Menu / Previous / Next
“What the hell happened to you?” asked Nick. Like every evening since his retirement from law enforcement, he sat in his favorite spot for reading: a plump easy chair contoured to his body, the floor lamp in just the right position to cast light on the page, and a bourbon on the side table where his hand could rest on it. To his left windows afforded a view down the channel dividing Isle au Haut from Burnt Island to the north. In the rich, low light of the setting sun, craggy shoreline and tiered spruce looked warm and supple.
Matt flicked on the bright overhead light and presented himself as proudly as a cat presents a maimed rodent. “I rendered assistance, Dad.”
Nick surveilled him over the rim of his readers. His son had left the house that morning clean shaven and pristine, dressed like an LL Bean storefront mannequin and wearing a loaded backpack worthy of a backcountry expedition. Nick didn’t understand why Matt needed to be geared to the gills for a meditative day hike on a small island. He understood even less the necessity of frequent meditative day hikes. Whatever the intent, he’d evidently been sidetracked. Matt stood before him, head bruised, face bloodied and swollen, his arms and legs covered in scratches. Dirt and dried blood smeared his shirt and his boots were wet and muddy. His glasses were missing as was the bandana he usually had tied around his bald pate.
Nick grunted. “Looks like your help was declined.”
Setting his book on the side table and tucking his reading glasses into the pocket of his well-worn canvas shirt, Nick pushed himself with some effort up and out of his comfortable chair. Barrel chested and slightly bow-legged, it was less his 72 years of age than the cord of wood he’d stacked that afternoon that had stiffened his muscles. He stood slowly, stretching the kinks, and walked over to rest a hand on his son’s shoulder.
“Come on, into the kitchen. You’re tracking dirt everywhere. Let’s get you cleaned up and you can tell me what happened.” Nick gestured to Matt to take off his boots over by the door while he pulled out Band-Aids and liniment still stockpiled in the pantry from when Matt was a child. He turned on the hot water faucet and filled the dish pan with water and a little dish soap. Matt came over to the sink to stand shoulder to shoulder with his Dad. While the pan filled, they watched steam mist over their reflection in the window.
“Just like the good ole days, huh Dad?”
Nick grunted. For their family, nostalgia for the 1980’s could only be ironic. Back then Matt had frequently come home with cuts, scrapes and bruises, the result of growing up the son of two openly gay men in mid-coast Maine. The other reason, at least according to Matt, was because Nick was a cop. Whether his position had tempered the attacks, as his partner, Jeff, believed, or added incentive, Nick neither knew nor cared. He couldn’t have protected Matt from hate and hurt any more than left his career or stepped back into the closet. Instead, they’d coped. Matt learned to stand his ground, act tough and fight scrappy while Nick and Jeff learned to provide a refuge of unconditional love. Twenty years later, patching up Matt had the familiarity of muscle memory and the warmth of a hug.
Nick took a dish cloth, soaked it in the steaming water, wrung it out and dabbed at the small cuts around Matt’s eyes. “They broke your glasses, I take it. You’re going to have quite a shiner. Vision okay?”
“Yeah, no problem. It wasn’t a they, it was a she.”
“Huh.” Nick rinsed the washcloth and handed it dripping to his son. “Here. Lean over the sink. Your nose is bleeding again.” Nick returned with a dry cloth and gestured for Matt to take a seat and tilt his head back. “So. A woman, huh. Was she cute?”
Looking at the kitchen ceiling Matt responded, “You mean before or after she kicked my balls into my throat?”
“She sounds spunky.”
Matt dropped his head to look at his father. “Spunky? You’re kidding, right? She beat the shit out of me, Dad. You could at least pretend to be, I don’t know, upset. Ready to call in the cavalry.”
That was exactly how Jeff would react as soon as he saw Matt. His brand of love was loud and generous, easily recognized. Nick, however, had been raised by the belt in a midwestern household that valued stoicism above all else. It was no small irony that this hard-earned family value enabled him to live openly as a gay man in an intolerant world. It also made him a good cop, because in his case, enduring hardship led to empathy and understanding. Still, it was not the first time he wished he’d developed the knack of loving lavishly for Matt’s sake. Quiet and demanding, Nick expressed his love not in what he said but in the way he listened. To his partner it was as solid and comforting as worn leather. To his sensitive son, it rubbed raw and led to misunderstanding.
“Yeah well, you’ll be fine. No permanent damage. So, what did you do to get her all riled up?”
Blood still dripping from his nose, Matt leaned his head back again and spoke to the ceiling. “Christ, Dad. I didn’t do anything ‘to rile her up’. I tried to help her, and she went crazy.”
Matt’s voice was nasal and whiny with the cloth pressed against his nose. He sounded exactly like a teenager: pitiful, persecuted and misunderstood. It was as repugnant to Nick now as it had always been, more so in a grown man, and his reaction was sharp, visceral. He held still. He reminded himself not to be the man his father had raised, to be accepting and supportive while his son worked through his premature mid-life crisis. As best he understood, Matt’s wife had left him over a home improvement project; she’d wanted a nursery, he’d built an exercise room. They’d divorced. Matt took a leave of absence from work and moved into their island house; the one they’d converted from second home to year-round residence for retirement. That was 3-months ago. It was bewildering.
