Washed Up with a Broken Heart in Rock Hall Read online

  Washed Up with a Broken Heart in Rock Hall

  Peter Svenson

  New York

  For Anne

  The characters in this book are wholly fictional and bear no resemblance, real or imagined, to actual people. Needless to say, the central character bears absolutely no resemblance to me.

  The stting, however, is real. I hope that my depiction—with its accuracies or inaccuracies—will not give offense to the local denizens.

  Chapter 1

  A sunset sail at sunrise is something to remember a boat by. Budge Moss, author and weekend sailor, newly divested of wife, home, and personal effects save what he’s got aboard, has set his course due east across Chesapeake Bay with a cat for company.

  He is heading for Rock Hall on Maryland’s eastern shore, where a buyer awaits the boat and a new chapter awaits him. As he wrote in his journal the previous night,

  No, this is not the lowest point in my life, although it would seem so. This is a beginning, a new beginning—and I don’t mean to sound like a politician. The ending is over. I have already bottomed out. Three months ago when my beloved wife quit our marriage, setting the events in motion that will culminate in my stepping aboard Hula Moon early tomorrow morning, I had no idea what was in store for me or where I would go. Now, at least, I know where I’m going—that is, if I can steer a straight course.

  An evocative name for a sailboat, Hula Moon—referring to a honeymoon in Hawaii a long, long time ago. At the helm, Budge does his best to forget all that. Now it’s just a well-depreciated fiberglass possession that has outlived its usefulness and is—thank God!—sold. The ad read, “27’ Catalina, engine rebuilt, GPS, UHF, VHF, DF, stereo, furling jib, dinghy, make offer.” An offer was made and Budge didn’t dicker. Old boats are like old people—only angels want them.

  Do I have misgivings? Hell no. Hula Moon sat dockside most of the time, and anyway, what’s in working order today is not necessarily in working order tomorrow. Do I have misgivings about losing my wife? Hell yes. She sat centermost in my life, and her love seemed in perfect working order until the day I realized otherwise. Fixing it was out of the question, she said, and she immediately hired a lawyer to prove her point. One day we’re happily (so I thought) married, the next day she wants out.

  Now my destination is Rock Hall, a bayside town seventy miles by land and ten miles by water. I know next to nothing about the place, but I imagine it is home to sailors, cheaters, watermen, wife-beaters, time-sharers, lotus eaters, fishermen, and mistake repeaters. I’ll be just one of many middle-aged souls there who’ve committed no crime except to forget the inevitability of change. Name: Budge R.S.G.N. (Rolling Stone Gathers No) Moss. Age: old enough to know better. Status: dumpee.

  For the record, Budge is 55 years old. He is hale and sound-minded, generally an optimist, although he has gotten in the habit lately of feeling sorry for himself. The boat is the one major possession he was allowed to keep; the rest he either gave up voluntarily or had taken from him legally.

  Now he is about to give up the boat—the agreed-upon recompense is $5,575, and on this, he intends to live until his life gets straightened out. This translates, more or less, into the publication of his next book, the book he began writing yesterday. What will he be writing about? A middle-aged husband abruptly rendered single and not by choice. A loving man who doesn’t deserve the fate he got dished. Budge keeps the journal to feed thoughts directly into the project. Here are some sentences he jots down even as he’s at the helm, tacking Hula Moon across the northwesterly breezes of the bay.

  Ah, the blue-brown Chesapeake! A two-foot swell randomly gilded with whitecaps. Mostly clear and sunny, with a long yellow tint of nitrous oxide drifting along the western shore’s horizon. Baltimore, Dundalk, Sparrows Point, Curtis Bay—beautifully plumed offenders, yet the worst pollution, I’m told, is ground runoff from almost every vantage of the watershed. The broad bay absorbs more and more crap, and I float upon it disingenuously, demanding my right to water recreation. There are others out here today—trawlers, sailing sloops, cabin cruisers, cigarette racers—plus the workboats and a smattering of shipping traffic: tug and barge combinations, car carriers, container ships.

  I steer my valedictory course, mindful of all these plus the birds overhead. I’ve enjoyed old Hula Moon, but the next phase will be bootless, by choice as well as necessity. What I’d really like to do is find a little place to rent right on the water. A cottage on the Chesapeake, where I can pull myself together, get some writing done, and watch sunsets.

