T
HE BIKE GALE HAS BEEN GIVEN IS A BOY'S, gleaming midnight blue. The middle bar has an oval metal disc screwed in with the number “6” on it. She unlocks it from the metal stand it is chained to on the side of the house between the grassy lawn and the beach and realizes the seat too high, but she takes it, thinking it best not to protest. She tries to adjust the seat but can’t find the lever so she just hoists herself up, swings a leg over the bar, and peddles away. Her first stop is Angel’s Market, the first shop on the left. About a half mile up the road.
There is a request for a bottle of Jameson’s and two of white wine to replenish the liquor cabinet for tonight, and she offers to take her bike to the center of town to the shops. The street is pocked with potholes, having taken a beating from the winter storms and she has to be vigilant on the road so as not to go “ass over teakettle,” as Aunt Penny had warned her about moments before.
At Angel’s Market there are three men whispering around a chocolate frosted cake that a heavyset woman is holding. They are lamenting that they have no cake box, and the heavyset woman, the shopkeeper, admits she has none, either.
Aunt Penny is the hostess this weekend, and Gale would like to please her, this being the first time she has met her boyfriend Harris’s extended family. It is all quite formal, for a beach house. She has been designated to stay in a small bedroom originally designed as staff quarters with two single beds, one pressed into each side wall, a window to the sea and a single nightstand between them. She is rooming for the weekend with Aunt Peggy’s childhood nanny, Lorena, who smells like fried onions and talcum powder. Harris is staying in another room in the easternmost wing of the home with his cousin Pierce.
The town is full of small, quaint shops and cafes. There are also a used-books store, a dank maritime-themed bar that hadn’t been redecorated since Eugene O’Neill summered here, and loads of art galleries and coffee houses peppering the grid of streets that make up the seaside community.
“Don’t forget to lock your bike when you’re in town, there’s occasionally a bike theft, getting to be that time of year,” Aunt Penny warns her. She and Harris fought the hellish Friday commuter traffic from Boston to the Cape yesterday, arriving in time for the annual clam bake the Marring family hosts to celebrate Memorial Day. After dinner, she sat with the women and watched the boys play touch football.
She is on the main road and it will take her into town, to the market. At Angel’s Market there are three men whispering around a chocolate frosted cake that a heavyset woman is holding. They are lamenting that they have no cake box, and the heavyset woman, the shopkeeper, admits she has none, either. One of the three men offers to carry it, and another slides the cake across his outstretched arms. There is beer and wine at the store. But Aunt Penny drinks Jameson’s.
“Do you know where the closest liquor liquor store is?” she asks the man who just handed over the cake. His voice is barely audible, a whisper, as if prohibition were still in effect
“You go down to Carroll Street, then make a right, then it’s on your left,” he says discreetly.
Gale buys a soft cheese with mushrooms and a bag of pretzels because she is taking up so much time in the store, it seems only right. She puts them in her backpack, zips it up, and slid her arms through the straps. She unlocks her bike from a post and rides off in search of the liquor store. She forgets to buy the wine, but she can do that at the next stop.
Her eyes dart from the potholes to the dogs on retractable leashes zigzagging into the road to the bank of cars parked along the right side of the one-way street. It is difficult for her to see when a car turns out of a driveway, so she pedals with hesitation and a wariness that makes her unsteady. There is a rush of people, boyfriends, girlfriends, groups of people, a mishmash of couples, congregating on the sidewalk and crowding up the storefronts.
She rides a mile down the road, looking every few seconds for Carroll Street, but it isn’t there. She stops in front of the post office, where two men are sitting on the steps with a Jack Russell terrier. The dog is old and has a cloudy eye. It fusses. The man holding the dog pulls it closely to his chest, and says “Shush, little girl.”The dog continues to huff with a long, simmering growl.
“Do you know where the closest liquor store is?” she asks the men.
A Cautionary Tale of Bike Swapping continues...
