Tucker C. Newsome
Ocracoke

“You know—Blackbeard was killed right out there in the inlet,” I said, and pointed arbitrarily across the street past the mouth of the harbor.

“You’re right—sort of. He was killed near Ocracoke Inlet, but that’s not the inlet. That’s the Pamlico Sound,” she said while grabbing my arm, pulling it across my body so that my finger pointed south. “That’s the inlet. Blackbeard was actually killed in a small cove between the inlet and the sound—aptly named ‘Teach’s Hole.’”

“And how do you know that?” I responded.

“You and your father are so predictable,” Clara sighed. “Your mother warned me that it was only a matter time before one of you two bozos tried to educate me about the intricacies of the island. I did my homework, and it’s clear you’re getting rusty—we haven’t even made it to your parents’ house yet!”

Clara and I casually sipped our coffees out of white paper cups while we leaned against the wooden railing that lined the ramp all the way to the doors of the local bakery. Clara pulled her tortoise-shell sunglasses from atop her head; strands of fine amber still clung to the frames as she covered her eyes.

“Good thing we stopped to pick up some pastries. Look at that traffic piling up,” I said, while I nodded towards the stretch of asphalt that ran through town. “It’s the first weekend of the season, after all, but I’ve never seen it this bad. Must be a stalled car, or wreck, or something up on Highway 12.”

“Oh now you think it’s a good idea to pick up something for your parents. I’m glad you finally approve of my sense of social convention,” Clara teased. “Besides, we just came from that direction. It was smooth sailing ever since we drove off the Hatteras Ferry. Probably just more people coming off the mainland this year.”

“Hm, yeah—I suppose we did take the northern route. Most tourists like to use the ferry from Swan Quarter since it’s the shorter route for ‘em.”

I balanced my half-full cup on a railing post, hoisted myself up onto the top rung so that I was seated with my hands by my side, gripped the wood for balance, and pulled my feet up on the middle rail. The two of us remained like that: in silence, me perched above Clara who was still leaning, observing the small spit of land that surrounded us. The vast coastal Carolina skies extended endlessly above, dotted by fat wads of cotton. For a moment, I felt free, and that it was possible that I had lost the anxiety that floated mere inches behind my head. That maybe we were able to shake it while driving through the Holland Tunnel away from New York. Or maybe it wasn’t able to follow us as we traveled over and under the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay. Or, if you believed in such things, there existed a tar-heeled patron saint that brushed your worries away as you barreled down the wind-swept capes of the Outer Banks. That fleeting glimpse of liberation vanished as I felt it again, catching right up with us, buzzing and looming.

“You’re doing it again,” Clara panned as she firmly grasped my knee in her hand.

“Doing what?” I asked. “Oh—that. Sorry.”

I’ve always had a habit of bouncing my knee while seated whenever I was anxious or bored. One foot would remain flat while the other perched on its toes and the ball of the foot, pushing up and releasing so that lower half of the leg would fall back down again, then pushing it back up and releasing over and over again, gaining speed until it reached full tilt. I was never aware of how often I was guilty of committing this tic until I got married to Clara. She placed her hand on my knee in order to get me to stop. There were two different ways Clara would go about this: Her first way was to firmly grab my knee and push down; she didn’t have to say anything to get her point across—she would hold it down for several seconds, until I stopped, and then she would continue whatever she had been doing. The second was to gently pat my leg twice, rest her hand on my thigh, and squeeze—her succinct way of letting me know that everything would be just fine. She didn’t pat or squeeze this time, but she didn’t ignore it, either; her hand remained in place as she pulled off the tortoise shell sunglasses and looked at me.

“It’s just your parents, hon. You love your mom and dad, what’s got you so worked up?”

“It’s not them,” I replied. “It’s Griffin.” I looked up and caught her face twisting in astonishment.

“Griffin? Your older brother? Wait—is he coming?”

“Sorry, dear. I didn’t know until two days ago when Mom called.”

“So that’s what’s been going on. You’ve barely said a word the whole way down. I just assumed you were tired. I had no idea. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay, really. Besides, I didn’t want to interrupt your Carole King renditions. You almost actually caused the earth to come tumbling down somewhere back in Delaware,” I said.

“Oh shut up!” Clara said with a light shove.

“Whoa! Careful there. You’re going to knock me off the railing!” I laughed. I caught myself. The air suddenly didn’t seem as thick as it did moments ago. Clara had a knack for making sure my feet stayed firmly on the ground, even when my head tended to float in the clouds from time to time.

“So do you actually think he’s going to show?” Clara asked.