  Over the traumatic months, he researched the Internet and came upon Rock Hall’s municipal website quite by accident (yes, he got to keep his laptop computer—he couldn’t make a living without it). Comparing the town with others on the eastern shore, he made up his mind, sight unseen, that it was as good a place as any to start over. Beyond that, his plans haven’t been more specific. Verily, he’s embarked on the Thoreauvian simplification he has dreamed about for decades. It took personal upheaval to get him to, well, budge. With pregnant sails, taut lines, and spray intermittently flung in his face, he has no regrets—or so he tells himself.

  After four hours of sailing, though, he’s glad to be approaching the harbor at Rock Hall. Fatigue is setting in, and he’s wet and windburned. The town’s pale blue water-tower, the landmark he has been cognizant of for the past two hours, looms tall and welcoming. Perking up with a thermos of coffee, he makes note of the buoys; yes, he has steered a true course, followed chart and compass perfectly. As he enters the channel between the breakwater, he experiences a pleasant sense of accomplishment. For a final voyage, this has been the best and luckiest. Characteristically, he’s quitting while he’s ahead.

  He drops the sail, motoring the last several hundred yards to the rightmost dock, as prearranged, where a man stands expectantly. Budge glances at his watch; it’s 10:30 a.m. His timing couldn’t be better.

  The buyer, a rangy open-shirted fellow, helps dockside with the mooring lines, then comes aboard, beaming approvingly.

  “Nice boat, just as you described it.”

  “I think you’ll like it.”

  “I do already. I even like the name. I might keep it, if you don’t mind.”

  “Suit yourself,” Budge replies.

  “I see you’ve got a lot of stuff aboard. You moving someplace?”

  “Here. Temporarily.”

  Budge adds the “temporarily” only because he thinks it sounds better, although “here,” by itself, would have been the more truthful answer.

  “Nice little town. Nice people live here.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “That’s the town’s official motto. ‘Nice People Live Here.’”

  “Sounds like a good one.”

  “You familiar with this neck of the woods?”

  “Not really,” Budge admits.

  “Well, just remember one thing. You gotta be born here to have the best credentials. Otherwise, you’re an outsider. You could live here fifty years, and you’d still be an outsider.”

  “Okay, I’ll remember that.”

  The buyer descends belowdeck, where there is really only room for him alone. “Yep, it looks like you’re moving lock, stock, and barrel,” he observes.

  Through the hatch, Budge agrees, offering no further explanation. The buyer clambers topside, satisfied with his inspection. His body language implies that the boat now belongs to him.

  “I’ve got the cashier’s check if you’ve got the title,” he says.

  “It’s right here in my pocket,” replies Budge.

  The swap happens so fast that Budge has no time to reflect. He does
n’t reminisce about the good times he and his wife spent aboard, or the bad times they spent arguing. She didn’t like taking orders from him, yet sometimes he couldn’t help himself. Now it’s all ancient history.

  “Give me ten minutes to collect my stuff,” he says.

  “Let me give you a hand. Whatcha got here … oh, a cat. A sailboat cat, hey, that’s cool!”

  A pile of belongings on the dock. It smacks of eviction, which it is. With a little help, I’m evicting myself. Clothing on hangers, including my one serviceable suit. Two trash bags bulging with bedding and underwear. A suitcase of shoes. A laundry basket full of dirty laundry. The old stereo set and its speakers. A reading lamp, my desk chair, phone/fax (and umbilical tangle), laptop and printer, toaster oven, microwave, old framed photographs, guitar. Four or five boxes—utensils, small appliances, bric-à-brac, books, manuscripts. And securely on top, Ragu in her carrier, mewing nervously.

  Budge’s first task, after making sure his pet is supplied with food and water, and covering everything with a tarp, is to get directions to the nearest bank. He’ll deposit the check, draw some cash, and open both a savings and checking account. Conveniently, the Rock Hall trolley makes a stop at Peoples Bank on Route 20.

  I’m liking this place already! From the trolley, I get a good idea of the town’s layout (the driver’s spiel is helpful in this regard). At the bank they treat me as a valued customer, and afterwards, flush with new funds and temporary checks, I walk to the Rock Hall Garage and buy a used car.

