Reunion at Red Paint Bay

Confessing once, Simon thought, would make the second time easier. But he didn’t find it so when the second person he had to confess to was Amy. He took her hands across the small round table in the back corner of the Surf Club, Red Paint’s finest fish restaurant, and most expensive. That’s why there were only a few couples sprinkled throughout the dining room overlooking the Common. You could count on a secluded table at the Surf Club on a weekday.

“You proposed to me like this,” she said.

Her comment confused him. “No, it was at that place on the harbor in Portland with the huge wreath made out of corks. Real classy.”

“The restaurant was different, but it was candlelight like this, a seafood place, the waiter had just cleared away our plates, and you reached across the table to take my hands. I knew you had something important to say.”

He remembered bringing out the engagement ring, the best $195 could buy, and trying to slip it on her. It was way too small. He couldn’t believe how much he had underestimated the size of her finger. “You said yes right away, no hesitation.”

“I was ready for the question. You were dropping hints for weeks.”

Would she be ready tonight? Could she possibly know what he would say? “I lied to you,” he said. She nodded, that was all, no other encouragement to keep him going. “I lied about Paul Walker.”

She pulled her hands back from him. “Oh God, Simon, you did kill him?”

He wished he could say no and wipe away the fears flooding her mind, but the answer was more complicated. “I got another postcard at the office telling me to come to the dock on Thursday. Paul Walker showed up, and he started saying crazy things about Jean Crane and me. Then he said he’d just come from seeing you. He made it sound like he’d done something to you. When I couldn’t get you on the phone, I figured he had.”

“So …”

Simon took a deep breath, wondering how much truth he could bring himself to share. “So I hit him, not hard really, and he fell in the water. He was kind of flailing a little, but he was only a few feet from the dock. I figured he was all right.”

“If he was that close, couldn’t you have just leaned over and pulled him out?”

That had been Simon’s instinct, to offer his hand. But something told him to wait a moment, to watch, to see how things went. “I wasn’t sure at first what to do, so I guess I hesitated.”

“You weren’t sure whether to save him or not?”

“I was scared about you, so I called your cell. Then he went under again. I jumped in to find him, but he was gone. I don’t know how that could be. It’s not even that deep there.”

Her expression changed, and he wondered if there was always this moment when her clients would notice her face seize up with the gravity of the matter. That was when they would see confirmed what they vaguely knew—there was something seriously wrong in their lives.

“I can’t believe this,” she said. “First I find out a woman killed herself because she felt you raped her, and now you say you knocked a man into the bay and let him drown.”

“I didn’t know he was going to drown. I’m not even sure he did.”

“Were you hoping he would? Are you sure you didn’t wish your problem would disappear into Red Paint Bay—just like Jean Crane disappeared from town?”

“God, are we back to Jean again?”

“I’m just trying to get you to understand—”

“Why is that your job? I’m not your patient. You’re not the arbiter of my life. I was a goddamn horny teenager on graduation night, and you’re judging me like I was fully responsible for what this woman ended up doing to herself. She had all of those years to find a way to cope with what she thought I did, and she let herself be a nonfunctioning human being and a non-functioning wife.”

“She didn’t let herself any more than a person with PTSD lets herself be traumatized all of her life.”

“She didn’t choose to get help either, did she? She took her own life twenty-five years later, Amy—twenty-five years of making herself miserable and her husband miserable and now me.”

Amy cradled her wineglass in both hands. For once she was silent. For once he had the floor to himself.

“Paul Walker came here to ruin me,” he said. “He didn’t have to kidnap Davey or shoot me, like you thought might happen, he just had to make you think I raped her. Then he could leave town and let the story play out. He seemed like a passive guy, but he knew what he was doing.”

“This isn’t about him.”

“You’re right,” he agreed quickly, “but it isn’t just about me, either. It’s about you, too. You’re so used to sitting on your throne of morality that everything is clear-cut in your mind, all black-and-white. You took a crazy guy’s account of what happened decades ago without even considering that maybe he was using me as a scapegoat, that maybe Jean was unstable for reasons that had nothing to do with me. You were sure from the beginning that I was guilty,” he said, and then an unsettling thought came to him. “It’s like you wanted to believe I was.”

