It was the closest I had ever been to drawing my weapon anywhere besides the firing range in the station basement, and even though I had fired my father’s hunting rifle at the woods when my father wasn’t around and the gun in my holster plenty at the range, I was worried I had forgotten where the trigger was. I still had an urge to draw, to point the Glock at the front doors, an itch that I needed to scratch.

“Unit 27, the caller is reporting the suspect has left the store.”

Michael responded. “Do we have an estimate of how long ago that was?”

“No more than two minutes ago.”

“10-4.”

Michael lowered his hand to his side and relaxed his posture as dispatch informed other units to stay on the lookout for the suspect. “He couldn’t have gotten far. I’m going to check out back, why don’t you go in and see if you can get some more info from the caller.”

I nodded yes, taking my hand off the Glock. Michael shut his door. I left mine open, thinking I might need to get in quick if the suspect was spotted nearby. Part of me wanted to take the 870 in with me, or give it to Michael, but I realized how ridiculous the thought was. It was to be used in the most dire situations, the situations most small town beat cops don’t have to deal with. The violence in the city called for its presence, long after most towns stopped equipping cruisers with shotguns. I left my security strap undone instead.

I stepped through the automatic doors, the blast of heat making my face burn in relief from the cold. It smelled like wet rug and plastic, like most corner drug stores. A closed sign was taped crookedly on the glass. I heard talking towards the back of the store, by where the pharmacy was. One cashier stood behind the checkout, and nodded me on. I followed the curved main walkway that lead to the back-left corner of the store, checking each aisle as I walked past them, half-expecting to see the hooded man waiting for me.

The rest of the staff was huddled around the pharmacy counter, where I could already tell which one of the pharmacists had dealt with the robber because of her rosy cheeks and wet eyes. I discretely buttoned the security strap around the Glock.

“Alright, you folks would say he hasn’t been gone for more than a couple minutes?” The four staff members looked at each other, making sure they all agreed before telling me yes or no. An overweight man with a roughly-shaven goatee and a nicer shirt than the rest of the crew was the manager. He was sweating, probably nervous about the call he was going to make to his superior and maybe even worrying about finding another pharmacist.

“Yeah, couldn’t have been more than that, ran out the that door.” He nodded towards a door on the back wall.

I took a step closer to the counter, pulled my notepad and pen out of my utility belt, and started scribbling notes for only a second or two before I noticed the pile of over-the-counter pill boxes that were still unwrapped along with ten or so boxes of Sudafed strewn across the counter to my right.

“What’s all that?” I pointed to the pile, as if no one else had seen it yet, and looked at the pharmacist. She was still visibly shaking—couldn’t have been much older than I was.

“He made me get all that,” she stammered, “but didn’t believe we only had this much Sudafed left.” She paused, looking down at her feet, as if she was ashamed that she had been robbed. “He got irritated, waved his knife around, and left.”

“So nothing was stolen?”

“Yes. Only what he could fit into his coat pocket though. I don’t know. Three boxes?” She nodded, confirming the story to herself.

Something wasn’t adding up. Most addicts don’t change their mind mid-robbery. If they walk in the store, they’re walking out with something they didn’t come with, something to cure their cravings.

“Is that an exit or…?” I trailed off, pointing to the door the manager had nodded to earlier. He shook his head.

“No, that goes to storage, then the back exit.”

My voice became urgent. “Then did any of you actually see him leave the building?”

The employees looked at each other, realizing their mistake. Their scared expressions were my answer.

Trying to catch an armed criminal who, by the looks of what he was planning on stealing, was in the meth making business, was dangerous enough to begin with. Finding out he may still be around really threw sand in the clam. Either dispatch neglected to tell us, or the manager didn’t mention it to when he called, and my guess was the manager was getting paid a little too much for how he handled his position. I touched my CB on.

“Michael, what’s your twenty?”

“Outside, back by the cruiser, about to come in. Something wrong?”

“This guy may still be here.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, possibly in storage.” I looked back at the employees, who were watching me talk. “Is the back door unlocked?” The manager, who had a bead of sweat running down his face, muttered no. “It’s locked, I’m going to have the manager come out and give you the keys in case you need to get in from that side. I’ll yell for him and let you know if I get a response.”

“Sounds good. I’ll make a call for another unit.”

I focused back on the workers. “Did this guy seem a little odd, like he was high or something?”

“Not really.” The pharmacist frowned, trying to recollect the man who would appear in her nightmares.

“He didn’t look thin, have any open sores on his face…”

“He was real nervous and hyper, in a hurry.” The pharmacist shrugged, not carelessly—it was as if she wasn’t quite sure she was remembering him correctly. She added, “He had bags under his eyes too,” and hung her head, running a hand through her hair.

Meth addicts go on “runs” where they keep using in intervals, keeping the euphoric feeling going until the body has enough or they run out of ice, and this guy was definitely out. Bags under his eyes probably meant he was on a run and hadn’t slept for a good day or two. It’s unfortunate, but always better to assume the worst instead of being hopeful.

Most robbers generally like to get in and out as quickly as possible, but there was a chance that this guy thought he was getting duped by the pharmacist and went out back to check for back stock. It also was possible he thought he was outsmarting Michael and me by staying put.

“Ok, my partner will meet you outside, hand him the keys.” The overweight man understood and fumbled in his pockets, finding the keys with a jingle. He headed to the front doors at a surprisingly brisk pace. Michael was waiting to meet him at the cruiser.

“The rest of you, stay put. I’m just going to yell in at him.” They looked lost. “He’s probably long gone.” They needed to hear that, and so did I.

I walked over to the back wall and put my ear to the door. Nothing.

“Police, come out with your hands on your head!” I swallowed hard. Not a peep. I tried a second time, the same message, and the same result. “Portland Police, open up!” I listened to my breathing.

“I got no response Michael, I’m going in.”

“I have the key.” Michael’s voice was focused and louder than normal. “Wait for the other unit.”

But I had already kicked the worn swinging door that read EMPLOYEES ONLY open. A towering maze of shelves packed with surplus merchandise appeared, boxes strewn across the narrow aisles. The lights hung lazily down from the roof. A red exit sign flickered over a metal storm door in the back corner, next to a large steel garage door for deliveries.

The room wasn’t much bigger than your average living room, but had a whole entire second store’s worth of shit in it. I took a couple steps forward, walking on the balls of my feet, wincing at how loud the gravel and grime on the smooth cement floor was. I kept scanning the room, feeling someone watching me, waiting to pounce.

