A mile into the walk, on schedule, the rain comes down in icy sheets that soak through my coat before I can pull a windbreaker out of the bag. I push forward into the wind, against the spray of the passing lorries. I’m freezing, but the rain wakes me up; it’s the slap in the face I need.
By the time I enter Ballycastle, my clothes have gone from drenched to damp, but now the rain starts up again. I trudge straight down to the terminal, hoping to catch the ferry to Rathlin. The doors to the building are locked, the parking lot empty. At the end of the dock, three fishermen are unloading something from a boat. They seem oblivious to the freezing rain. I ask about the boat to Rathlin. All three stare at me as if I have just arrived from another planet. Their responses come back in a language I don’t understand. Seeing my confusion, the captain explains patiently that the ferry to Rathlin is part of the transportation strike. “I hope you’re not in a hurry,” he says.
Fuck.
I head back into the center of town. I can’t help thinking it’s a pretty place, even in this relentless rain, with its brightly colored buildings and green cliffs overlooking the sea. Alice would love it here. I find a travel agency, but it’s closed. I duck into a pub, the Dog & Shoe. The place is packed. As I step through the door, twenty different conversations stop abruptly and every head turns my way. A second later, just as abruptly, the din resumes. Years ago, I gave a talk at a conference in Tel Aviv. Afterward, I remember wandering around the town alone. Each time I walked through the door to a café or restaurant, all of the talk would cease, and all heads would turn toward me. Instantly, they would all do the same calculation, conclude that I was not a threat, and continue on with their discussions.
I find a dirty table in the corner by the fireplace. I drape my wet coat on the back of my chair and let my eyes adjust to the darkness before heading up to the bar. I’m dying for a Diet Coke to take the edge off my exhaustion, but all they have is beer, lots of beer.
“Is there any way out of town?” I ask the bartender.
“Not until the strike ends.”
“Can’t I hire a water taxi?”
He shakes his head, apparently amused by my ignorance.
I order a Harp and return to my seat to contemplate my next move. I turn on my phone, surprised that it works. I bought a new cell at the airport in San Francisco. The phone was cheap, but the two-year plan cost an arm and a leg. It was a small price to pay for something without a blinking blue P. I had all the calls from the old number forwarded to this one, just in case Alice calls.
She hasn’t.
I stand and face the room. “I need to get to Rathlin,” I say loudly. “It’s urgent.” There’s a prolonged silence, then a chair scrapes back. A compact, muscular man strides over to me. “No boats,” he says. “When we strike, we strike.”
“It’s a matter of life and death,” I plead, but I am met with blank, angry stares.
Outside, the rain has stopped. I hurry back to the marina, where a couple dozen abandoned vessels knock about in the wind. A lone fisherman sits on a boat, untangling a line.
“I’ll pay you five hundred pounds to take me to Rathlin,” I say, pulling the stiff new bills out of my wallet.
He assesses me for a minute. “Make it a thousand.”
I step onto the boat, pull out another five hundred, press the bills into his palm.
He glances at my wrist. “And the watch.”
“It’s from my wife,” I say.
“Taking you across won’t make me too popular around here,” he says. He goes back to his fishing line.
Reluctantly, I undo the clasp and slip off the watch. I glance at the inscription one last time. He fastens it onto his wrist and admires it for a second before pointing me toward a rickety bench at the stern. “Grab a jacket, Friend. Might get rough.”
89
If Ballycastle was small, Rathlin is tiny. From what I can tell, it is home to a rooming house, a pub, a café, a gift shop that doubles as a post office, and a mile of empty coastline.
I walk over to the rooming house. “Crowded?” I say to the teenage boy behind the desk.
“Just you.”
For an extra nine pounds, I get a room with a window looking out over the sea. It’s a shared bathroom, but apparently I’ll only be sharing it with myself.
“I was wondering if you could direct me to—”
“Orla knows you’re here,” he says. “She’ll call for you when she’s ready.”
Before I respond, he has already turned back to his game. I go upstairs, pace in my small room, and stare out at the sea. There is no cell service.
Anxious, I go for a walk. The beach is empty in both directions. The sea here looks astonishingly similar to the beach where Alice and I take our weekly walks. The waves are treacherous, and the fog reminds me of home. It’s dark when I get back to the rooming house, and there is no message awaiting me. The boy is still watching soccer.
The following morning, more impatient, I linger in the lobby. “It’s extremely important that I see Orla,” I insist.
“Look, sir,” the boy says, “things in Rathlin don’t move the way they do in San Francisco. No need to stand around. I’ll find you.”
I wander the island. I hike up the hills, among the sand dunes, over the slippery rocks. I find the one spot on the island with cell service—and yet there is still nothing from Alice. I stare out at the ocean, exhausted and depressed, wondering if I have lost my wife forever.
That night, I wake in a panic from a nightmare in which I’m swimming through a turbulent sea, trying to get to Alice, but she is always just out of reach.
And then, finally, on the third day the boy hands me a parchment envelope. My name is written in elegant cursive across the front.
I go up to my room, sit on the bed, and take a deep breath. My heart is racing. Inside the envelope, I find a map of the island. A blue X marks a spot toward the north end. Written on the back of the map are the words Ten A.M. Walking shoes required.
I lie awake all night. At dawn, I dress warmly, plow through an English breakfast, and trek to the far end of the island. Where the X is on the map, I find only a bench overlooking the ocean. The sea is steel-gray. Beyond the bench, a trail leads westward along the cliffs. I’m more than an hour early, so I sit. I do not see anyone or anything in any direction. Slowly, the fog moves in and swallows me up. I wait.
Later, I hear movement and glance up to see a woman standing over me.
“Friend,” she says. “Walk with me.”
90
Orla is taller than I expected, her silvery-white hair cropped short, her outfit plain. My anger at her nearly chokes me, and I’m ready to hate her, to hate this thing she created, this ugly conspiracy that has caused Alice and me so much harm. There are so many things I long to say to her—statements of opposition, of critique, a long, scathing monologue.