A waiter in black-and-white pushed through the kitchen door carrying a tray of desserts and walked past them without a glance.

“No,” she said, “I didn’t want to believe it. I don’t want to believe it.”

“But you can’t help yourself. For some reason you’re ready to think the worst about one stupid thing I did a long time ago and make it stand for my whole life.”

She sipped her wine, taking her time. “Letting Paul Walker drown,” she said, “that wasn’t a long time ago. It was last Thursday.”

She said this with a calmness that infuriated him, but she was right. It had been only a few days since he had soberly punched a man and watched him sink into Red Paint Bay. It seemed reasonable at the time, so reasonable that he couldn’t say he wouldn’t do it again, if Paul Walker reappeared. “He was stalking us, Amy—you, Davey, and me. Can’t you understand how I felt?”

She stood up and slung her pocketbook over her shoulder. “No, I don’t understand how you could let a man drown and maybe rape a girl. I don’t know what to do with that information, Simon. It’s just incredibly disturbing.”

“So …?”

“I need some time to sort things out.”

Take as much time as you need occurred to him as a sensitive response, or I’m sorry this is so hard on you. But he didn’t feel like being sensitive. He didn’t care if it was hard on her. “You expect me to just sit back and give you time to sort things out?”

Her hand fished around in her pocketbook. He couldn’t imagine what she was looking for. “That’s exactly what I expect.”

“Am I exiled to my office, or can I come home?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” she said quickly.

Not a good idea right now or for a while, but open-ended, for as long as she deemed it so. Her choice. She took out two twenty-dollar bills and tossed them on the table.

He stared at the money, taking a moment to comprehend. “You’re paying your half like we’re on a date?” She took a step and he grabbed for her. “Amy—”

She looked down at his hand circling her forearm. “Let go of me, Simon.”

“I will, but listen for a minute.”

“I said let go!”

Conversations stopped at the other tables. The waiter coming out the swinging door pivoted on his heels and went back in. An elderly couple leaned into the aisle, not to miss a word.

Simon’s fingers loosened their grip. “Don’t do this,” he whispered.

Amy shook off his hand and it swung over the edge of the table, knocking over her wineglass. Red ran across the white linen cloth. They both watched it for a moment. Then she walked away, a few quick steps to the door, and was gone. Through the front windows he saw the shadow of her get into the Volvo. He had no chance to tell her to drive carefully, as he always did.



It was the first time he had ever slept overnight at the Register. The old sofa in the conference room was comfortable enough, just a few inches short for him to stretch out all the way, but wide enough that he could curl on his side, his legs pulled up, the way he slept anyway. A day passed, then two. He found small reasons to call home, things that he normally took care of and she wouldn’t think about. The mortgage payment was due. The painter might stop by to give an estimate on the house. She should double-check the back door at night because the lock often popped open on its own. He didn’t ask to come back during these quick calls, and she didn’t invite him.

The last time he phoned she said she was cooking dinner and turned the phone over to Davey. “Hey Dad,” the boy said, “what’s going on?”

Mom kicked me out of the house—he couldn’t bring himself to say these words. There was too much to explain. “I’m staying at the office for a few days.”

“Because you and Mom had a big fight, right?”

How much had she told their son? He assumed she would be charitably vague. Still, he had promised Davey the truth. “You remember when I came home wet?” Simon said. “Mom got upset when I told her how it happened.”

“Told you lying’s better.”

Was that the lesson—lie and you get to sleep in your own bed, tell the truth and you’re kicked out of the house? “Lying is what got me into this problem in the first place, Davey.”

“So when are you coming home?”

Ask your mother—that’s what Simon wanted to say. But he wouldn’t put Davey in the middle. “It’ll be a little while longer, kiddo.”

“You have to come home. Mom won’t let me out of her sight.”

“She’s just upset, Davey, hang in there.”

“She’s calling for dinner, Dad, gotta go.”

“Love you,” Simon said, just after the click on the other end.





The postcard said TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES, NEW MEXICO on the front, over a picture of a Western resort town nestled among the sandstone hills. Simon turned over the card and read, “The Bible says the truth will set you free. Has it? Faithfully …”

Paul Walker—undeniably Paul Walker. Simon looked closely at the postmark—just two days ago, three days after he had supposedly disappeared in the bay. Paulie was alive. Not drowned. Not killed.

