“It was a long time ago, Dad,” Anne says.
He frowns. “There are so many pieces. I forget some and remember others. Like the weather. Like the sky this afternoon.”
Joy sits up. “Sunny here but stormy in the Vineyard?”
Again, his eyes seek out mine. “It was foggy when we left. I remember that. I hadn’t wanted to go out at all, but she wanted to talk. I didn’t think we’d go far. And we didn’t. But the wind got strong all of a sudden, and the snow… the rain came.”
He pauses, seeming stymied. I hold my breath, willing his mind to clear.
“Buckets,” he finally says. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Buckets. We were going up and down, all over the place. I was struggling to hold the boat steady. It was so bad that I tossed her a flak jacket.”
Life jacket, he means, but no one corrects him.
“I told her to put it on, but I don’t know if she did. I couldn’t watch her and manage the boat. I remember—” He uses both arms, one with cast, one not, to wrench an imaginary steering wheel to the right. “I had to head us into a wave that was coming in sideways or we’d capsize, and when I finally got us righted and I looked back, she was gone.”
“The Coast Guard confirmed micro-bursts,” I say, wanting him to know that this was corroborated.
But my remark ticks him off. His blue eyes cut me. “The Coast Guard wasn’t there. The Coast Guard didn’t know what it was like. The Coast Guard had no idea how strong those waves were.” He is reliving it in angry bursts. In the next instant, he quiets and averts his eyes, seeming bewildered. “Then it was done. Gone. Calm again. But I couldn’t find her.”
“We know, Daddy,” Anne says. “You looked. We all looked.”
I work on my salad—quinoa, farro, spinach, and feta—and recoup from what I feel is a dressing down. Which is absurd. But this is what I remember growing up here. After a minute of telling myself that it’s all right, that I can take a scolding if that’s what it takes to jog his memory, I have the courage to ask, “Why didn’t you want to go out in the first place?”
“The weather.”
“But she insisted. What did she want to talk about?”
“The estate.”
“You mean her house?”
“The family estate.”
“Her family estate?” I specify to make sure we understand.
He sighs. “Yes, Margo. For God’s sake, ask John Doe. He knows all about it.”
Anne and I exchange a glance. Calling me Margo isn’t the worst part here. It’s John Doe. He was a frequent presence when Dad was on the bench. And this is his second reference.
“John Doe?” I ask.
He gives a single nod, like that ends it, and casted wrist and all, deftly removes the tail meat from the lobster, at this moment knowing what to do without having to think.
“Who is John Doe?” Anne asks.
Eyes on his meal, he continues to eat.
I glance again at Anne, who shoots me a baffled look.
“Is John Doe a real person?” Joy asks with such innocence that I bless her little heart. If anyone can get away with a follow-up in this, she can.
“Oh he’s real,” Dad says and reaches for his corn.
“How can a parent name a child John Doe? John Doe is in books and movies and on TV. It’s what you call an unidentified person lying in a morgue, or an unidentified suspect in a crime. I mean, what does that say about someone who actually has the name? That he’s a nobody? If I had that name, I’d do whatever I had to do to be a somebody.” She turns to Bill. “Your guys must know all about John Doe.”
“Some do,” Bill says.
“Are any of them named John Doe?”