The radio just about made me scream. Michael was quieter this time, no more than a breeze of air. “He’s right in front of the smaller back door, picking the lock. From Michael’s deliberate whisper, I guessed he was watching the man from behind a corner.

As if on queue, I heard a faint metallic scratch from under the exit sign. I could only think that he forgot something after he had already left, something important enough to come back for—maybe his wallet or some ingredients he needed.

Now I was on the hunt, suddenly thrown back into a world my father forced onto me, where you were unseen by the prey, and they were seen down the barrel of a rifle. I hustled over to the door, which appeared to open outwards—a streak of luck. I readied myself to throw the door open into his shaking and hurried hands, throwing him backwards for Michael and me to attack.

The scratching stopped and the door swung open, casting the bright gray winter sky into the dark storeroom. A silhouette of a tall man in a black sweatshirt breaking the daylight.

I froze. So did he. “Get down,” I managed, my eyes adjusting to the light enough to see his face. I took a step back. His eyes were becoming clear to me now, wide and crazy. He reached into the pouch on the front of the hoodie, pulling out the concealed steak knife, much longer than I had envisioned, started towards me. My hand eased up, on the way to my Glock.

The man’s foot was still in the air as Michael tackled him from the right, a blur of motion, enough to snap me out of my hypnotized state. I leaped through the door. Michael was shoving his knee into the man’s back, bashing the hand that still held the knife on the pavement. I acted on instinct, kicking the hand enough for the knife to clatter away. The man yelped. Michael hauled on the man’s arms, moving them on top of his back, and I moved in with the cuffs.

When a person realizes they’re trapped, they act just like an animal does, thrashing and squirming in hopes of getting free. The man heard the cuffs click open and acted like he’d been in this position before, immediately starting to fight, kicking Michael in the back with his heels and rolling on his chest. I dove onto the legs side-first, getting hit a couple times in the ribs before finally subduing him.

Michael managed to get him cuffed as the other unit arrived. I stayed on the guy’s legs, listening to him growl, still with some fight. As I caught my breath, I looked at Michael, who was doing the same.

“You must be pretty desperate or have a lot of balls, buddy, to break into a place again with cops around.” The man ignored him, continuing to try and free himself.

“Has more balls than I do.” I rubbed my eyes, squeezing the bridge of my nose. “He had me beat.” Michael shook his head, didn’t look at me, and began to tell the man his rights.

Later, as I sat back in the cruiser, the possibility hit me of only one of us getting back to the station, one of us having an extra cup of coffee, cold and still full. I knew damn well that if that guy had a gun instead of a knife, it’d be a different story.

I remembered that the next time I had the chance to draw my Glock on duty, the time that I wish I had froze.

  

5

            I sipped on my second glass of water as Autumn left for the store without saying goodbye. My guess that all the moving around had her on edge. She usually slept like a rock, but the couple times we stayed in a hotel to visit her parents in Connecticut she tossed and turned like I normally do, not used to her surroundings and the hard mattress. We had been married for about a year at that point, but her father still refused to host me if I slept in the same bed as his daughter under his roof. He tried to tell me what kind of man I was for having her stay in a hotel a mile from her house. I kept my mouth shut, for her.

            I took another quick shower so I wouldn’t smell up the church and give another reason for these people to frown at me. Autumn had moved my box of clothes next to the dresser I claimed and had started re-folding and unpacking it for me, making me feel like shit.

            I tried to get my hair dry before I put on a sweatshirt so it wouldn’t freeze in the cooling afternoon air, but looked at the clock and decided I didn’t have time. The kids were probably getting tired, and the folks watching them were probably ready to get home and start their dinners. I had my jacket halfway on as I stepped into the cold outside.

Autumn had taken the Camry, so I started the cruiser, breathing into my hands and rubbing them together as the engine warmed up. The interior still smelled cleaner they’d used before handing it over to me. Impatient, I shifted into reverse and backed out of the driveway, the motor still struggling and the steering wheel a block of ice. The power steering whined.

A couple people were out puttering in their yards, pushing the snow banks back a little further or reaching for the layer of snow on their angled roofs. It was a never-ending battle that only the determined and downright stubborn could fight on a year-to-year basis without going mad. My father would complain every year, saying he’d be damned if we got another foot, which we always did. As I got older, the complaints dried up into pained grumbles, too tired to badmouth Mother Nature. You need some pride in your lifestyle to get up in a cold room, go out in the freezing sharp air and break your back just so you can make it into the job that never calls you off. Determination and pride, that’s what folks live on when it comes down to it.

The church was on the crest of a hill overlooking the harbor, pier, and small graveyard surrounded by a white picket fence. The white steeple easily made it the tallest building in town. The wooden shingles were coated in white, battered by age and weather, but still in good condition thanks to what must have been regular layers of paint. It was two buildings connected by a small breezeway. One building was clearly the sanctuary, single paned and colorless windows lining the long sides. There was an outstretched metal ladder on the roof leading the steeple, probably to work on the bell if it didn’t ring right. The other structure looked like a small refurbished barn, double doors just beneath the peak of the roof, probably nailed shut from inside the attic. Both buildings were simple, nothing fancy. What mattered to those people was what was inside.

A sign in front read BASS HARBOR EVENGELICAL and had some upcoming events listed in plastic letters. One caught my eye—there was a town meeting tomorrow night.

I pulled up next to a couple other cars that were parked alongside the smaller building. The parking lines were spray painted on the pavement. The spots closest to the door were open. People left them for the handicapped without needing a sign to tell them to.

A couple was walking towards the sanctuary doors as I stepped out of the cruiser. I followed them, hoping they were there for the same reason I was. They must’ve been a couple years younger than me and fresh off the honeymoon years, still holding hands and bumping shoulders. I caught up to them on the steps leading to the main doors. The man held the door for me, but kept looking forward.

The sanctuary smelled of old books and electric heat. There were more pews than I was expecting, all made of pinewood. A scruffy red carpet lined the center walkway up to the large cross and podium. The ceiling was sewn together by hardwood bracers, large enough to be masts of large trade ships.

The minister, in a dark blue suit and a tan tie, greeted the couple, shaking the man’s hand vigorously and hugging the woman. I waited a couple steps back as they exchanged pleasantries, hearing muffled children’s laughter in a nearby room. A coon cat rubbed against my shin, leaving a trail of fur loosely hanging on my pant leg.