“Mom sure seems to think so. You know, Griff does what Griff wants to do, and there isn’t much in the world that can prevent him from doing so—not even his family. He’s what people like to call ‘free-spirited,’ when what they really mean is inconsiderate and irresponsible. He’s six years older than me for god’s sake. Isn’t he the one who is supposed to look after me? How did I end up being the one who stuck around down here and went to a state university? And then toiling for years at that stupid little newspaper in Union County just so Mom and Dad wouldn’t feel abandoned. If it weren’t for my old college buddy…”

“You would still be stuck in the fact-checking department at the Herald. Yes, dear. I know. I’ve heard it a million times. You have a slight habit of telling the same story over and over again. Do you know how else I know? Because otherwise I would’ve never met you. But honestly, you shouldn’t blame yourself, your parents, or Griff because no matter what, you would’ve done that regardless. That’s who you are. You’re loyal, Caleb. You call your parents at least twice a week. You’re always there for me, and my business. You go out of your way to look after those you care about. It’s why I married you.”

“I know, I know. You’re always right, and that’s why I married you. I’d be cast adrift without you. Aimlessly blowing in the wind, like Griffin.”

“Did he say when he was coming?”

“I think today. Might be there already. I honestly don’t know what to expect. Mom said she spoke with Griff on the phone before they came out here last week. On the one hand, she said that Griff wanted to make sure that she passed along the message that he said hello and was excited to see me; so maybe hell will freeze, pigs will fly, and Griffin Cavanaugh will finally do something he said he would do. On the other hand, Mom also mentioned that he requested she ‘float’ him a couple bucks so that he could make the trip, and that he would pay her back as soon as he could. I didn’t want to say anything to Mom at the time because she just seemed so damned excited that both of her boys would be in the same house for the first time in 12 years. I’m not holding my breath. That’s what Griff does—his modus operandi: call and announce his impending arrival, get everyone’s hopes up, ask for a small loan, and then never show. Usually about a week or so after his expected visit, Mom and Dad will receive an e-mail—never a phone call—stating that a ‘once in a lifetime opportunity’ had popped up in Sri Lanka, Peru, Timbuktu, or some other exotic locale and that, under normal circumstances, he would have called to let them know, but these could, by no means, be considered normal circumstances and that the ‘opportunity’ had required him to depart right away. His ‘honest-to-god’ first chance to reach anywhere with internet access and he had written the first moment he could. Convenient that these places had internet access but no telephones…”

The words had been pouring from my mouth but suddenly diminished to a trickle. I had just stumbled across another piece of the puzzle. Of course there weren’t phones there. He didn’t want there to be phone access; so therefore, in his mind, they simply didn’t exist. Clara was mumbling something about Griff’s absence at our wedding when I was interrupted by the voice of a young girl shouting lazily from the window of the bakery: “94? Order 94? Ninety-four‽”

“That’s us! I’ll grab the bear claws.” Clara straightened up and tossed me the keys to the rental car.

I lowered myself from my perch on the railing, patted my pockets to make sure my wallet and cell phone were snugly secure, and ambled back to the car. The prospect of seeing Griffin for the first time in years was swirling and fermenting in my head. I tossed my near empty cup of coffee with an overhead arc into the large blue barrel. I unlocked the car with the keyless entry, pulled open the driver’s-side door, and lowered myself into the seat. I watched Clara as she returned from the pick-up window. She almost seemed to bounce as she walked to the car with a large cardboard box overflowing with cakes, doughnuts, tarts, turnovers, and danishes. She popped open the passenger’s-side door, eased herself into the seat while steadying the phyllo-filled box on her lap, lowered her sunglasses back over those tender, corposant eyes, and buckled her seat belt with a snap.

“Why don’t you just shoot across the highway here and take the back way so we don’t have to deal with this gridlock?”

* * *

Gulls floated over the shoreline behind the house, suspended in midair as they flapped their wings hopelessly against the wind. The wind offered relief from the humidity that steadily rolls off the nagging curves of the mainland, across the muddied, shoaling Pamlico Sound before creeping up and over the sandy dune-struck barrier islands, and off into the emerald graveyard of the Atlantic Ocean. We were seated at a varnished picnic table, which itself was situated upon the elevated back porch. My leg must have been impatiently pulling its ricochet act again because Clara’s fingers were on my knee when Mom came gliding through the french doors grasping two bulbous glasses by their stems, upside down, in one hand and a bottle of Pinot Gris in the other.

“Anyone care for a glass of wine?” she asked. “Clara?”

