Forgive Me. Amanda Eyre Ward

in his back pocket. “Aren’t you a good boy?” said the woman, scratching her dog’s belly. “Aren’t you a good, good boy?”

      “So that’s my saga,” said Hank. “What’s yours?”

      “Oh, you know,” said Nadine.

      “No,” said Hank. “I don’t.”

      “Well,” said Nadine, “what have you heard?”

      “Jim Morgan’s daughter,” said Hank, sitting back in his seat. “Difficult as a kid. Crazy in high school. Always looking for trouble. Ran away with a guy who came through town on a Harley-Davidson. Called her dad from Sturgis, wanting money to come home.”

      Nadine smiled. She had met Sammy after the Senior Dinner Dance, which had been held on a spring Saturday night under a tent overlooking Old Silver Beach. Tiny white lights twinkled along the edge of the canvas fabric, and the temperature was a perfect seventy-five degrees. The strains of “Wonderful Tonight” played as Nadine’s date, Liam Baker, spun her too fast. Over his shoulder, Nadine saw a girl she barely knew crying by the punch bowl. She saw Lily dancing with Dennis, trying to look happy as Dennis, too drunk, staggered around the parquet floor.

      “This is perfect,” whispered Liam in Nadine’s ear. Poor Liam, who thought they would get married and stay on Cape Cod forever. Suddenly Nadine couldn’t bear it: Liam’s overpowering cologne, the crying girl, Lily pretending so fiercely. The sun set, an orange orb, and the gap between the reality of imminent heartbreak all around her and the cheery illusion of a perfect summer night was too wide for Nadine to straddle. She twisted free of Liam’s embrace and ran. She ran until her legs wore out, and then she sat on the back porch of someone’s empty summer house and watched the stars. She fell asleep on a teak lounge chair.

      In the morning, walking home, she saw Sammy parked by the side of the road, smoking a cigarette. He was short and ugly. He was real. When he offered to take her for a ride, she accepted. As they sped around the Sagamore Rotary and then over the bridge toward freedom, Nadine pressed her cheek to his leather jacket and held on tight.

      “Oh my God,” said Nadine. “Hank, who have you been talking to?”

      “Wrote about the biker underworld for the school newspaper. Wins some contest–”

      “The Young Writers’ Fellowship,” murmured Nadine.

      “Heads to Cambridge, never looks back. Turns out she’s not just crazy, but brilliant.”

      Nadine smiled and looked at Hank. “I hang out at The Captain Kidd,” said Hank. “Jan the bartender went to school with you.”

      “Jan Hallnet.”

      “Yes.”

      Nadine looked down. “Did he tell you about my mother?”

      Hank didn’t answer. An older man wandered by, leading a sheepdog on a leather leash. The sheepdog stopped next to Mario. “Who’s this?” said the man.

      “This is Marlo,” said the woman.

      “This is Roady,” said the man. The dogs sniffed each other.

      “So,” said the man, “how old is Marlo?”

      “We don’t know,” said the woman. “My daughter rescued him from a farm. They were going to shoot him. He ate the eggs and scared the chickens. Maybe around eleven. But he acts like a little puppy.”

      “Roady here is five,” said the man. “I got him from a breeder in Wellesley.”

      “Don’t you?” said the woman. “Don’t you act just like a little puppy?”

      Hank moved close to Nadine. She could smell him, and it was a comforting smell, like butter, like gingerbread. “No,” said Hank finally. “Jan didn’t tell me about your mother.”

      “Oh,” said Nadine. A woman made her way to the bathroom, sipping from a bottle of beer. Jeff moved to another window. The sun broke through a bank of clouds and spilled across the waves. Nadine leaned over and kissed Hank. He kissed her back.

      “Hey, hey,” said the man with the dog. “What have we here? Somebody falling in love right here on the slow ferry?”

      Ten

      It was dark by the time they pulled into Nantucket Harbor. From the outdoor deck, Nadine and Hank watched the island come into view: the row of neat houses with windows lit, cargo trucks lining up, readying for the shipments of food and fuel. The wind was fierce, and when Hank put his hands in his pockets Nadine slid her right hand inside the warm wool of his coat, entwining her fingers with his. Hank looked at her and smiled.

      “We can grab a burger in town,” he said, “and then take a cab to the house. I’ve got an old Volvo there. Hope it starts.”

      “Great,” said Nadine.

      “Or there’s the Straight Wharf. A little snazzier. Candlelight, etcetera.”

      “No,” said Nadine, “a burger’s fine.”

      They lined up above the metal staircase leading off the ferry. Pink-faced passengers wrapped in mink and North Face parkas stood elbow-to-elbow with heavyset women gossiping in Jamaican patois. At the ferry dock, construction workers waited for the last ship out, empty lunchboxes in hand. Nadine and Hank strolled across the gangway, then past a lively taco stand and a bicycle rental shop, closed for the day.

      “Come,” said Hank, leading her by a basket museum and a whaling museum, then into town, where the streets were made of cobbled stone and holiday lights twinkled from every lamppost. “How are you feeling?”

      “I’m okay,” said Nadine, though she felt completely dislocated, even anxious. “This is beautiful. Really. I guess I thought the streets were paved with gold.”

      Hank laughed. “Quaint isn’t cheap,” he said.

      On Broad Street, after a store specializing in French cookware, Hank stopped. “Here we are,” he said. “The Brotherhood of Thieves.” He opened the door to a warm underground restaurant. “This was a hangout for whalers back in 1840.” In the dim space, a fire blazed and people sat around wooden tables. “Two for dinner,” Hank said to the teenager in a polo sweater and cargo pants who stood behind a wooden reservation stand. The boy’s overgrown hair and burgeoning beard testified to his decision to stay on-island for the winter.

      “Forty-five minitos,” said the boy. “Maybe an hour.”

      “How about a drink?” said Hank, inclining his head toward a bar where men in knit hats and baseball caps watched television intently.

      “Sure,” said Nadine. She took a few steps, then said, “You know, I’m going to go get some fresh air, actually.”

      “What?” said Hank. “Are you okay?”

      “Just some air,” said Nadine, as she rushed past the host and to the door. Awkwardly, she yanked it open and the cold wind hit her. She started to walk. Something about the dark space, the rumble of voices, the tinny sound of the television. She turned a corner and saw a church, sat down on the steps. Underneath her jeans, the stone was cold. Nadine felt her temples throb. It was something about the fire, the smell of meat. Memories rushed forward, vivid and painful.

      During her summer in Cape Town, Nadine often drove from her manicured neighborhood to Sunshine township. With her housemates and fellow reporters, she drank beer at a bar called the Waterfront, listening to the Moonlights and JC Cool on the jukebox. Some nights, the tinny sound of soccer games won out over the music.

      Nadine was working on a piece about the parents of boys who had run away from home to join the Mandela United Football Club. The “club” was really a gang that roamed the township streets, using fear and brutality to stamp out resistance to the anti-apartheid cause.