The couple said goodbye to the minister and walked towards the front, where they opened a door to the right of the podium that I guessed led to the other building. I looked at the minister, who was also watching the couple, even after the door had shut. It was only when I approached him that he turned and smiled.

“Afternoon, I’m Cole Wakefield, Maya and Tucker’s father.” I held out my hand.

“Oh yes, the new family, how nice to meet you! I’m Roger Greenman, the head minister here. Shame you couldn’t make it this morning.” He took my hand, but only gently squeezed. “Your kids are just in the other room, they’ve been a pleasure.” He smiled. “How are you getting acquainted with our town? It’s small, but there’s plenty of stories to be told and things to be learned here.”

“Oh, I’m getting along fine, just fine. Nice place.” I wasn’t sure if that was a white lie or not just yet. Roger nodded, but didn’t add anything to my description, as if he were waiting for more.

“Is there a town meeting tomorrow?” My question came out louder than I expected, sending an echo through the sanctuary.

“Yes, there is, at eight. Have you met Nate yet?” He paused. “Nate Kennedy?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” I almost asked if it was the same Kennedy that had the store and the construction outfit at the head of town, but stopped myself, knowing that would be a stupid question to ask in Cutler, so it would be here too. Small towns don’t tend to have too many families with the same name.

“Well I hope you’ll make an appearance, I’m sure Nate would like to meet you. He organizes most of the events in town, so I’m sure you become close with him quickly.” He smiled weakly and opened his hand for another handshake. “Mr. Wakefield,” he said, both a reminder to himself of my name and a goodbye. The shake was tighter than the first, more trustworthy.

I walked through the same doors the couple did, revealing a classroom with children’s artwork and posters about God on the walls and desks sized for different age groups in front of a whiteboard. There were only a couple kids and their parents still there, playing with each other in a chaotic scramble of toys and books in the back corner. Maya was chasing after another girl her age, both laughing themselves silly, hands colorful with dried paint. A group of boys sat in a circle around a pile of Legos, but Tucker sat in a spare desk, drumming with his fingers until he saw me and perked up, ready to leave. The group of parents saw me, but continued to talk amongst themselves.

By the time I was done surveying the room Tucker was by my side, putting on his jacket. I looked at Maya until we made eye contact. “Maya, let’s go.” She nodded but kept playing.

“I’m ready.” Tucker had moved to the door. His coat was unzipped and his beanie was sticking out from his right pocket. “Tucker, zip your coat.”

“We’re just going out to the car.” He shrugged his shoulders, maybe hoping that his argument would seem less confrontational if he didn’t seem too opinionated.

“Zip it.”

“But—“

“Tucker, don’t have me ask you again. And put your hat on.” He sighed and started working on his zipper—he always struggled with that coat—and turned away from the room, trying to hide his troubles. Maya had stopped playing, surprising me that I didn’t have to keep after her, and was dragging her coat on the floor by its sleeve as she walked towards the door. I stopped her with one hand and picked up the coat with the other, holding it as she put her arms through the sleeves. Her hat poked out of her left sleeve, between her wrist and the coat, sticking to the Velcro on the cuff by a couple of threads. I handed it to her to put on, waiting for her to zip her coat, which Tucker had finally managed. His hat was crooked and looked more like a pile of wool than a beanie out of his carelessness putting it on, but I was ready to leave so I let it slide, knowing that if I kept after him he would get pouty.

Roger’s words came back to me when I had the kids in the car and was pulling out of the parking lot heading back home. There’s plenty of stories to be told and things to be learned here. Plenty of things to be learned here. Just like the man at the general store. It seemed to me that I was being treated as well as they’d treat any other passerby tourist asking for directions or when the tide was coming in. Mr. Greenman had the impression I didn’t have a clue what I was doing, he just didn’t say it outright. I was no better than a flatlander to them.

My father would treat flatlanders like shit back in Cutler. Most of the time, it was someone who’d driven straight through Machias, expecting a bigger town since it was home to a branch of the University of Maine system. They’d be driving through town with their necks strained and eyes squinting as they tried to figure out where they’d ended up and if they were in Canada or not. Nine times out of ten they’d stop on the hill leading down to the weatherworn hardwood docks and yell at the fisherman unloading their traps as if they were tour guides there for convince. They’d say something along the lines of, “Excuse me,” or “I hope I’m not interrupting,” but it was too late. Men like my father would’ve already noticed they didn’t drive down onto the dock, that their license plates didn’t have a lobster on them, and that they pronounced their ‘r’s. He’d have them pegged for exactly who they were within a couple seconds. It was too late for them—no matter how polite they were, they weren’t one of us. They didn’t have calluses on their hands like my father did, they’d never have a finger or two missing that a chainsaw took off, wrinkles next to their eyes from squinting at sharp glint of ocean, and would never be caught wearing grundens. Probably didn’t even know what they were.

My father and his buds had a long running joke to tell anybody who asked for directions or where they were that they’d crossed the border about ten miles back. The locals said it was New Brunswick and that they’d seen a CBSA—the Canadian border patrol—cruiser drive past just a minute or so ago. The out-of-stater’s eyes would bug out and they’d turn around before the laughing got too loud.

Things are a little different in real traditional towns where families haven’t moved away in generations. I could see that people in Bass Harbor had the same mindset as people in Cutler did—anybody new makes them uncomfortable. Houses for sale are a rarity, and new families are just as uncommon. Folks tend to like a degree of certainty, the daily grind, the same hellos and goodbyes, even if they’re miserable on account of those routines they never break. They grow accustomed to their jobs and friends, whether they like them or not. Someone new throws that sense of security for a loop.

I figured that’s something like what they were feeling about me and my family, people not nearly as alien as could come down the drain, but still different and out of the ordinary. At least we had Maine license plates and brought enough to wear. Autumn taking the kids to church was probably a good thing to do too.

From the sound of it, Autumn didn’t have any trouble in church, which wasn’t surprising. She was always better than I was at socializing and making new friends. I’m not shy—there’s no such thing as a shy cop—but I just don’t like to open up to people until I get to know them beyond their name and what they do. I thought that maybe she’d made some friends with the other mothers so that she could host a little get together. She wouldn’t need to tell anyone directions—they already knew where she lived, even after we’d taken in the For Sale sign.

