“You see that vehicle over there?” Charlie Coggins pointed toward the strange contraption on fat tires. “That’s what is called an amphibian. You can drive it through water, up and down dunes—it’s ideal for my line of work. I thought I knew everything about assembling things, so I sent for this kit. When it arrived I couldn’t make head or tail of the directions, so I had the parts trucked over to Lash and he helped me put it together. Lash could put together a space shuttle if he had all the parts. Well, we better get on with our work, Mr. Sampson has a plane to catch this evening. Nice meeting you. Say hello to Lachicotte for me.”
Producing a metal tape measure, he knelt down and shot it across the sand, calling out dimensions. The Chicago man wrote them down. Once he interrupted Charlie Coggins to ask, “Won’t that be too long for the property?” “Not at all,” said Charlie. “You’ve got to remember that this property sits on two lots.” They appeared to be designing a long terrace, where people could dine out above the sea. Understanding I had been dismissed, I mumbled a goodbye and prepared to drag my bike back up the dunes.
Before I turned to go, I stared hard at the cottage door. It was lit up, like yesterday at this time, but there was no figure in the doorway staring back at me. What had I expected? For him to be lounging there watching the men who had come to destroy his house? Yet in case he was looking out from some unknown spot, I leveled a powerful gaze at the cottage which I hoped would send the message that I knew he was there, and that I would be back, and that I had by no means forsaken him.
But as I was pedaling home I realized he might not have recognized me in the new bike helmet.
XV.
Looking back on that period Aunt Charlotte referred to as her “house arrest,” I am touched by my faith in my young powers. I felt pretty sure that I could take charge of any problem that arose. And who is to say that this confidence, even though founded on the heroism of inexperience, didn’t make a difference? Riding my bike home from its first outing to Grief Cottage, I was already deep into ways of helping Aunt Charlotte get through her laid-up spell without hating herself for being beholden, to use Lachicotte’s word. My job was to keep her spirits from festering—another of Lachicotte’s words.
For a start, I knew she was going to be another kind of patient from my mom. Mom had a completely different temperament. Mom was the kind of person who tried to fit in with the situation, always ready to admit she was at fault, and grateful—too grateful, sometimes—for attentions shown to her. You might say Mom’s major tactic for enduring (though Mom was hardly a tactician) was appeasement. After stowing my bike in the garage, I was surprised and a little crestfallen to find a very in-charge-looking Aunt Charlotte presiding at the kitchen table with a banana and a glass of wine before her. Wearing fresh clothes, she announced that she had just taken “a bath of sorts” by perching at an angle on the rim of the tub. “I left the floor wet, but other than that it was a success. It will be easier next time.”
“I’ll run the mop over it.”
“Sit down first and tell me about your bike ride.”
“I went up to Grief Cottage on the road—the tide was too high to ride on the beach. There were these two men up there talking about tearing it down.”
“Who were they?”
“One was a real estate man named Charlie Coggins. He knows Lachicotte.”
“Yes, Coggins sold me my shack. Not him, but his father. Back then it was the only real estate firm. Who was the other?”
“He was from Chicago, a Mr. Sampson. I think he was a representative for some buyer. They’re planning on building something bigger because the property has two lots.”
“Ah, I wanted to take more photos, and here I am grounded.”
“I’ll take them for you. I already told them I was going to. All I need is your camera and for you to show me how to use it.”
“You’re very thoughtful, Marcus. Unlike most boys your age. Not that I know any boys your age except you.”
“Mom had to work, so I did the things at home.”
The swervy way she guided the wineglass to her lips showed how new she was at using her left hand. “Did you like the look of your new school?”
“It looked okay. I think Lachicotte is very nice.”
“Well of course he’s nice. Tiresome sometimes.”
“How is he tiresome?”
“He nags too much. He means well, it’s just his way. He wants to fix things. Rehabilitate them, smooth out their kinks, polish them up. But people aren’t cars. And it does wear a little thin, his aw-shucks-grease-monkey routine. His family is older than God, at least in these parts, and he has tossed away more advantages than most people ever dream of having. Marcus, since you’re here, would you mind peeling this banana for me?”
For the first few days of Aunt Charlotte’s house arrest, things went smoothly. We had established our routine. She slept later into the morning because she wasn’t painting. She hated hopping along behind her walker and soon dispensed with it, preferring to hop on her own steam, steadying herself against walls and furniture with her left hand. I got used to hearing her hop down our hall and shut herself into the bathroom, which was next to my room. She would mutter to herself while taking her “bath of sorts.” I kept the bathroom super-clean, leaving supplies of fresh towels and washcloths and extra rolls of toilet paper in easy reach. Whenever I finished in there, I made sure the floor was dry, the sink had no hairs in it, and the toilet seat was down. Now she asked me to open four bottles of red wine at a time. I was to put two of them, lightly re-corked, in her studio, and the other two on a kitchen shelf in easy reach. She stayed in her studio all day, with the door closed. I heard her hopping about intermittently, muttering and moving things around, and then long periods of silence. Our one meal together continued to be supper.
She was still in her quarters when I set out on my early morning bike rides. From six to eight the beach was wonderful. Dogs were allowed to run without leashes during those hours, and there was an entirely different kind of beachgoer. There were the dog owners, of course, and the very old, with hats and sleeves, who needed to avoid the stronger sun. The bird life was louder and bolder down at the surf before the children cluttered it up with their shrieks and toys. There were also the runners and the exercisers and a few bike riders like me. This one old man had his black poodle tied to the back of his bike, which distressed me until I saw that the poodle seemed proud to be trotting along and showing off his obedience. I couldn’t believe how much faster biking was than walking. I could bike from Aunt Charlotte’s to Grief Cottage in less than fifteen minutes.