Page 81 of Stony Point Summer
A DISTANT SOUND DRIFTS IN through the house’s open windows. It’s the cry of seagulls, their calls guttural and repeated, again and again and again. There’s something about the call of those gulls. Something haunting. It brings in the sense of the sea. The salt air, itself.
The man packing his duffel must think so, too. He’s a young guy, in his late twenties, maybe. And tall. He’s dressed in jeans and a tee. His light brown hair is short; tattoos snake up his arms. His harbor house sits very near the water in Rockport, Maine. Hearing those seagulls, the man looks out an open bedroom window facing the docks far beyond his deck. A lobster boat is just chugging through the harbor. Above the flat red boat, a flock of seagulls swoops and cries, already on the hunt for bits of herring bait tossed into the waters. The man watches for a second, phone to his ear, as the raucous birds cry.
“That’s good, Neil. I’m glad,” he says into the phone as he turns back to his partially packed duffel. “Hey, man. Let me put you on speaker. Got my hands full.”
“Yeah,” Neil’s voice comes through, amplified now. “So I’m on my way.”
“How soon before you’re here?”
“Got an hour to go. Stopped to stretch my legs. But don’t worry, Shane. You’ll hear me before you see me.”
“No shit,” Shane says while dropping a folded sweatshirt in his duffel. “And why’s that?”
“The bike needed a ride. It’s been making a funny noise, thought I might work it out on the highway.”
Shane looks toward that open window again. “So you took the hog.”
Did he ever.
It’s obvious Shane recognizes the sound of the Harley-Davidson later, when Neil must be a block away. Because upon hearing that thrumming engine, Shane goes out his front door, crosses his arms in front of him and waits right there on the wide granite step. In no time, Neil pulls into the gravel driveway. His booted foot puts the kickstand down and he gets off the bike. Wearing a light leather jacket over dusty black jeans and a worn tee, he grins and turns up his hands at Shane watching him from the stoop.
Which is all it takes.
The two seem like old friends. You can tell by the way Shane takes a few long strides straight to Neil. By the way their handshake turns into backslapping, their hands clapping shoulders as they laugh and catch up. As Shane asks how the ride was. As Neil lifts off his helmet, runs a hand through his hair and checks out the tiny, shingled harbor house. He glances at the faded buoys hanging from those silver shingles; the window boxes brimming with geraniums; the screen door.
Within minutes, they’re settled on the large deck behind Shane’s house. Neil’s hung his leather jacket over a chairback; Shane put on his sweatshirt from inside.
“Hearing that bike sure brings back memories,” Shane is saying after taking a long swallow from a can of beer. “Sold it to you when I was trying to raise the dough to marry Maris.”
“Can’t believe it’s been five years now. You got a girl since then? Seeing anyone?”
“Eh. Little bit, here and there. Nothing serious.” Shane looks out toward the harbor where sailboats bob in the afternoon sun. “It’s tough, being out on the boats so much.”
“I can imagine. So how’s that going, man? Lobstering.” Neil leans over and slaps Shane’s shoulder again.
“Excellent. You’re lucky you caught me today. Most days I’m out to sea with the boys.”
“Well I’m glad you were home. Haven’t seen you since last summer, when we broke into some of those abandoned mansions here.”
“What a trip, seeing those deserted places.”
“You gone back to any of them?”
“Hell, yeah. I like to take a ride, look inside at how the other half lived.”
“Still hard to believe folks just walked away from those big old homes. Left everything behind. Clothes in the dressers. Paintings on the walls. Pots on the stove. All covered in dust and dirt, frozen in time.”
Shane nods, and when Neil lights a cigarette, Shane pulls a harmonica from his pocket. Putting it to his mouth, he lets a few bluesy riffs wail across the salty harbor air. The sound is lonely and sad, reminiscent of that cry of the gulls, actually.
“Hey,” Shane says then. “Why don’t we take a ride on that bike of yours? Hit the road and get some Down East inspiration for your work.”
* * *
And for the next two hours, that’s what they do—drive Maine’s shoreline roads. With Shane hitched onto the back of Neil’s Harley, they cruise winding streets hugging the rocky coast. Shane points out abandoned seaside cottages. They stop roadside here and there to take in the sights. A distant lighthouse. A grand opera house. A quaint beach village. Shingled shacks covered in old lobster buoys. An historic schooner moored in a local harbor. As they drive, you can tell the time’s passing by the blue sky itself: the shifting white clouds against it, the sun moving further west, the day’s light fading.
Until finally Shane directs Neil back to Rockport, where they stop in at the Red Boat Tavern for a bite to eat. After placing their order at the bar, they walk past a buccaneer pirate statue and sit at a café-style window table. Their hair is windblown from the bike ride; their talk casual as they look out on the docks across the street. Lobster boats, sailboats and pleasure boats are scattered on the bay’s blue waters.
Shane lifts a pitcher and pours beer into their glasses. “Fill me in some,” he says to Neil. “How’s everybody at Stony Point?”