A doe leaped into the road from the ditch and clumsily staggered into the road not even a hundred feet ahead, stopping at the sight of my oncoming headlights, fearless or too frightened to move. I heard Maya gasp as the car slammed forward brakes straining. I was thrown back against my seat as the cruiser came to a halt about ten feet in front of the doe, whose short white tail flicked slightly. Her eyes were deep black. I swore she was looking right at me, and for a second I thought I could see the headlights reflecting back at me off her glossy gaze.

A fawn climbed from the ditch, legs weak with youth. It’s coat was spotted white, matching it’s mother’s tail fur, and it too seemed to look at me, and suddenly I was back in the thick woods beside Almore Cove with my father and his .22 rifle wedged against my shoulder.

Almore Cove was just a short drive from our house, just off State Route 191 down Cove Road. Us kids would dare each other to jump off the small cliffs into the Atlantic water. It would always be freezing, so cold even the summer heat wouldn’t be enough reason to take a swim for more than a couple minutes. Everybody knew it was a dangerous spot, but your reputation as a boy and not a girl meant risking a harsh talk from your parents back in middle school. Years later in high school we’d bring some pounders out and go skinny-dipping off the cliffs, alcohol making the water bearable and blue fingers and toes laughable. I never drank much and would only jump in if there was a girl I wanted to spend the night with brave enough to jump in.

The spruce, birch and pine shielded our house nearby from only some of the ocean wind, but the day of my first hunt with my father and his .22 was still as could be. I was about Tucker’s age, maybe a little younger. It was early deer season and we were about half a mile from Almore Cove, closer to Black Point up the way. Both of us were laying prone on the frozen forest floor, in full camo besides our bright orange beanies that other hunters would hopefully see before they pulled the trigger.

We’d seen some droppings a way back and my father decided to sit awhile before we got to the homemade treestand past Black Point. “You’re taking the rifle with me today,” he had said as he woke me before the sun had risen, “it’s about time you learn to hunt.” I was quickly learning that hunting was more about patience than your weapon or clothing. I felt the cold seep through the layers of wool and cotton my father told me to wear. I wished I’d taken his advice more seriously and put on another layer or two.

The distant breath of the Atlantic was the only sound we heard for the good part of an hour or so. I wanted to ask him if we could keep going, or if we could call it a day, or ask again how the rifle worked even though he already trained me enough that I could’ve probably taken the gun apart and put it back together quicker than some of the other adult hunters in town. Instead I breathed carefully so only a small trail of water vapor left my mouth. I kept quiet, waiting for his say.

A squirrel would run up a tree somewhere or move a leaf and I’d feel my heart quicken against the orange pine needles beneath me. My father wouldn’t move a muscle, as if he knew from the sound that it wasn’t the ten point he was looking to add to his wall, something he could be proud of his son for doing, something he could brag about to his buds when they came over to drink and smoke and introduce my father to a new woman every once and awhile who’d sometimes end up spending the night and nothing more.

Some twigs broke nearby and I felt my father hold his breath. Slowly the steps became louder and I began to sweat despite being chilled to the bone just a couple minutes earlier. Dad slowly raised his hand and pointed into the dense wood ahead of us. Sure enough, I saw something tan move about two hundred feet ahead. “Wait for it to move closer,” he whispered as I looked down the scope of the rifle to get a better view. It disappeared behind a patch of trees before I could get a good look.

Another half hour passed and the deer reappeared, this time about a hundred feet closer, close enough to see that it was small—not a baby, but not fully grown either, probably separated from its mother recently. It looked like a male. I’d never been hunting, but my father would still talk about it with me, and I knew enough about deer to have a general idea about their size and what was legal or not. “He’s not very big.”

“He’s legal.”

“Really?”

“For you. Not for me. This is good, means you have to shoot.” I kept looking at him, hoping that he was joking, but even without seeing his face I knew he wasn’t. He kept his eyes on the deer. “Well? Get ready damn it.”

I pushed the butt of the rifle tighter against my shoulder, closed my left eye and looked down the sight without knowing where the deer was. I tried finding it with the scope, but couldn’t, so I lifted my head and opened by eye again long enough to see the deer poking around at something slightly to the left, facing us. I looked back down the scope and found him.

“Wait for a good shot. Don’t get antsy.” He’d told me the most reliable shot was to aim for the heart. A little high, I might get the spine, a little low, I’d probably puncture a lung. Still, I wanted to try and be dead on the heart. I was a good shot back then, but not good enough to get the head or the neck. This deer was small enough that I guessed my father wasn’t worrying about filling our freezer off him.

I studied it nibble and nudge on something it found. Two small fuzzy bumps were above the deer’s eyes where an adult deer would have full-grown antlers. “I think it’s too young.” I waited for a response. “He’s young, Dad.”

“Shut up and concentrate.”

I bit my lip and readjusted my left arm. The deer was still nosing the ground. When he looked up, his ears twitched. He glanced around innocently. We meet eyes for a second, long enough that I thought I’d been spotted and that he knew I was watching him down a rifle scope. He moved to the side a little bit, just enough that his flank was exposed.

“Safety off.” I did as instructed pressed it without taking my eye from the scope. I used the earth to steady my shot, aware of the adrenaline tremors shaking through my arm.

“Take the shot.” He said it quietly, but it still had a force to it, a commanding tone that I felt I had to follow. My index finger moved from outside the trigger guard to the trigger itself, numb until it felt the cold metal that hadn’t been touched yet. It almost felt hot, so cold that it was hard to tell, so ready to be used.

“Take the shot.” But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

“Take the damn shot.”

I started to cry, warm tears running down my cheeks, and I sobbed loud enough for the deer to get spooked and leap away.

“Goddamnit boy.” Nothing else was said as we walked to the treestand, ate a bagged lunch and waited for the rest of the day only to see a couple more squirrels. We got home and I went to my room. He cracked open a beer and talked to our black lab King about the news on the television and didn’t invite me to come and eat.

I only had to wait in the cruiser for a couple more seconds before the doe finally heard another car coming and bolted with her baby onto the other side of the road. I felt like they were daring me to hit them, standing there. Maya was scared and was crying so I turned back and put my hand on her leg, nothing to say, hoping that my touch would be enough to calm her. Tucker sat quietly, unconcerned with the whole ordeal, growing more like my father than I could ever admit.