“Good news, Mr. Howe?”

Simon looked up to see Rigero standing on the opposite side of the desk, holding a proof in his hands.

“Yes, David, very good news.”

“I’m glad because I got bad news. Everything’s running short on page one. We got holes all over and no copy to fill it. Meg’s asking if you want to tear up the whole layout and start again.”

The grin stayed on Simon’s face. He couldn’t get rid of it if he wanted to. I didn’t kill someone! Gone was the threat of being interrogated, arrested, humiliated, tried, and jailed. He had nothing to hide now, especially since he had confessed to Amy. Paul Walker couldn’t hurt him or his family anymore.

“Mr. Howe?”

“Yes, David, blow up page one. I’ll start over after lunch.”



It felt strange to Simon, turning the key to his own front door. It had only been a few days’ absence, but he felt like a stranger here, a trespasser. Amy was at work—he had counted on that. Davey was gone, too, to wherever she had found for him to be while she was at work. She certainly wouldn’t let him stay alone now, even during the day.

“Hello,” he called from the hallway, out of habit. There was no answer.

He looked into the living room, saw the space where the old piano had been, the light rectangle remaining on the darker wood floor. He wondered what she would choose to put there—a new piano? He went upstairs, looked in Davey’s room. Casper was there, as usual, curled on his pillow. She did not raise her head. There were clothes scattered about, shorts and T-shirts, as if Davey had pulled them off before bed and tossed them in whatever direction he liked—an uncharacteristic disorder.

Simon walked down the hallway to their bedroom, dragged a suitcase from under the bed, and filled it with shoes, shirts, pants, and belts. There were so few things one really needed to go out into the world.

When he went downstairs again he turned into the kitchen. The sink was full of dishes, waiting to be washed. The counter was stacked with plastic bags full of oranges, grapes, and tomatoes. Simon took the postcard from his pocket and leaned it against the oranges, where it could not be missed.



He drove back to the Register faster than he should have on the narrow roads, outlining in his head the Setting the Record Straight column that would fill up the vacant space on page one. There was much to set straight. In the editorial room he shifted his computer away from the window, turning his back to his staff, his signal not to be disturbed. Then he began: Dear Readers …

But where to begin, how far back to go? He would confess his involvement with Jean Crane, what she thought he had done to her on graduation night—rape her—and his evasiveness to the police chief about knowing Paul Walker. He would admit to knocking his accuser off the dock and being slow to try to rescue him. He might even say that some part of him was relieved to think that the stalker of his wife and son had drowned and would not be heard from again. But what about the rest of his life, was that fair game now, too? Should he admit that he embellished his inheritance by twenty thousand dollars to secure the loan to buy the Register? Imagined during the abstinent last months of Amy’s pregnancy what it would be like having sex with his young editorial assistant? Or that he continued smoking marijuana for years after college, even sneaking a few puffs behind the garage while Amy was inside nursing Davey? If the truth set one free, why not confess it all? In a lifetime there were so many weaknesses and deceptions one inevitably succumbed to. He was sure he was just scratching the surface remembering them. What would all of these indiscretions add up to, anyway? Nothing remarkable. In the end he was sure his sins were pretty ordinary. Except one, perhaps.



In the crowded paste-up room, amid stacks of unsold copies of the Register dating back years, David Rigero fit the last strip of copy onto page one, the two left columns. He stepped back and admired his work. “You did it, boss, no more empty space.”

Simon leaned forward to read The Weekly Quotation: “We live amid surfaces, and the true art of Life is to skate well on them.” —Emerson. Barbara had chosen well this week, an observation that seemed to fit him perfectly. He did skim the surface—Amy told him that once—but he didn’t think it was necessarily a bad way to live. There was art to skating well, even to just staying on your feet. It was certainly better than cracking through the ice and sinking into dark, frigid waters.

“Pretty funny, isn’t it, Mr. Howe?”

Simon looked up, trying to make the connection to the Emerson quotation. “How do you mean?”

“You and me in the same boat—people thinking we’re rapists.”

“Funny is one word for it.”

“It takes balls putting this in, telling people everything. Or stupidity, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Stupidity may be more accurate.”