“Ma, those are red wine glasses. You know, the kind made for—red wine,” I said.

“Oh shush, hon. You’re always so embarrassed by your dear old mother. Didn’t anyone tell you that rules were meant to be broken? Lord knows your father has gotten pretty good at it. Besides, as long as the wine is cold, does it really matter? Aren’t I right, Clara?”

“Absolutely, Gayle,” Clara replied. “I’d drink wine out of a plastic cup as long as you were pouring. Don’t listen to him.” She squeezed my thigh under the table.

Mom and Clara always liked to gang up on me. I never minded; it gave them something to bond over. Every moment they spent together usually resulted in their growing closer. They were the two most important women in my life, and I couldn’t possibly imagine what life would be like if they didn’t get along. Mom got along with most people, but, if for whatever reason she didn’t like you, she never would. She was not only incredibly stubborn but held an undying devotion to people. After my father retired, she worked as an office assistant for another 10 years, just to prove that she could. Once her mind was made up, there wasn’t anything in the world that could change it. Griff was a shining example of her unyielding zeal: No matter how much I tried to explain to Mom that he was taking advantage of them, she either couldn’t or wouldn’t hear anything of it. I could speak until I was blue in the face, and it wouldn’t make any difference.

“You don’t have to remind me, I did raise him after all,” my mother sighed. “What do you think of the house, Clara? We bought it for ourselves as a sort of a ‘getaway’ now that we’re both finally retired.”

“Oh, it’s adorable! I love what you’ve managed to do with it in such a short time. Thank you so very much for having us down for the holiday weekend!”

“Don’t even mention it. It’s been what, two years since we’ve had you visit? Caleb’s been keeping me up to date with your growing business empire. Fashion, is it?”

“Yes—well, it’s only an online boutique for now, but business has been growing at a steady rate. I think we’ll be able to move into a brick-and-mortar location within the next year or two.”

“That’s fantastic! I’m so proud of you, dear. And it’s just you and one other girl? That’s impressive!”

“Yes, just me and an assistant—although I think Caleb is more excited about us moving into the store than either of us is, but not because he’s a super husband. He just wants his office back,” Clara said, winking in my direction.

I couldn’t help but laugh at the fact that Clara’s words were half-truths.

“No, really—I actually do enjoy having my desk and writing space covered in scraps of fabrics, magazine clippings, Polaroids, and vellum paper,” I said. “Well, seeing that you two get along just fine without me—a fact I noticed when only two wine glasses accompanied the Pinot—I suppose I’ll just go and rummage up something for myself.”

“Don’t think that wasn’t on purpose,” Mom replied while topping off Clara’s glass. “By the way, have you heard from your brother? I thought he would’ve been here by now.”

Did you? I thought before speaking aloud. “Actually, I just tried calling him a few moments ago,” I continued. I lifted my phone from my pocket and nudged it face-up across the table towards Mom, attempting to validate my honesty. She picked it up and looked at it as if Griffin’s face should be on the screen looking back at her before placing it back on the table. “See, Ma? No answer. Big surprise. Now that we’ve solved that ongoing mystery, I think I’ll go raid Dad’s beer fridge—which I’m guessing is where I can also find the old man?”

“Why don’t you go ahead and do just that?” my mother said. “And yes, he’s down in the garage. Probably still trying to get the grill ready. He’s been down there awhile. Make sure he hasn’t singed off his eyebrows?”

“Yeah, I’ll go check on Dad and leave you two ladies to it. Try not to make fun of me too much while I’m gone.”

Fearing I may have slightly upset my mother, I slowly got up from the table and left Clara to answer all of the rest of her questions about our lives in New York—questions that she would only ask Clara anyways. She knew Clara would be much more forthcoming. In return, Clara would then press my mother to divulge embarrassing childhood stories to blackmail me with once we returned to the city. I thought about apologizing, but I spoke the truth: He hadn’t answered. I resolved that she would get over it within moments of conversation with Clara and bounced down the stairway that led from the porch to the back of the garage in leaping strides. I had only gotten about halfway when I heard Clara shout, “Caleb!”

“Yeah, babe?” I replied loudly. I paused momentarily in the middle of the stairway to listen for her response.

“Your phone’s ringing. You want me to get it?”

“Uh, wait—who is it?”

“Not sure. It looks like a North Carolina area code. I can answer if you want.”

“Nah, let it go! We’re on vacation!” I yelled back as I reached the bottom stair. As I passed the grill en route to the garage, I noticed the black lumps of charcoal piled neatly in the center of the grill. I found the mesquite chips scattered on the cold and unlit coals peculiar.