When Nick failed to respond, Matt dropped his head and looked at him pointedly.
Grimacing, Nick waved a placating hand.
“Matt, look, sorry, old habit. It’s the kind of thing I’d ask one of my deputies, to understand how the situation escalated out of control. Teachable moment, whatever. I didn’t mean to suggest you did something wrong. I know you’re about as threatening as a kitten.”
“Yeah well, even less than that. I told her I was gay. Even struck a pose,” said Matt, standing to imitate Jeff’s more effeminate hands-on-hips stance. Right foot forward, palms facing out, it was spot on.
“Ha, great impression. Pops would love to see that. He’s coming back tomorrow, by the way.” Pops, Jeff Taylor, was a few years older than Nick and, although officially retired, kept being lured back to Boston to weigh in on one project or another at the architectural firm he’d founded some 40 years ago.
“She didn’t buy it. I can honestly say it’s the first time I’ve been beaten up for not being gay.”
“She sounds smart – figured you out quick enough.” Nick could never resist teasing his son. “Smart, spunky and cute. Just your type.”
“Christ, Dad. Shouldn’t you call someone? Alert the authorities there’s some crazed hetero-bashing bitch on the loose in the park?”
“Just tell me what happened, Matt. Then I’ll know what to do.” He led his son back into the living room, and, well trained after years of his partner’s sharp admonishment, threw a towel onto Pops’ wing backed chair for Matt to sit on without getting it dirty. He settled himself back into his own easy chair, prepared to be regaled by his son’s dramatic recounting of his tale of woe. This familiar ritual, the listening and telling of their stories, offered as much comfort and connection to father as to son.
“All right, so I’m on the Nat Merchant trail, you know, close to the brook, and I hear this woman calling me,” said Matt.
“Calling you?”
“Yeah. I was walking along, minding my own business, and she’s like ‘Hey, I hear you whistling? Can you help me?’.”
“She asked for your help?”
“Yeah, sort of. She said she’d twisted her ankle. But then she’s like, ‘Don’t come down here. There’s poison ivy. I’ll come up to the path.’”
“She wasn’t on the path. Could you see her?”
“No, not right away. I could hear her though, she didn’t sound very far away, so I followed her voice.”
“Even though she told you not to,” said Nick.
“Well. Yeah. I mean, it didn’t make sense for her to come to me if she’s the one with the twisted ankle. The slope’s pretty steep there. I’m not surprised she twisted her ankle and warned her she’d probably twist the other one if she didn’t stay put. By then I’d spotted her anyway, so I just called out, waved my arms around until she saw me, and told her to wait.”
“And did she? Wait?”
“No Dad, she ran for her life and I chased her down,” said Matt. Nick sat back in his chair, palms up in amends, and tried to stay quiet.
“You know, Dad, I’m not an idiot. A woman alone in the woods,”
“You’re sure she was alone?” interrupted Nick. Matt glared. Nick tried harder.
“A woman alone in the woods, I figured she’d worry I was a rapist or something. I took it slow, stayed on the other side of the stream. I introduced myself. She introduced herself. Kate, she said. Told me she was married, flashed her ring finger. I told her I was gay. You know, usual stuff, strangers sizing each other up. We even laughed about it. Then she asked me to go get the ranger. She’d meet him at the road.”
“You mean, just leave her behind?”
“I know, weird huh? I’d told her the road was at least a half mile up the path, offered to help her. She flat out refused. Totally didn’t make any sense, especially if you’d seen her. A real mess.”
Nick held up his hand and Matt obliged.
“Soaking wet, her hand bashed up, balancing on one foot and covered in these big welts. Yellowjackets. There’s that colony in the stump, up on Ridge trail? Guess she ignored the detour around it. Anyway, she acted all annoyed, just wanted me to leave, go get help. Took a while to convince her to let me put a splint on her ankle.”
“But you did? Convince her?”
“Yeah, so, I’m just getting to that. Her ankle, it looked really bad, super swollen, must have hurt like hell. I told her how I could jerry rig a splint with an ace and some sticks and she’s like yeah, okay, just make it quick. Like she’s doing me a favor.”
“Huh.” Nick’s eyes narrowed in thought and he motioned for Matt to continue.
Matt scooted to the edge of his chair, picked up a copy of Architectural Digest from the coffee table, rolled it into a tube and held it extended lengthwise between them. “So, picture this. She’s sitting on the ground, leaning against a tree, and I’m squatting in front of her holding her ankle up like this. I’ve already wrapped her ankle in an ace, but I need her to wind the tape around while I use both hands to hold the sticks in place. The next thing I know, BOOM,” said Matt explosively, dropping the magazine to the table and launching himself back into his seat. “She hauled back her good leg and kicked me in the balls as hard as she could. I’m going to be peeing blood, I’m sure of it.”
“Damn!”
“Yeah, right? But she wasn’t done. She kicked me in the face, clubbed me with my own water bottle, tied me up in duct tape, stole my pack and took off.”
“Wait. She had duct tape?”