  The sand-colored Toyota Corolla hatchback with 200,000 miles on its odometer costs him $2,300, tags included. Budge’s inaugural spin is two blocks to a rental agency on Main Street. Again, he has quick luck: a bayfront cottage beside the public beach is available for immediate occupancy. The lease is month to month plus a security deposit, utilities excluded. He drives over to have a look, likes it (deems it affordable), drives back, writes a check, and is handed the key. He then backtracks along Main Street to Bayside Foods, the town’s only supermarket, to provision for cupboard and refrigerator, not omitting beer.

  Lastly—and this is only three hours later—he returns to the dock to collect Ragu and the pile of possessions she is guarding (actually, she’s asleep). Somehow, it all fits in the old Corolla, with a few items tied to the roof. Setting up his new quarters, he suddenly remembers that he needs a bed. Bryden’s Used Furniture (“Buy, Sell, Trade”) on Route 20 has exactly what he is looking for: a double mattress and box spring that are not too tattered and not too stained. While he is on the premises, he also purchases a desk, a small table, and two chairs. These fit easily within the hatchback. Having lashed the mattress and box spring to the roof, he sets off once again for his new abode. In a matter of hours, then, his move is complete. To celebrate, he gets blitzed on the six-pack.

  Chapter 2

  The mosquitoes are bad here. Stepping outdoors is an invitation to a feast of blood—their feast, my blood. The best defense consists of long sleeves, jeans, and an aerosol repellent which I’m loath to use because it contains DEET. Overexposure to DEET can cause neurological damage, I’m told, and certain mosquitoes on Maryland’s eastern shore carry West Nile virus, which is potentially fatal. Either way, the risks are probably slight, and so I take my chances. I’ve made up my mind not to die here, but if I do, I hope it won’t be because of a mosquito bite.

  In the sweltering room with the direct view of Chesapeake Bay beyond the beach portajohn. Budge is word-processing. The evergreen sap of creativity flows as always, despite his fallen circumstances. He has a compelling reason to hustle at the keyboard; his only chance for redemption, nay, survival, is to produce another book. Wisely or unwisely, he has chosen to write about himself, then cloak the autobiographical details in fiction. At the moment he has neither the time nor imagination to invent an interesting central character, so he himself will be the object of scrutiny. Given the reading public’s appetite for odd cases of human misery, he knows he has nothing to lose.

  I’ve parked myself and my worldly possessions within the walls of this cinderblock cottage. Beyond its back yard, a blowsy fringe of phragmites and cattails borders the breeze-rippled shallows. In the front yard, a boxwood and willow oak compete for sunlight filtering through a grove of locust trees. Near the road is a protruding well cover made of pressed stone. A silver mailbox, a faded yellow fire hydrant, and a creosote-oozing utility pole complete the arrangement. My nearest neighbor is anybody who uses the portajohn at the corner of the public beach. I myself can urinate outdoors at night if I choose.

  Although the view of the bay is panoramic, the beach itself isn’t much to look at. About 400 feet long, it is a mostly grassy crescent of trucked-in sand. Just offshore, three rip-rap breakwaters insure that this sand isn’t displaced by storms. People arrive en masse on the weekends, although few will venture in the water now that it is late July (dry weather brings increased salinity from the ocean, causing stinging nettles to migrate up the estuary). Directly inland, Beach Road widens for parking along a short boardwalk with five fixed benches. Two kiosks and three picnic tables (one right next to my cottage) are interspersed along the verge. A two-posted sign announces that the beach is closed from dusk till dawn, there’s no lifeguard, and neither dogs nor alcoholic beverages are allowed—plus a number of other sensible rules, all of which are routinely broken.

  Budge is embarrassed to admit, even to himself, that his professional track record has been spotty. He hasn’t published a new book in seven years. Within the past fifteen months, he has had a magazine article in print (which he had to fight for, then suffer the humiliation of having it edited to oblivion), and several book signings (his entourage, that is to say, his wife and whichever of her relatives happened to be visiting, was larger than his audience), but mainly he’s had a streak of unpublished writing. He’s tried and tried and tried and tried. He used to be nearly famous, but now he is nearly unknown, and he resents the difference.

