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Nobody did. She watched for the ferry, the way it started out as a little white triangle across the bay. It was never coming. And then it appeared. It took shape quickly. It was always coming. She stood. Would this be him? Was he on there?
She let her hair out of its elastic. She stretched her tank top down over her hips. She wanted him to see all of her and also none of her.
She wanted him to be dazzled by the bits and blinded to the whole. She wanted him to see her whole and not in pieces. She had hopes that were hard to satisfy.
Her legs bounced; her arms clutched her middle. You bore the same age relationship to people here no matter how old you got. If you were getting on the , you wore shoes. Alice self-consciously straggled over to the freight area as though she had some purpose there.
She preferred to save her lies for the people whose names she knew. She sat back down on the bench, crossing her arms and her legs and bowing her head.
It was a small village on a small island with customs and rules all its own. There were no cars and—in the old days, at least—nobody locked their house. Even at the yacht club.
Even at parties. There was a community pride in having feet tough enough to withstand the splintering boardwalks. You just shut up about it. Every kid knew that. Eventually they disappeared; she was never quite sure where they went. You saw the people as they came and went and waited. You also saw their stuff piled on the dock until they loaded it onto their wagon and rolled it home. You knew what kind of toilet paper they bought. You knew that the people with the Fairway bags and the paper products were getting off here in Waterby or in Saltaire.
The people getting off in the town of Kismet always had beer. Cars were conveyors of privacy. Without them, you lived a lot more of your life out in the open. Where you went, who you went with.
Who you waited for at the ferry dock. Who you brushed your hair for.
You were exposed here, but you were also safe. The carlessness of the place had always appealed to certain utopian types, even shallow ones. The ferry put an extra emphasis on coming and going. Adults went back and forth all the time, but there had been many summers when Alice and Riley had come and gone only once. They came with their pale skin, haircuts meant to last the summer, their tender feet, and their shyness.
They left with brown, freckled, bitten skin; tangly hair; foot bottoms thick like tires; and familiarity verging on rudeness. She remembered the hellos, and she remembered the good-byes even more. End-of-summer tradition dictated that whoever was last to leave the island saluted departing friends by jumping into the water as the good-bye ferry pulled away. Now she heard the boat grinding up behind her. She loosened her arms and pressed her hands against the wood.
She heard the slapping of the wake against the pilings as the boat came around. She untucked one leg and bounced her free heel on the plank in front of her. She would have rather done the leaving than the getting left, but that was never the way it happened. For some reason it was always Alice who waited and Alice who dove in. A space capsule. It sent you and your fellow canvas-bag travelers through a wormhole, the same one every time.
The thick feeling of the air began when you stepped onto the ferry. The stickiness over every surface. He could picture her anchoring various things in her mouth as she braided her hair. Now his hair was long.
In truth, this lighthouse set his standard for all others, and the others looked stout and dumpy by comparison. You loved what you knew.
She would be there. If she was still Alice, she would be there. If she did come, it would mean something also. Now the sweeter, older coast of the island emerged, coughed up by the bay in time for his arrival. He discerned the wide, curling arm of the dock. He knew Riley would be the same. By the letters she wrote him, he could tell she would look and sound the same.
But the idea of a twenty-one-year-old Alice scared him. Would their parents be there?
Could he contend with the whole bunch of them on such a narrow tatter of land stuck out here between the ocean and the bay? He unstuck himself from the bench, stretched his legs. Without quite giving himself the go-ahead, he started scanning the faces.
The older ones were most familiar. The tricky doubles player with the comb-over—what was his name? The club pro, Don Rontano, with the starched polo shirt, collar upturned, who got on so well with the lonely ladies. The children were impossible to identify, and the bodies between old and young he feared to scrutinize. Would her hair have gotten as dark as that? Could her shape have changed into that?
No and no, obviously. But what could make Alice not come? He scanned the small cluster again, resenting the spasmodic activity of his eyeballs. What if she were different now?
As the ferry pulled around the hook of the dock, the sitting girl stood. Her hair blew around her face, obscuring it. Maybe that was the reason he continued to imagine her a stranger even after he got close enough to see.
Ideas and feelings rushed in that he might have rather kept out. She hugged him, putting her chin on his shoulder and her face toward the lighthouse. Her body was numb and her eyes confused her.
In a moment of lucidity, she feared he could feel her heart pounding and she pulled away. She put her head down and gestured to his bag. What was the matter with her? It was just him! It was the same old Paul. He was the strangest of strangers in that he was also her oldest friend. Was he going to laugh at her? He used to do that.
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