Chapter 4: Stonington

Stonington sat at the very bottom of Deer Isle.

The road kept narrowing until it gave up and became a harbor.

I got there a little before ten.

I had stopped once for gas and once to throw up behind a Dunkin' in Brunswick.

The Honda's heater only worked on high. My face was burning and my feet were ice.

The harbor was full of lobster boats with their bows all pointed the same way, into the wind.

Gulls were screaming over the co-op.

Everything smelled like bait and diesel and cold salt.

I parked behind a diner with a hand-painted sign and sat with my hands on the wheel.

In ten years I had never driven anywhere without Renato's driver.

I had never gone farther than Newport alone.

Now I was five hours north, in a borrowed car, with no phone, and I didn't know what I was going to say.

I got out anyway.

The yard was on the east side of the harbor, down a gravel lane, past a row of stacked lobster traps.

A wooden sign hung over the gate. The paint was fresh. Somebody cared about it.

There were two long sheds with their doors rolled open.

Inside the nearer one, a boat sat up on blocks.

She was all bare wood, honey colored, the ribs showing on one side.

I stood at the gate and couldn't make my feet go through it.

A big black dog came trotting out of the shed.

It was the dog from the photo.

It stopped in front of me, looked me over, and sat down on my boots.

"Hi," I whispered. "Hi, baby. Where's your man?"

The dog leaned its whole weight into my knees.

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