“Hey there, Bubba!” Dad said before I could put much more thought into it. “I had a hunch that you and that lovely gal of yours might be here by now!” I spun around just in time to catch my father walking out of the open garage. He snapped a can of Natural Light off one of the plastic rings he held and tossed it under-handed in my direction.

“Hey Pops! So I guess we’re still on that ‘Bubba’ thing, eh?” I groaned as I caught the beer and cracked it open. “We actually just got in about 30 minutes ago! How’d you know?”

“A father always knows when one of his boys is around! And you’re always going to be my little ‘Bubba’ even if you do think you’re too good for it, up there with your fancy-schmancy Yankee buddies in the big city. Now come on and give your old man a hug,” he said. We embraced and slapped each other on the back with a free hand. “Speaking of my boys, you hear from Griff at all?”

“Nah, I haven’t Pops. Besides—you know I’m the last one he’d call,” I said with a gulp of the ice-cold beer—and then another gulp, and another, until the can was halfway empty.

“Whoa there, partner! Slow down a bit. You know we still got plenty more where that came from. It ain’t the last damn beer in the house.”

“Ha. Sorry, Pops. It’s just so damn cold, I couldn’t help myself. I get so used to drinking all that craft beer up North that I forget how incredibly refreshing a regular old domestic can of beer can be.”

“I’ve had them on ice for damn near a day now. Haven’t gotten around to getting the fridge in the garage set up, so I resorted to the way we did it in my day: Styrofoam cooler and a couple bags of ice. Can’t have my boy—er, boys—thinking their old man doesn’t care enough to have a cold beer or two ready for them,” he said, winking at me over the raised can.

“Well, I appreciate it. Also, appreciate you having us down for the weekend. Lord knows we needed it.”

“Don’t you even mention it. You kids are welcome anytime you want. Don’t even have to call ahead. Just come on down and set yourself up wherever you like. Your mother mentioned you two had been keeping busy. Clara’s still doing that fashion thing and you—you just finished some big series of articles for that magazine of yours, correct?”

“Yessir. Four-part series on the disappearance of our national wetlands. The magazine should be running them within the next month or so.”

“You’re right about those wetlands disappearing. You can see it here on the island. Marshes ain’t what they used to be. Fishing’s been suffering because of it, too. I was out there in the flats for hours the other morning and didn’t catch a bite. Used to be that you couldn’t keep the bait on the hook! Ah well, good thing they got you on it. You always did have a way with words. You send me a couple copies of those, alright?”

“Yessir. You know you can just have Mom pull it up on the computer for you, right? The whole magazine is digital now.”

“Ah, you know I don’t know how to work all of those gadgets. Besides, I need something to take down to the fellas at the bait shop so I can brag about my boy,” my dad responded with a grin.

We stood staring out over the water and chuckled to ourselves while silently sipping from our cans. I savored the pleasant tranquility for a few moments longer.

“Alright Pops, I’ll send you a couple as soon as they come off the press. Say, you planning on getting that ancient barbecue of yours fired up anytime soon?”

“Ah—I was going to wait for Griff to get here, or at least try and give him a ring before I got it going. Didn’t want to the coals to go cold before I could get everyone’s steak on the fire, ya know?”

“Yeah, Pops—I know. I just—I just thought you might want to go ahead and get that fire hot. You know who we’re talking about here. There’s a pretty good chance he won’t show at all.”

“Hell, I suppose you’re right, son. I just do it for your mother, you know? She’s always held out hope, and she doesn’t have much else other than that hope and my old tired ass these days. With you up in New York and all…”

“Hey—I tell you what. Why don’t we give it another 30, 45 minutes? But after that—after that we better fire it up. We can’t be having these ladies of ours going hungry, or there’ll be hell to pay,” I said, guffawing and patting my father on the back. “Well, we ought to head back upstairs before they air all of our dirty laundry for the whole damn island to see.”

We scaled the stairway casually yet cautiously, one after another, as if we both felt something in the air—like there was some sort of storm brewing way out over the Atlantic. I looked out over the beach just in case, but all I could see was miles of slate-green sea, foaming white-capped surf breaking upon itself, and one solitary fishing boat bobbing up and down with the rolling tide. I wondered how the fishermen felt being at the mercy of a capricious Mother Nature. Were they delighted? Or were they anxious?

By the time we reached the top of the stairs and arrived upon the porch landing, neither my mother nor my wife seemed to notice us standing there. My father and I just watched them talk. Putting one hand to their chest as they leaned back in laughter, while the other hand reached out, brushing the opposites arm as they blurted out: Oh, stop! No, he didn’t! He did? I don’t believe it! The rascal wouldn’t dare! They are just too much, aren’t they?