6

            The kids climbed out of the cruiser as I turned the key and yanked it out, trying to get to Maya before she ran up the steps to give her a reassuring hug, but she had the flimsy screen door open as I rounded the hood. Tucker trudged behind her, dragging his boots with each step. He acted as if nothing happened. His coat was unzipped again. I put a hand on his back and led him inside.

            Autumn was in the kitchen with Maya wrapped around her legs. She had stopped cooking what smelled like chicken soup and had a hand on Maya’s head and a wooden spoon in the other. I made sure to grab Tucker before he could ruin Autumn’s earlier cleaning. She was looking at me, concerned but accusatory, knowing it was something I had done to make Maya so upset.

            “We came pretty close to a couple deer,” I said nonchalantly, trying to let Autumn know that Maya’s reaction was just her age and sleepiness from a long day. I helped Tucker take his boots off, holding his arm as he lifted one leg at a time, pulled, and threw them to the side on top of the other shoes.

            “And?”

            “And they’re fine. She’s just a little tired.” Autumn pursed her lips. I knew she kept herself from saying that Maya was definitely not fine. She knelt down to deal with Maya. I threw my jacket at the couch and stepped past the girls to wash my hands and help out with supper.

            Once we were all seated at the table with steaming bowls of beef stew, I noticed that the table was far too big for just us, and that whoever had lived here before probably had a bigger family. I’d never thought to ask Wittenburg who lived here or why the house was for sale. A chill went through me, even with the steam from the soup making my nose run.

            “So how was the rest of your day once I left, guys?” Autumn looked up at the kids and took a spoonful of soup. She was usually the one to start a conversation at the table. I had plenty to talk about back in Portland, but nothing the kids should hear, and nothing I wanted to bring up again. There was always a couple stories I could tell, but for the most part I kept my mouth shut.

The kids didn’t speak up, so she swallowed and rephrased the question. “Did you have fun?”

“Yeah.” Maya had settled down, but her cheeks were still puffy and eyes red. I had a hard time looking at her when she was upset, especially when it was my fault. “Julia and me played house and she said that I should go to her house sometime.”

“Maybe you can go over after church next weekend,” I said, and she smiled. I was already forgiven. I knew it wouldn’t be that simple when she was older.

“What about you, Tucker?” Autumn asked.

“What?”

“Did you have fun today?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” Autumn glanced up at me, but I didn’t step in.

“Was it the service? I saw you fidgeting. It can be boring sometimes, I admit it.”

“Nobody wanted to play.” By now, Autumn had stopped eating.

“Did you ask anyone? There were a couple boys there your age, I talked to their mothers for a bit.”

“No.”

“Well you have to ask,” I chimed in.

“I never had to ask Collin and Matt.” They were his friends from Portland that would come over on the weekends and play with trading cards. They were good boys, and I knew that Tucker was going to miss them.

“Why’d we have to leave? I’m not going to make any friends here.” I stared down at my soup, feeling Autumn’s gaze. She wanted me to tell them something, since it was my fault that we had to leave, but I couldn’t.

“I’m sure you’re going to make new friends, honey, it’s just a matter of time. There’s going to be a lot more kids at school tomorrow, I promise.”

Autumn and I finally crawled in bed together after the kids were tucked in. She was reading The Things They Carried with her lamp on for a couple minutes while I closed my eyes and started to relax. I felt the book hit the sheets.

“Are we ok?”

“What?”

“You know what I mean. I feel like you’ve been angry at me and I feel like I snapped at you this afternoon.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah what?”

“You did kind of snap at me.”

“You’re just stubborn sometimes.”

            “Maybe. You’re just as stubborn. You know I don’t like church.” She didn’t say anything back, but didn’t pick up her book. I knew there was more on her mind, so I didn’t try too hard for sleep.

“Do you think Tucker will make friends?” I split my eyes open and rolled on my side to face her.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“Really?”

“You know I had trouble making friends before college. I turned out alright.” She pondered what I said, so I closed my eyes again.

“You and Tucker are different though.”

“Maybe.”

“I think you are. I think he’s like your father.” She’d only met the man once, but once was enough to see that my stories weren’t fiction. “Have you heard from him?”

“No.”

“You should call him.”

“No, I shouldn’t.”

“He won’t know the new address. Or phone number.”

“He’s not sending anything any time soon. Certainly not calling either.” I rolled over, back-to Autumn.

“He might want to send something to the kids. For their birthdays maybe.”

“I don’t think he owns a calendar, much less knows when their birthdays are. He knows when the bar opens and closes. That’s all.” She sighed, knowing I was probably right. “You should go down and see him, Cole. It would help.”

I stayed silent. She’d been nagging me to go and talk to Dad about Michael and why I’d left the house. She thought I could talk him into going to a home but I knew better. He wouldn’t have any of it, and I’d stay for less than an hour after a painful talk about how the weather had been and who died that he knew and I should know.

“He’s getting old. You should talk.”

“Maybe.”

“Cole.”

“I know. I’ll think about it when it warms up.” That seemed to please her, for the time being. I couldn’t foresee myself driving all the way down just to not be welcome. The house would smell like it always did, like cigarettes and old carpet, and I didn’t want the memories that came with it.             

“So I went to the general store today.”

“And?”

“And it’s a hole in the wall. I imagined it bigger, even for this town.”

“Uh-huh.” I could tell there was more she wanted to say, but it was taking her some time to spit it out.

“And?”

“And…well, church went well this morning. Nobody gave me any troubles. They seemed warm and friendly, especially some of the mothers. But the general store felt different. Like I wasn’t supposed to be there. I’m probably just spoiled from the nice Hannaford we had. We might have to go to Bar Harbor to get our groceries. They didn’t have much of a selection.”

“This isn’t about selection, though.”

“No. No, it’s not. There was this, man. He came in right behind me—I held the door for him—and he saw my face and kept looking at it, as if he was trying to recognize who I was, and I said hi to the man behind the counter, but he didn’t say anything back. But the man behind me disappeared down one of the aisles as I tried to get my bearings, well, tried to figure out where and if they had what I needed for the soup tonight. I couldn’t believe how small it is and how much they’ve managed to put so much in such a small area, but they didn’t have the wheat noodles I wanted. You probably didn’t notice.

“But I knocked some boxes over when I was scrounging around looking for the wheat elbows. The floor is filthy in there. I went to pick it up, and that man I held the door for was just standing at the head of the isle, watching me, empty handed.”

I thought about the older man at the general store when I got coffee. I thought about him and his buds.