  He has been thinking that possibly his marriage has had something to do with it. For his wife’s sake, he may have tried too hard. Not that she goaded him or anything, but there was an understanding between them at the start of their marriage that he was earmarked for literary fortune. She said she believed in his talent. She said she loved him for being an established author. The fact that his career didn’t follow the prescribed game plan, but instead petered out in a series of rejection slips hurt her more than it hurt him. While he was determined to plunk himself down in front of the computer screen and try again, she lost faith in his wordsmithing. Could he blame her? Yes, goddammit, he could. Whatever happened to for better and for worse? She began urging him to think about another career—real estate, social work, teaching (“You’d be great in the classroom, Budgie.”), even house-painting—anything to increase his contribution to their finances.

  Budge was genuinely puzzled. Didn’t she know that an old dog can’t learn new tricks? Why, most of their contemporaries were segueing into retirement or embarking on related second careers just to keep themselves active and useful. And yes, that’s how he described himself to her: a trustworthy, highly specialized old hound, whose nose pointed irreversibly toward the scent of literature. Budge wouldn’t budge; he didn’t want another career. He believed in himself and that chimera called a lucky break. He would keep plugging away. They had a nice home—it wasn’t a palace, but it suited their needs. They had a little spending money—not enough for exotic cruises, but enough for budget-minded getaways now and then. They had their health, their careers, their hobbies, their friendships.

  “You take a better paying job, if you’re so concerned about money,” he’d tell her, and he’d launch into an oft-cited homily about how she knew from the start that she was marrying an artistic person.

  “I’m not demanding that you stop being artistic,” she’d retort. “I’m just asking you to bring in a little more money—anything!”

  He knew he was letting her down, and it gave him a sick feeling.r />
  “Tell you what,” he’d say (he said it at least five times previously). “Just let me finish this manuscript. I’ll be done in six months. I promise you, this one will hit the charts. And if it doesn’t, I’ll go out and get a job.”

  But she’d heard it all before. She simply didn’t believe him anymore. At this point, all the rote optimism had gone sour. She wanted a spouse who was more financially dependable and capable of career flexibility. He likened himself to a ship with a stuck rudder. He was congenitally unable to change his course. It chilled him to realize he loved his wife more than she loved him.

  Newly arrived in Rock Hall, he has had a little time to think all this over. It was his love for her that made him expect too much of himself. He watched her change from muse to tormentor. At first she offered gentle encouragement—she was a crackerjack proofreader, too—but when the long dry spell showed no sign of letting up, it became clear that she could not have cared less what he was writing. His most recent undertaking, about the Boer War, she called his “vanity book.” She was supporting the project financially, she minced no words. She had no expectations whatsoever for its success, and this time she wasn’t going to wait around to prove that she was right.

  Chained to his computer screen day and night, typing till his wrists ached and his eyes glazed over, reshuffling the research notes and chapter outlines, asking her to wait a little longer and promising that he had a true bestseller in the works—none of it meant anything to her. She lost all sympathy. She told him he was using her—and not only using her, but abusing her as well. Angry words were exchanged.

  Insidiously, a new kind of communication sprang up between us: we argued. Our differences weren’t momentous; in fact, they were usually about nothing at all, but somehow we’d get on opposite viewpoints of the most picayune subjects, and proceed to hold forth mercilessly, as though winning debate points off each other was a matter of life or death. Now she and I became short-fused and easily offended—it wasn’t always that way—and we developed the knack for sticking the dagger of insult just where it hurt the most. I began to dread the swooping vehemence of our disagreements. Most of the time, we functioned as a like-minded couple, seasoned to each other’s idiosyncrasies—in a word, durable. We could practically read each other’s thoughts. But after a truce of several day’s duration, there’d come the inevitable flare-up. I’d blame her and she’d blame me, and we’d fall into the same old destructive pattern—arguing for argument’s sake. Of course we always made up, even when our arguments lasted into the night and continued the next morning, but the inevitability of verbal discord began to redefine the way we related to each other. I grew wary of saying what was on my mind, and I’m sure she did too. The wrong comment, even the mildest of observations, could trigger a fresh altercation. As she facetiously put it, we were overcommunicating.