“I carry a roll in my pack. Useful stuff, comes in handy.”
“Like to improvise a splint,” acknowledged Nick with a smile. Ever since he was a kid, his son liked to be prepared. Venturing into the backyard had required his 8 layered swiss army knife, flashlight, ball of string and bandana. Nowadays, a day hike on an island just as familiar to him warranted a first aid kit, a complete change of clothing, food, matches, flashlight, bug spray, sun screen, journal, map, and, apparently, a roll of duct tape.
“Exactly. To make a splint. Maybe I should stop carrying it.”
“Mm,” said Nick noncommittally. “How’d she do it then? Tie you up? You used to put up a pretty good fight, even down and outnumbered.”
“Yeah, well, I never fought a girl before.”
“Never underestimate a woman,” said Nick. “You remember Deputy Collier? Baddest ass on the force. What about this lady? She seem like she knew what she was doing?”
“No, it was nothing like that. Christ, I wish. It’d be a lot less humiliating.” Matt sank in his chair and crossed his legs. “I think my eyes rolled up in my head. I couldn’t breathe. After that it was just a flail.”
“You were taken by surprise. Nothing to be ashamed of.” Nick watched as Matt replayed it in his mind, gingerly touching his nose and lip and around his eye, picking at the sticky remnants on his wrists and shirt. As the silence grew, Nick understood, this was the part where doubt crept in. The whys, what ifs and should haves that occurred in every debriefing he’d ever conducted, with perpetrator or victim alike.
“Go on, son. What happened next? She say anything to you?”
“Well first she yelled ‘Run! Run!’. No idea what that’s about; I never saw anybody else. And then, when she’s trying to get my hands behind my back, she screamed something like ‘You’re not fucking gay, are you?’.” Matt’s bafflement was evident. He shook his head. “Mostly she was cursing and crying.”
Nick waited, as much as a father in sympathy as a cop in interview. Matt needed to process his ordeal. Processing allowed details to percolate to the surface.
“I should have just let her tie me up – would’ve saved me a few bruises.”
“You fought back.”
“Can’t really call it that. I’m rolling away trying to protect myself and she’s slamming into my back, grabbing for my wrists. I’m bucking and jerking trying to shake her off, and she’s bouncing on me with all her weight and smacking her hands at the back of my head like a little kid. I stopped moving and she stopped hitting. That’s when I gave one last bucking jerk and knocked her off, but she scrabbled around and kicked me in the face.”
“Damn!”
“Not exactly the word I used.” Matt took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Dad, it was bizarre. Something between a WWF smackdown and a hissy fit.”
Nick snorted, then waited for Matt to continue.
“In the end, she’s sprawled across my back and swinging a water bottle at anything she can hit. Managed to clock me in the head a few times. Didn’t knock me out, but it was enough. I gave up the fight.”
“So… that’s when she tied you up?”
“Yeah. Hands behind my back. Tape across my mouth.”
“Your mouth, huh? Not your legs?”
“Nope. Kind of stupid, huh.”
“Maybe. Or panicked. So, how’d you get out of it?”
“She didn’t do a very good job – lot of the tape was stuck to itself instead of me. I managed to bunch it down low, then stepped through to get my hands in front of me. Ripping it off my face, that was bad, stung like a bastard.”
“Yeah, I bet. So, she beat you up, tied you up, and then took off. Where to?”
“I don’t know. Into the woods, away from me. I wasn’t paying a lot of attention.”
“Huh. Did she say anything else? Other than yelling ‘Run’ and ‘You’re not gay’?”
“Yeah, so get this, when she’s tying me up, she’s screaming something like ‘how does that feel, fucker, after what you did’.” Matt just looked at his Dad, hands spread wide and pointing back at himself, totally dumbfounded at the memory of it. “Me? What I did? What the fuck?!?”
“Sounds like a bit of a misunderstanding.” Noticing his son’s flash of anger at the understatement, Nick again put up a placating hand. “Look, I’m just saying it doesn’t sound like she’d thought things through. She was hiding something, but she needed your help. For whatever reason, she decided you were a threat and reacted. Instinctual – not premeditated. Like an injured animal trying to protect her young.”
“Like a vicious wild animal. Totally insane.”
Nick sat for a moment, tapping his knee, thinking. “All right, let me get you some Tylenol and ice. I’m going to make some calls, alert the ranger, find out if anybody saw anything at the town landing. I’ll call the sheriff too. She can have a patrol check the parking lot in Stonington, see if a car’s been left there, talk to the folks at IAH Boat Services, see if she came over with anyone. It’s going to take some time – you’re going to be okay?”
“Yeah. Fine. How about pouring me a drink while you’re up? A double.”
“Let me have Anne come over first, give you the once over, be sure you’re not concussed.”
Matt groaned. “Angry Anne? No thank you. I’ll take my chances.”
“Far as I know, she’s still the only EMT we have on the island. Besides, I can’t deny her the chance to see her sister’s ex beat to a pulp? I may need her to save my sorry ass someday. I’m calling her first.”
“Christ, why couldn’t Pops be here?”
Nick left for the study chuckling.
“She’ll probably poison me,” called out Matt. “Pops will never forgive you.”