“He was just watching me, Cole.”

“Well what did you do?”

“I just stared back. But even then, even when I made sure he knew I saw him, he stayed put for too long, longer than any normal person would when they were caught watching someone they didn’t know.”

“He didn’t say anything?”

“No. It’s probably nothing. I shouldn’t have even mentioned it.”

“It’s not nothing.” I turned my head so I could see her from the corner of my eye and waited until she saw I was looking before I moved it back. “Always tell me stuff like this.”

“Oh, don’t go thinking you need to do something about it. I know you. The world isn’t out to get us babe.”  We laid in silence as she waited for an answer. All I could see was that old asshole I met getting coffee standing over her, closer to her than what she described, towering over her, just as dirty as the floor.

“You were scared, weren’t you.” It wasn’t a question. I knew she was. I just needed to hear her say it.

“Well…yes. I was.”

“Then all I’m asking is that you be a little more understanding about how I feel. Why I’m so suspicious like you always point out.”

“I know Cole. I know. Sometimes…sometimes it just seems like you’re hell-bent to prove you’re not scared too.”

“I’m not always scared. I’m worried.” She rubbed by shoulder and turned off her lamp after she put the book on the shelf next to her. She inched next to me, her body forming to mine. Something about the way she would curl up next to me always let my muscles finally relax and I’d forget how hard it was to go to sleep for awhile, listening to her heart beat against my back. She reached over me and took my hand, clasping it into hers.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not tonight. Not now, with all of this going on.” I felt her nod, and like that, she was asleep. It was nice of her to ask when she did, but she would always chose to ask right before she went to sleep.

And so I stayed up, thinking about the day I shot Michael.

We were filling out reports with the radar on when the call came in around one in the morning, when things usually got a little more interesting as bars started closing and  the alcohol hit people hard. Shit hit the fan around two.

“Available units, we have a report of a 10-16 on Mansfield Avenue, repeat offender, possibly armed, who is responding?”

Michael looked at me as he started the engine. “Guess I should see the bad side of marriage some more before I tie the knot, eh?” I snickered and picked up the CB.

“Unit 27 responding”

“10-4 Unit 27. Advise 10-85”

“10-4.” I put the CB back on the dash. “Silent it is.”

We didn’t need to ask for the address. It was 24 Mansfield, a house that half the force had responded to at one point or another. Michael and I had been there once before. It was always a domestic dispute, and Mrs. Fredrick, the elderly neighbor, always called it in. The call came once a week it seemed. The couple probably did have some issues, but most officers thought Mrs. Fredrick was being too noisy. There was only two times that the officers had to go inside, neither of them done by Michael and me. Most of the time Mrs. Upstell would answer and apologize, insisting the police leave and that she was safe. The guys said count for the ‘rough foreplay’ excuse was up to thirteen, if I remember correctly. We even had a jar of loose change for whoever found one of them handcuffed already.

“Silent? Why? They know us by now.” Michael flashed the lights looked both ways as we drove through an intersection.

“Dunno. Maybe it’s a different caller this time.”

Michael flicked the headlights off as we turned onto Mansfield. We pulled into the short cement driveway of the Upstell household behind a Mercedes from the nineties. There was a streetlamp that lit their front yard and a light in their living room window that was still on somewhere beyond drawn curtains.

Michael rolled his window down and shut the cruiser off. We sat and listened. The streetlight hummed. A dog yapped in the distance. Water gurgled from the nearest drain and steamed with heat. Mrs. Fredrick’s house was dark. So were the nearby houses.

“Okay,” Michael sighed, “let’s go.” Both of us were careful our doors, easing them shut, acting as if a newborn was sleeping in the cruiser.

There was a stone pathway leading to the porch steps on the side of the house.  My breath appeared and disappeared in a warm fog from my mouth as I took short controlled breaths to stay relaxed but ready.

I watched the windows for any movement, my eyes struggling to adjust. Most windows had blinds or curtains drawn shut, so I stopped by the corner so I would still have a view of the living room. Michael ran his hand along the siding as he prowled up the steps. He stopped, cocking his head as if he heard something. I stepped closer to the house ear-first.

A woman’s scream came from somewhere inside, chillingly loud despite the walls separating us. I took a step back, getting a better look at the living room, but didn’t see any movement. I turned by Maglight on and shone it in the windows. Michael was watching me and pointed to the back while finishing climbing up the stairs. I started towards the backdoor as he knocked and waited. The grass had frozen and crunched with each step.

A scream, followed by a crash of glass shattering, then a wail of what sounded like intense pain. I started a hurried jog. Michael pounded on the door.

“Police, open up!”

The backdoor was up a short flight of stairs. Black ice covered the steps, glinting as the flashlight’s beam touched it. I held the railing and skipped every other step.

“Portland police, open the door! We know you’re in there!” Michael’s voice boomed in the night. I heard the screen door open. He was going in. There was no time for a warrant. The whoosh of the storm door and the squeak of rubber gasket snagging together was my cue to enter the house as well.

 Either Michael had found the key or his door had been unlocked, I can’t be sure, but mine was dead-bolted shut. I bashed my shoulder against it hard enough that the frame would’ve snapped if it were just a simple knob lock holding it shut. I saw Michael’s flashlight dance around through the blinds, searching for Mrs. Upstell, calling her name and reminding the couple he was police.

I felt under the doorframe and stood on my toes to check under the roof’s overhang for a spare key but only found spider web. A covered propane grill was parked to my right. Thinking someone might try and get out from the back, I dragged it in front of the entryway, hoping it would slow them down, and hopped over railing.

The front steps were just as slippery as the ones in back. Michael had left the door open. Heat leaked outside and warmed my face as I stepped inside.

It smelled strongly of bleach. The linoleum floor gave a dull shine from the porch light. Michael hadn’t turned on any lights, so I did, glancing in each room but moving quickly to the interior. They were all neatly organized, carpets spotless, furniture arranged in just the right way. There was a bare crib in center of one room. It felt like a show home more than a place someone called home.

I heard talking from somewhere deeper in the house as I got closer to the living room, but couldn’t make out what was being said. I thought it was a good thing, that Michael had found the couple and was settling things out quietly. They’d always been cooperative with officers in the past, especially Mrs. Upstell. In the past, though, we’d heard arguing, not screaming.

