declaiming about pitched roofs and paired chimneys. Charlie rushed down the street and opened the door to the Lobster Company, with its sign in the window: UNATTENDED CHILDREN WILL BE SOLD AS SLAVES . He stepped inside and was accosted by the musty smell of brine and fish. Big tanks filled with lobsters gurgled in the middle of the room. The concrete floor was wet from water splashing over the edges. As a boy, he had loved pushing his face up against the moist glass and watching the crustaceans do battle.
At the register, a pale man in pinstripes was collecting his purchase. Pete Kiley had played second base on the high-school team and was now an associate in a fancy Boston law firm. He and Charlie had turned more double plays than any infield in Marblehead history. Now Pete and his family lived out on the Neck in an expensive home and took vacations in France and Italy.
“Hey,” Pete said, turning around. “I’ll be damned. If it isn’t number twenty-four . . . shortstop . . . Charlie St.—”
His routine was always the same no matter where they ran into each other, and Charlie knew it was intended to cut through the awkwardness. Pete had done something with his life, and Charlie hadn’t. But the truth was that Pete’s attempt to recall their glory days only made things feel worse.
“Sorry I can’t stay and chat,” Pete said, twirling his BMW keys, “but the wife is waiting for me in the car.” He punched Charlie in the shoulder. “Give me a ring one of these days, and we’ll have you over for dinner. It’s been too long.”
“You bet,” Charlie said, watching him go. Of course, he would never make the call.
“That kid’s making too much money,” an old voice said behind the counter. “Just shows you, taxes should be higher on the rich.” Bowdy Cartwright had owned the Lobster Company forever. He was a jowly fellow with at least three chins who had amused generations of kids with his uncanny imitation of a puffer fish. “What are you looking for today?” he asked. “We’ve got good haddock for chowder and clams for steamers with drawn broth—”
“I’ll take two swordfish steaks, half a pound each.”
“You got it. Just off the boat from the Grand Banks.”
A young woman stepped out from one of the back rooms of the store. Margie Cartwright flipped her long blond hair to one side and flashed a red lipsticky smile. She went straight to the cash register, leaned over, and thrust her cheek toward him.
“Come on, Charlie. Give one up for your old gal.”
Way back before he ruined everything, Margie was his sweetheart. She was a year older. He was a sophomore, she was a junior, and they had met one freezing Thanksgiving at the big game against Swampscott. She was a cheerleader who insisted on wearing a little skirt and sweater whatever the weather. After all, she said, girls with pompoms had no business in parkas and long pants. Their romance was innocent enough, with nights spent immersed in conversation over chicken parm at the House of Pizza. Then came the accident, and Charlie retreated. All the cheerleading in the world would not lift his spirits. Margie tried her hardest to bring him back, but he pushed her away.
Charlie leaned forward and kissed her.
“Thatta boy,” she said, batting long eyelashes. Charlie smelled her Chloe perfume. In many ways, Margie hadn’t let go of her glory years. Her long blond hair was unchanged, and she wore a tight pink sweater, short black skirt, and high boots. Up and down the coast, the fishermen knew her name and outfits, her only form of protest against spending her life in the family’s fish shack.
“So? Whatcha cooking tonight?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing much.”
“Here ya go,” Bowdy said, handing Charlie a paper bag. “That’s two swordfish steaks, Margie. A little more than a pound.”
“Two steaks? Oh really!” Margie said, arching a well-plucked eyebrow. “Fish for two?”
“Nah . . .”
“C’mon, Charlie! Who is
At the register, a pale man in pinstripes was collecting his purchase. Pete Kiley had played second base on the high-school team and was now an associate in a fancy Boston law firm. He and Charlie had turned more double plays than any infield in Marblehead history. Now Pete and his family lived out on the Neck in an expensive home and took vacations in France and Italy.
“Hey,” Pete said, turning around. “I’ll be damned. If it isn’t number twenty-four . . . shortstop . . . Charlie St.—”
His routine was always the same no matter where they ran into each other, and Charlie knew it was intended to cut through the awkwardness. Pete had done something with his life, and Charlie hadn’t. But the truth was that Pete’s attempt to recall their glory days only made things feel worse.
“Sorry I can’t stay and chat,” Pete said, twirling his BMW keys, “but the wife is waiting for me in the car.” He punched Charlie in the shoulder. “Give me a ring one of these days, and we’ll have you over for dinner. It’s been too long.”
“You bet,” Charlie said, watching him go. Of course, he would never make the call.
“That kid’s making too much money,” an old voice said behind the counter. “Just shows you, taxes should be higher on the rich.” Bowdy Cartwright had owned the Lobster Company forever. He was a jowly fellow with at least three chins who had amused generations of kids with his uncanny imitation of a puffer fish. “What are you looking for today?” he asked. “We’ve got good haddock for chowder and clams for steamers with drawn broth—”
“I’ll take two swordfish steaks, half a pound each.”
“You got it. Just off the boat from the Grand Banks.”
A young woman stepped out from one of the back rooms of the store. Margie Cartwright flipped her long blond hair to one side and flashed a red lipsticky smile. She went straight to the cash register, leaned over, and thrust her cheek toward him.
“Come on, Charlie. Give one up for your old gal.”
Way back before he ruined everything, Margie was his sweetheart. She was a year older. He was a sophomore, she was a junior, and they had met one freezing Thanksgiving at the big game against Swampscott. She was a cheerleader who insisted on wearing a little skirt and sweater whatever the weather. After all, she said, girls with pompoms had no business in parkas and long pants. Their romance was innocent enough, with nights spent immersed in conversation over chicken parm at the House of Pizza. Then came the accident, and Charlie retreated. All the cheerleading in the world would not lift his spirits. Margie tried her hardest to bring him back, but he pushed her away.
Charlie leaned forward and kissed her.
“Thatta boy,” she said, batting long eyelashes. Charlie smelled her Chloe perfume. In many ways, Margie hadn’t let go of her glory years. Her long blond hair was unchanged, and she wore a tight pink sweater, short black skirt, and high boots. Up and down the coast, the fishermen knew her name and outfits, her only form of protest against spending her life in the family’s fish shack.
“So? Whatcha cooking tonight?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing much.”
“Here ya go,” Bowdy said, handing Charlie a paper bag. “That’s two swordfish steaks, Margie. A little more than a pound.”
“Two steaks? Oh really!” Margie said, arching a well-plucked eyebrow. “Fish for two?”
“Nah . . .”
“C’mon, Charlie! Who is
Similar Books