The vacant wine bottle had moved to the end of the table as the two of them continued back and forth like that for several more minutes—before Clara spoke, without even turning to address us: “You know we can see you two standing there with your jaws on the floor, right?” My mother and Clara erupted into laughter simultaneously and congratulated each other on their respective perception and wit.

“Oh no, looks like someone’s gotten a head start on us, son,” Dad said. He pointed his thumb at the empty bottle and glasses resting on the table. “Looks like we got some catching up to do!” We slid in next to them.

“Don’t you even start, mister! We’ve only had a glass and a half each,” Mom replied as she wrapped an arm around my father’s shoulders.

“Hey, babe, you missed a couple more calls,” Clara said as she turned towards me.

“Yeah? You didn’t see who it was, did you?” I asked.

“I think it was the same number as before. I’m not sure. It rang maybe two or three more times since you left. Gayle and I were having such a ball making fun of you and your father that I just turned it over. You said to let it go, remember?”

“Yeah, no—that’s fine. No voicemail or anything?”

“I didn’t even look, dear. It’s probably just your assistant from the magazine or something.”

“Oh well, like I said, we’re on vacation and they know that. They’ll call back if it’s important.”

I returned the phone to the pocket of my jeans as Clara was inquiring as to whom my parents planned on having to decorate the new place. I could tell she was angling towards having them let her do it. I couldn’t help but wonder if it actually was my assistant trying to reach me. They knew I was taking time off and would have left a message. Or at least they should have. My anxiety bubbled. Had something happened with my articles? Was there some factual error that needed correcting before it could go to print? I figured that I should double-check to see if there was a message. Just to be sure. I dug into my jeans, retrieved the phone and turned on the screen. It was the same number as before. Four missed calls total. All of which were exactly 15 minutes apart, all from the same number—a local number.

“Hm, that’s weird,” I muttered to no one in particular.

“What’s up, Bubba?” pops asked.

“Nothing. It’s just that the missed calls are all from the same local number. Anyone else down here expecting me?”

“Just us, son. Maybe you ought to call them back. It could be the rental car people trying to get a hold of you about the insurance policy or something. You know those people can never get anything straight.”

“Oh! You know who it might be?” Mother exclaimed. “It might be Griffin calling from a pay phone. Yes, that must be who it is. He probably caught a ride with a friend across the ferry and now needs one of us to go pick him up. That’s got to be it.”

“What friend would Griffin have out here?” I said. “Or anywhere for that matter? But him not having a car does make plenty of sense…”

“It’s your brother, Caleb. You only have one. Just call him back.”

“Ma—we don’t even know that’s who it is. Besides, why would he call me? Why wouldn’t he just call the house?”

“Because we haven’t got the landline hooked up out here yet! CenturyLink was supposed to come out yesterday, but of course they never showed up. Now we’ll probably have to wait until after the weekend, with it being a holiday and all. It’s such a mess. Just call your brother already! I’ve got enough to worry about, Caleb.”

“Alright, alright. Relax, Mom. It’ll be okay. I’m calling right now.”

The phone rang twice before a gruff voice answered on the other end of the line: “This is MacCready.”

“Uh yes—Hi, I—I’ve received several missed calls from this number, so I was just returning the call.” My voice faltered just a bit.

“Oh. Yes.” Whomever MacCready was sounded surprised. “I apologize, I didn’t look to see who it was before answering.”

“Okay? That’s fine—whatever. Now what exactly is this all about?” I asked.

“Am I speaking with Mr. Cavanaugh?”

“Yes, this is him—and with whom am I speaking? MacCready, was it?”

“Yes sir. This is Deputy MacCready with the Hyde County Sheriff’s Department. There is no easy way to say this but—your brother, Griffin Cavanaugh, was involved in an automobile accident on Hwy 12 near the southern end of the island. Another motorist swerved into oncoming traffic. They hit your brother head on.” I looked up at my parents seated before me. Both stared intently at me, through me—focused on something far beyond. MacCready continued: “He, uh—he didn’t make it, son. I’m sorry you had to be informed of your brother’s passing in this manner, but when we recovered his cell phone at the scene, you were listed as his sole emergency contact. I’m sorry.”

Clara knew as soon as I did. She always knew. I moved the phone away from my ear, and my grip on it loosened. The phone tumbled to the floor. I will never know if in that moment my knee started bouncing or not, but either way—Clara’s hand was already there.