Star had been a functional lobstering rig since 1935. There was a brief hiatus in function (though not in license) during the Second World War when Henry’s great-grandfather served. The Star resumed function after the war with Henry’s grandfather at the helm. It continued on that way until his father died. Until Henry met me.
He made it work, he said. The photos, the keys. He was so happy and so was I. But he lied, Henry. A lie of omission, but still a lie. How many times do you lie to someone when you are married? I think the answer might be: a lot of times. No, I don’t mind, I am not in the mood, you look wonderful . But big lies, lies like this one? Certainly you can only have so many of those.
Does Henry think I am the sort of woman who he can keep things from? Is this the sort of guy he is: a secret keeper? A glosser-over? No, he is not. I don’t think so. I did not marry a fisherman or a secret keeper, I do not think.
It is, however, possible that I was underinformed about who Henry was and was not when we got married.
There is a chance that in our few months of courtship we did not really take the time to do our due diligence. But who slows down for such a thing when they are in love?
I leave the attic and run outside. I am going to show Henry that I know things. That he should not keep secrets from me. That he too may have been underinformed about who I was and was not. Outside the one-lane road is wet and black. I start running and I do not stop until I get to town, my wet hair slapping around my ears.
The bells chime a frozen tinkle as I walk into the hardware store, which smells like rubber piping and rat poison. The neon hammer sign is pulsing pink and blue in the window. The tumbler of Red Hots is near the checkout and an old man squinting at the rain asks if he can help me.
“I need some paint,” I say.
“What kind?”
“The kind that sticks to a car,” I say, and hand him part of the file I’ve taken with me, a photo of the Lynch family lobster buoy. “These colors.” He collects a series of paint chips and splays them like a winning hand of cards. He has a pair of glasses on a dingy braid of string around his neck and he puts these on.
He says, “I suspect what you want is some tadpole green, honeysuckle orange, and walking-on-eggshells white. Will that be all, Mrs. Lynch?”
“That will be all,” I say. I scoop some of the Red Hots out of the jar. I let them clack against my teeth and then I crunch them. Sugar and spice. Mrs. Lynch.
I T ’ S STILL RAINING , so I keep the car in the garage, but open the door so I don’t asphyxiate myself. The garage lights are a warm orange color and I clonk the open bottle of whiskey on a plywood shelf next to a drum of gasoline. I have a portable radio, so besides the sound of the rain there is also the sound of Motown. Squeaky-voiced men harmonize with other squeaky-voiced men in a way that is beautiful. I’m moonin’ over you and I’m thinking about my baby and ain’t that peculiar.
I’m singing and painting and drinking and painting and singing and outside it is getting dark. The foliage is deep green, like in that Rousseau painting at the Met I would sleep under if given the chance: gorillas with faces sweeter than the virgins’ and moons like tangerines and all that nighttime black vegetation. When I was small I thought that painting was of capital n Nature. That somewhere outside the city limits, past the Spanish groceries that sold dried fishes, past Co-op City, which still smells like burning, past all the storage facilities where people keep the stuff they can’t stand to look at but can’t throw away . . . I thought the city dropped off, and that Rousseau painting is what I thought the world looked like beyond it. A midnight-dense jungle.
That deep green elsewhere is where I live these days, and tonight I feel at home in it. I will show Henry what kind of native creature I am becoming and then he will know that I can
He made it work, he said. The photos, the keys. He was so happy and so was I. But he lied, Henry. A lie of omission, but still a lie. How many times do you lie to someone when you are married? I think the answer might be: a lot of times. No, I don’t mind, I am not in the mood, you look wonderful . But big lies, lies like this one? Certainly you can only have so many of those.
Does Henry think I am the sort of woman who he can keep things from? Is this the sort of guy he is: a secret keeper? A glosser-over? No, he is not. I don’t think so. I did not marry a fisherman or a secret keeper, I do not think.
It is, however, possible that I was underinformed about who Henry was and was not when we got married.
There is a chance that in our few months of courtship we did not really take the time to do our due diligence. But who slows down for such a thing when they are in love?
I leave the attic and run outside. I am going to show Henry that I know things. That he should not keep secrets from me. That he too may have been underinformed about who I was and was not. Outside the one-lane road is wet and black. I start running and I do not stop until I get to town, my wet hair slapping around my ears.
The bells chime a frozen tinkle as I walk into the hardware store, which smells like rubber piping and rat poison. The neon hammer sign is pulsing pink and blue in the window. The tumbler of Red Hots is near the checkout and an old man squinting at the rain asks if he can help me.
“I need some paint,” I say.
“What kind?”
“The kind that sticks to a car,” I say, and hand him part of the file I’ve taken with me, a photo of the Lynch family lobster buoy. “These colors.” He collects a series of paint chips and splays them like a winning hand of cards. He has a pair of glasses on a dingy braid of string around his neck and he puts these on.
He says, “I suspect what you want is some tadpole green, honeysuckle orange, and walking-on-eggshells white. Will that be all, Mrs. Lynch?”
“That will be all,” I say. I scoop some of the Red Hots out of the jar. I let them clack against my teeth and then I crunch them. Sugar and spice. Mrs. Lynch.
I T ’ S STILL RAINING , so I keep the car in the garage, but open the door so I don’t asphyxiate myself. The garage lights are a warm orange color and I clonk the open bottle of whiskey on a plywood shelf next to a drum of gasoline. I have a portable radio, so besides the sound of the rain there is also the sound of Motown. Squeaky-voiced men harmonize with other squeaky-voiced men in a way that is beautiful. I’m moonin’ over you and I’m thinking about my baby and ain’t that peculiar.
I’m singing and painting and drinking and painting and singing and outside it is getting dark. The foliage is deep green, like in that Rousseau painting at the Met I would sleep under if given the chance: gorillas with faces sweeter than the virgins’ and moons like tangerines and all that nighttime black vegetation. When I was small I thought that painting was of capital n Nature. That somewhere outside the city limits, past the Spanish groceries that sold dried fishes, past Co-op City, which still smells like burning, past all the storage facilities where people keep the stuff they can’t stand to look at but can’t throw away . . . I thought the city dropped off, and that Rousseau painting is what I thought the world looked like beyond it. A midnight-dense jungle.
That deep green elsewhere is where I live these days, and tonight I feel at home in it. I will show Henry what kind of native creature I am becoming and then he will know that I can
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