The shops are either old and practical—a tiny drugstore, a hardware shop, a “package store” that sells liquor—or quaint and touristy, selling housewares, wind chimes, books, and candy. There are several ice cream parlors.
First, we go to a beach shop. There’s pop music playing. The walls are full of bathing suits with cutesy phrases on the butts (The Vineyard Is for Lovers), Jaws Tshirts (the movie was filmed up-island), inexpensive beach towels, kites, and sun visors.
Pfeff talks to the girl behind the counter, asking about sweatshirt sizes. She looks like a college student. Bored. A few years older than we are. “Do you think I’m a size medium?” he asks. “I might be a large.” And before she can answer, he adds: “Oh, and while I have you, tell me something. ’Kay?”
“Sure.”
“I’m a person who makes bad choices, apparently,” Pfeff says. “Actually, I knew that before today. And the thing is, I made the bad choice to pack for my visit here—well, I’m not staying in Edgartown, we’re on this island out”—he points toward the harbor—“over there somewhere. Anyway. I wonder where a person would go to buy underwear in town. Is this even the sort of place where a person can buy underwear?”
“Yes,” says the girl. “We have underwear here.”
“I already know where to go,” I tell him.
But Pfeff ignores me, and I realize he’s not really concerned about getting the information. He wants to have the conversation. “Okay. Where are the boxer shorts of Edgartown?”
She directs him to the shop.
“And what about socks?” asks Pfeff. “Will there be socks?”
“There will be socks,” she tells him. “But we have socks here.”
She shows him socks with little seaplanes on them, with maps of the island on them, gulls, lobsters, and whales.
Pfeff buys one of each. “These are totally exciting socks,” he says. “I’m like, set for life with these socks.” He shows me the pair with lobsters. “Ooh, do you think they have shrimp?” He turns to the girl. “Do you have shrimp socks, as well? Or crabs? I will buy all the crustacean socks you have on hand. I mean, one pair of each. I’m not going wild or anything.”
She only has lobsters. No other crustaceans.
“Crawdads?” asks Pfeff. “Clams?”
She says clams are mollusks, and also they don’t have clam socks.
“Thank you anyway,” says Pfeff. “I like to be very thorough about this kind of thing.”
He pays with a credit card, buying not only socks but flip-flops that he wears immediately, a Vineyard T-shirt to replace his damp sweatshirt, and two pairs of cheap and deeply silly mirrored sunglasses. “Do I look like Top Gun?”
“Tom Cruise does not have mirrored lenses,” I tell him. “He has normal ones.”
“No way,” says Pfeff. “They are totally mirrored. I swear.”
“You look nothing like Tom Cruise anyway.” Though he does, a bit.
“I can dream,” says Pfeff. “Let me dream. You get to walk all around looking like a fashion model or whatever. You don’t know how it feels to be a regular human.”
I flush. It’s a cheap and generic compliment. And it’s not true. But I like hearing it, anyhow. “Shut up,” I tell him. “Are you hungry, or do you want your boxer shorts first?”
“I didn’t eat breakfast,” says Pfeff. “Because I made bad choices.”
* * *
—
WE GET LOBSTER rolls, Cokes, fried clams, and fried pickle chips. We eat them sitting on a bench by the harbor. Then Pfeff buys underwear. And an argyle sweater that makes him look “like a grandpa, but in a good way.”
In the bookshop, he wants to buy presents: Armistead Maupin for Major, Stephen King for George, and a medical thriller for Yardley, because she wants to be a doctor. He’s surprisingly well-read. “I read a lot of popular stuff,” he tells me. “But stuff we have to read for school makes me fall asleep.” We go upstairs to the sci-fi section and he finds several fat paperbacks to add to his pile.
As we head back downstairs to the front room of the shop, Pfeff sees someone he knows: a petite girl with long black hair, Asian American, dressed in ratty jean shorts and a soft plaid shirt. She carries a huge tote bag that looks like it’s made of wicker. Her face is round and gently sunburned. “Sybelle,” Pfeff whispers, like it’s a big secret. “That’s Sybelle.”
She turns. “Oh my god, Pfefferman. Are you following me?”
“Ha. What’s it been, like a year?” He turns to me. “I haven’t seen her in forever. I’m not following her. Carrie, Sybelle. Sybelle, Carrie. Sybelle and I did this Canyonlands outdoorsy thing together last summer. Like a program where they took us in the wilderness for three—no, maybe four weeks. I nearly died, actually, multiple times.”
“You are not a mountain man,” says Sybelle.
“There was belaying and stuff like that,” says Pfeff. “I still have scars.”
“Do you have time to go get ice cream?” asks Sybelle. “We could catch up.”
“Definitely,” says Pfeff. He pays for the books with his gift certificate. “I’ll meet you at the dock, ’kay, Carrie? Won’t be long. I just haven’t seen Sybelle since I like, fell off that cliff in Utah.”
“Sure,” I say, faking a smile.
“Are you sure you’re not following me?” says Sybelle.
“I’m not even on this island,” says Pfeff. “I’m on a whole different island, really.”
He hands his bags to me. “We had the best shopping day, didn’t we?”
“I literally bought nothing,” I say.
And they are gone.
28.
I DROP THE bags in the boat.
I run my mother’s errands.
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.
I don’t even know him.
I buy a strawberry milkshake. It tastes like all the summers past. The same milkshake I drank when I was three, when I was nine, when I was thirteen. The same white cardboard cup.
I lean against the boat. My hands get cold. My lips.
I dig my sweater from my bag and put it on. Stupidly, self-consciously, I run a comb through my hair and put on lip balm.
And I wait for Pfeff.
From three-fifteen till four. Then four-thirty.
I could leave, like I did this morning. But we never set a precise time we were meeting. So he isn’t late.
And if I leave him, someone else from Beechwood will have to motor back to collect him at some other time. Or I will.
And does he even know the phone number at Goose? I don’t think he does. Are Harris and Uncle Dean even listed in the Cape Cod phone book? Maybe, but maybe not.
If I strand Pfeff, he will be angry. And I’ll lose my chance.
So I wait. And in waiting, I have to admit that I want this boy, with his broad shoulders and his broken nose, with his excitement about everything. I want a boy who would swim to the boat in his hoodie, who would kneel in front of my mother, who buys lobster socks and presents for his friends. Who kisses the way he kisses. Who calls me clever and impressive and beautiful.
He went off with Sybelle three hours ago.
I take a codeine and wait for the pain to go away.
I am cold. And bored. I climb into the boat and sit on the floor, protected from the wind.
The codeine kicks in. At some point I find a pay phone and call Tipper, telling her not to wait for supper.
* * *
—
THE SUN IS setting when Pfeff arrives on the dock. “I am so sorry,” he says, starting the conversation from far away as he walks in my direction. “We rented bikes. There’s this area you can bike to, it’s not far, where there’s water on both sides of you.” He climbs onto the boat and pulls on his sweatshirt. “Ocean on one side and some kind of pond on the other. It’s so beautiful. You have to see it.”
I have seen it. Many times.