I passed the living room and saw light coming from under a door down a narrow hall. The kitchen and back door were connected to the living room by a bar with a couple stools. I didn’t see any alcohol out like I expected.

The talking had stopped. I lingered in the hallway, listening for any movement or voices, trying to think about what could be happening in the room. I didn’t want to rush in like what happened in the pharmacy. I knew Michael would’ve let me know if anything was wrong, somehow. I started thinking the silence was his warning.

A shadow moved across the thin blanket of light on the floor. I paused, trying to see if I could figure out who it was. I didn’t hear shoes, so I assumed it was either Mr. or Mrs. Upstell, pacing maybe. Staggering around drunk even. I approached the room flat against the wall on the same side, flashlight focused on the door. My other hand felt the wall as I went. The bleach smell was stronger the closer I got. It was an odd place for Michael to be talking things out. I listened a couple seconds more, hoping to hear the voices again, but got nothing.

“Michael?”

A flurry of activity played across the hallway floor, thudding from inside and a faint moan as if someone was gagged. I dropped the flashlight and felt for my holster, finding it without looking, unlatched the safety strap, and drew the Glock out. I wasn’t going to be caught unprepared again.

The door slammed open, snapping the knob off and partially coming of the hinges. A foot retreated back inside the doorframe. A large shadow folded in shape with the hallway wall, too large and disfigured to be just one person.

“Police, come out with you’re hands behind your head!” No response. The shadow didn’t move.

“Do it now!”

“Come in here!” a voice barked. “And then I’ll fucking come out!” I stood, pistol aimed at the door, ridged and tense, and tried to get a handle on what was happening.

“Come in here, or he’s dead! They’ll get him! They’ll fucking get him!”

“Now, let’s just take a minute and talk this through—“

“There’s nothing to talk about. There’s nothing to talk about! I did it, and I’m fucked, and I’m not giving up easy, I tell you man. You come to me asshole, so I know where you are! That you’re not one of them!” He spoke as fast as his mouth would allow, but was still slurred.

“Do it Cole.” Michael’s voice was low and serious.

“I’m armed.” I didn’t want to walk around the corner and make this guy more jumpy than he already was. I wanted him to start and trust me.

“Whatever man! If you’re not one of them, I’m fine, I’m fine really, they just keep following me, and it was one of them, and it had to be taken care of. It had to she had to it had to it had to.” He laughed, but it was as if he were mocking someone laughing. “And now I need to leave this place before they find it try to take me too and I’m just worried I’m not going to make it.”

“Bath salts, Cole.”

“Don’t talk so loud they’ll hear us through the roof shut up shut fucking up!”

“Listen—“ I spoke and took a step closer to the door, getting positioned so that I could maybe see into the bathroom. “Listen, you’re going to be fine—“

“You just don’t get it! You don’t get it…” His sentence turned into a grumble but continued to change pitch.

“Gunpoint.” Michael’s voice quivered.

“Do you not hear them! They fucking crawl together every time you say something they are coming again and you’re not going to stop them in time before we have to go so we have to leave before they see me again.”

“Okay, okay, what do you want me to do. I’ll do what you want me to if you let the man you’re holding go.” I pressed my CB on an called for emergency backup. “Code thirty, I repeat, Code thirty.” I turned it all the way down so dispatch wouldn’t add to the confusion.

“He’s mine until I get in my car. He’s mine. And you’re going to watch us leave the house, you’re going to be the bait for them. They’ll get you first. I took care of it. You didn’t. You couldn’t!”

“I’m going to come in, okay?”

“How many times in times do I need to say that I took care of it! Come in already! Before they see you out there in the open!”

I turned the corner, gun first, hands flexed and ready. I paused to see how he would react to my drawn weapon and moved ahead when he didn’t complain. My index finger was flat on the trigger so the safe action wouldn’t stop the gun from firing.

Upstell stood behind and slightly to the left of Michael, holding a .45 to Michael’s temple so hard that the tip of the barrel was beginning to mold around the skin. Shards of mirror were strewn across the floor, along with a coating of smeared blood. Upstell’s socks were soaked red. So was his white button up that hung loosely from his slender frame. So were his hands.

Upstell’s wife was limp and folded over the bathtub behind them. She was half-naked, swollen stomach exposed, arms flailed away from her body. A deep laceration stretched across her midsection, the sliver of mirror still wedged in, protruding at one end of the cut. Blood was draining down across her breasts and around her neck to the floor. Her mouth hung open. A gallon of open Clorox sat on the edge of the tub. A mostly empty bag of blue powered Cloud Nine—what the users sometimes called it—was in the sink. The bag wasn’t much bigger than a condom wrapper, the usual 500mg size bought under the counter.

I had to swallow a rising lump of vomit. Nothing prepares you for crime scenes. No matter how much graphic shit you see beforehand, there’s always going to be a scene that’s worse than you could’ve imagined. I felt lightheaded. The pool of blood and the overpowering stench of bleach were getting to me.

Michael’s eyes were inflamed from crying. His gun was still latched in the holster, his wrists bound by his own pair of handcuffs. Our eyes met, and even with a gun to his head, I could still see the trust in his eyes, and I knew I didn’t need to say it was going to be all right. We both knew that drill.

“She was one of them, she was infected, I had to clean her and the baby once and for all so they wouldn’t have someone watching me, she would always watch me, I almost ran out of bleach, almost.”

Upstell’s face was gaunt, emaciated even, eyes almost entirely black. Dried blood from his nose ran from his nostrils across his mouth from snorting the powder. His tongue would hang out of his mouth, spit dangling from it, until he pulled it back in. He couldn’t keep his head upright, constantly re-balancing it while the rest of his body only slightly waivered. He was shorter than Michael by about half a foot. I kept where his head was down the Glock’s sights as much as possible, but him moving around made it hard to get a good bead.

“How about this, Mr. Upstell, if you tell me your first name, I’ll tell you mine.”

The urgent growing wail of sirens peaked Upstell’s attention away from me. Backup was coming, fast. Blue and red flashed into the room from the small window shoulder-height on the wall.

“I’m going to tell my friends that they shouldn’t come in, okay?” I didn’t wait for his answer and moved my left hand up to my CB, right hand still outstretched with the Glock.

“Don’t you fucking move! Don’t tell them anything! It’s them isn’t it! They’re here for me! I knew it I knew it would come to this I knew they would find me. You don’t say a thing to them!”

“Mr. Upstell, they are going to come in if I don’t say something to them.”