Rigero flexed his arms, bulging his biceps for a moment, and it surprised Simon that they didn’t seem very big. “Don’t you have a priest or someone you could confess to? It would save you a lot of trouble.”

“There’s no tradition of confession in my church,” Simon said.

“Too bad. A few Hail Marys and Our Fathers, you’re clean.”

The idea that a few repetitions of words could clear one’s soul seemed bizarre to Simon. Surely one had to do more than confess in private.

“I could still yank this out,” Rigero said, “plug the space with a house ad.”

“We don’t run house ads on page one, David, and I’m not changing my mind anyway. It feels good getting everything out there—nothing to hide anymore, nothing to explain. Everybody should do it once in their lives.”

“It’s your funeral,” Rigero said as he took his roller and pressed the copy firmly in place. He peeled the page off the makeup table and held it up. “That’s a wrap, boss. Want to go for a beer?”

Simon imagined what Amy would say if she knew—two supposed rapists going for a beer together. She’d be furious. “Sure, David,” he said, “why not?”





The crescent moon cast a thin light over Red Paint Bay, barely enough to reveal the narrow arc of sand curving toward the dock. The white Toyota that sputtered into the dirt parking lot pulled up to the barrier rocks, then went silent. Inside Simon stared through the blurry windshield as if expecting something to happen—fireworks, a meteor shower, or perhaps some miraculous visitation.

He opened the door, swung his legs out, and leaned down to pull off his sneakers and socks. He walked across the small beach, digging his toes into the sand with each step. The feel of the grains reminded him of the first day each summer when he was a kid and could go without shoes. Running out the back door, down the winding path that led to the water, then hours of exploring the edges of the bay till his face burned from the sun and his tender feet were cut and bloody.

He picked up a handful of sand and let it slide through his fingers. He watched for a minute as the water lapped onshore in miniature waves. A half mile across, the opposite side was dotted with pinpricks of illumination, like fallen stars. He walked out onto the dock and a spark of light caught his eye, a firefly writing in the darkness as if on a blackboard. That was odd, a solitary beetle weaving its distinctive pattern so far away from the tall grass where potential mates could see the display. As a boy he’d watch them for hours in his backyard, fireflies by the hundreds flickering off and on. One night he snatched one from the air, proving to himself how quick his reflexes were. It shocked him when he opened his hand to see the mangled legs and wings, and he quickly wiped his palms down his pants.

There was laughter from the inn, and he turned instinctively to look up the hill. He wondered at how easily sound traveled, how much could be heard. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and ran off the end like a broad jumper, his legs pumping to keep himself airborne. It was only seconds, but time enough to imagine himself eight years old again, wanting more than anything to light up like a firefly. When he hit the water, it swallowed him whole, a giant mouth. He let himself sink straight down until his feet touched the spongy bottom. The muck of the bay surrounded his legs, holding him down.

After some time, he couldn’t imagine how long, the air burst from his lungs. He flexed his knees and shoved upward, his hands stretched out as if grabbing for the rungs of a ladder. The water above him seemed endless. He wondered if he had miscalculated and was really going sideways. Maybe the beers had disoriented him. He tried to hold his lips shut, but the brackish water seeped in. When his head finally broke the surface, he lifted his mouth toward the sky and coughed and spit.

He swept his hands in and out, treading water. He figured he could stay afloat like this for hours if he needed to, plenty of time to think. The Register would come out Thursday morning, as usual. The citizens of Red Paint would read all about him, reveling in the intimate details of a life turned inside out in front of their eyes. They would judge him, of course, split for and against, but with a certain reluctance, realizing that it could well be any one of them being judged. Davey would hear comments about his father, taunts perhaps, and he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from getting into fights. He would find the whole thing proof that telling the truth didn’t make sense when a lie could make life so much easier. Amy would latch onto the abundant shame of the matter, make it hers. After a while, she would try to work through her disappointment in him, seeking her way to a grudging acceptance. And he, Simon Howe, what would become of him? Perhaps the truth would set him free, as Paul Walker suggested, but from what—memory, guilt, Amy? Could he bear her grudging acceptance? There was no way to know what lay around the next corner, what new entanglements, what new possibilities. He would just have to show up for his life as he always did and see what happened, since there was no other good option anyway. He sank a few inches, letting the waters of Red Paint Bay rise to just below his eyes.