“No! You talk to them and he’s dead!”

I slowly lowered my hand and put it back on my right wrist as support. Backup was going to rush in without knowing it was a hostage situation.

“Mr. Upstell, what do you want me to do so you let my friend go?”

            He was shaking, eyes darting around the room. He mumbled something incomprehensible.

            “Mr. Upstell—“ I took a small step forward, crunching on some mirror.

            “Stop! Don’t!” He jerked to attention, pressing the .45 harder against Michael’s temple. Michael winced, squinted his eyes shut and clenched his jaw, expecting the worst.

            Officers were running up the steps of the front door, a stampede of footsteps, shouting inside that they were police, calling our names, telling each other when a room was clear.

            “I’m not being taken by them!” Upstell grabbed Michael and pulled him towards the tub, backing against the ceramic. He stepped on his wife’s arm and kicked it aside. “I’m not I’m not!” His thumb pushed the hammer of the pistol down. Michael felt and heard the metallic click. His eyes bulged and began to cry.

            Backup came barreling down the hall, and I knew he would shoot if he saw them. If I warned them, he’d shoot. I had no choice.

            “Drop the weapon or I shoot.” My index finger had formed to the trigger, the safety action square in the center.

            “I’m not letting them take me!”

            “Drop the goddamned gun now!” The red and blue lights shone off Michael’s wide teary eyes. Upstell’s finger moved to the trigger. His head leaned to his right, out of balance, almost all of it clear from Michael. I saw my chance.

            Take the shot, my father said. Take the goddamned shot. So I exhaled and squeezed.

            Both men went down in a flash of blood. Bone matter splattered against the tiled wall of the bathtub. Cordite filled the air. My ears throbbed. The .45 bounced on the floor, landing underneath the window.

            Michael had fallen next to Upstell’s wife. Her husband was mostly in the tub, still as could be. Michael rolled around on the floor, shards of mirror hooking to his uniform. Both of his hands were at his throat, still cuffed.

            I kept my pistol up and moved next to my partner, aiming at Upstell, checking to see if he was neutralized before looking at Michael. The bottom half of Upstell’s jaw was torn and hanging loosely to his face. I could see his yellowed molars. He was still breathing, but unconscious.

            I knelt down, set my gun down and clutched Michael’s shoulders to stop him from rolling. His hands pressed against his jugular, blood flooding through his fingers, adding to the pool already on the floor. His eyes were frantic. I pushed down on his hands, helping add pressure.

“Upstell must have shot at the same time. Shit.” My hands slipped from his. I pushed again, harder, leaning forward and putting some of my body weight on his throat.

            “Cole,” he slurred. His face was already pale. The officer’s in the hall called in at us.

            “It’s—it’s me, it’s Cole, it’s clear,” I managed, a lump in my throat building. “Just call an ambulance.” I sensed men entering the room but didn’t turn to face them. “Michael. Michael.”

I looked into Michael’s eyes and watched his pupils dilate and the life drain from his face and his lips turn blue. His chest stopped moving. His hands relaxed and slid from his neck as the blood continued to ooze out. I went into shock, frozen, dazed.

            Another officer pushed me out of the way and starting performing CPR. Someone behind me helped me to my feet and led me out into the hallway, past officers putting their guns away and gawking into the bathroom. They asked me if I was okay. They asked me where Michael was, if he was okay. I told them Upstell had gotten a shot off. One said I looked like shit and slapped me the shoulder like it would cheer me up.

            I ended up outside in the cold, looking down at my bloodied hands under the streetlight, the flashing emergency lights whirling around the neighborhood, replaying what happened again and again and again in my head, asking if there had been one or two shots, talking myself into believing there was two. There had to have been two.

            I stood alone as the paramedics arrived and wheeled Upstell to an ambulance. They ran in desperation but with precision, one holding an I.V., the other steering the stretcher. He would go on to live, the sonofabitch.

            They were in no hurry when Michael was carried down the stairs and rolled into another ambulance with the emergency lights off, sheet bloodied and covering his face. I tried to shape a way to tell his fiancé and his mother what had just happened, reciting it in my head, the words never the right ones. No words fit news like that.

            Someone had thrown an emergency blanket over my shoulders by the time the crime scene guys were taking a break. One of the officers who had been in the hallway came over and stood a good couple feet away, keeping his distance like I was going to thrash at him.

            “Cole.” I didn’t know his name, so I moved my head just enough to acknowledge him. “Cole, the guy’s gun was full.”

            I thought about what he said as he walked away. I thought about what full meant, even though I knew. It was his way of saying there wasn’t a bullet missing, that there had only been one shot.

            I waved my hand towards the streetlight’s pole, hoping to find it for balance as my back arched forward and I upchucked onto the curb. My legs gave way and my knees hit the sidewalk. I threw up until there was nothing left and then some, dry heaving amid gasps for air. I howled each time I heaved, a deep raspy howl like a dog choking on a bone.

            No one came to help me. When I got to my feet again, I tried to find a way to tell myself it was going to be all right. But I knew the drill. I knew it wasn’t going to be all right.

           

7

            I was awake and making coffee before the sun rose, up as early as the fishermen to tame the sea and hunt for what put food on the table and gas in the boat for the next run. Despite knowing that criminal justice was my true calling since I was just a boy, I always envied the fishermen in a way, getting rocked by the water, just them and the boat and the sea. It seemed so simple, like living off the land. But as I grew older, I saw what it did to men, slowly eating away their bodies like stone against the Atlantic. My father always said, “She always finds a way to win,” she being the mighty ocean, sometimes a god, sometimes the devil himself. After a long restless night I began to think that police work was the same, psyching myself out before I even started the first say on duty.

            It was the kids first day of school over at Southwest Elementary, about a ten-minute drive through the forest and past the much larger and more developed Southwest Harbor. Still, the town was quaint by any flatlander’s standards.

            Autumn came down, still in her bathrobe, and poured herself a cup of coffee.

            “You’re up early.”

            “I wanted to see you off. Plus I still have a lot to do around here.” She nodded towards the boxes still stacked in the living room.

            “You going job hunting today?”

            “I don’t know. If I have time. It’s winter, Cole. I’m not going to get one now.”

            I knew in my gut she was right. Most of the island’s economy was based in tourism, and whatever scraps were left during the winter were taken by the locals. I kept my mouth shut. We needed the money, and she really didn’t need to hear her slim chances.