All You Need Is Love (27 page)

I nod and the loud speaker announces we’re pulling into port. I need to go before I get caught in the rush of traffic. “Yeah.”

She smiles, revealing her perfectly white teeth and stretches her bare feet (also tan) out the window, the essence of summer casual cool. “He went to get us something to drink.”

Us. Right. “Oh — well, I have to get back to my car — but I’ll…” my voice gets lost to the hum of engines starting up and the ferry horn blasting. Hippie Girl nods and gives some weird wave, maybe an island peace symbol or something befitting her gauzy Indian print vibe, and I walk away feeling dorky and disillusioned.

Why I thought Charlie was single is a mystery. The best answer I can give is that I saw him single because I want him to be. Just like I see Henry as a potential in the background even though he’s never said anything to give me that impression. All my views are filtered through my brain and therefore are twisted to suit my own desires. And where does this leave me now?

Driving off the boat with my windows rolled down, breathing in the salty air, my shoulders immediately relaxing into a summer slouch. After I pull out of the driveway and onto the road, I stop at the intersection and try to pick which way to turn. Moments like this either fly by unnoticed or feel weighty — like if you pick one way one thing will happen and if you go left or whatever, your whole life could be different. But maybe it’s just an intersection and nothing more. I signal left and then notice Charlie’s red pick up truck ahead turning right, going up the hill past Vineyard Haven and wonder whether I should drive right to the café or follow that red pick-up truck just a little ways around the island, to see where it (and by it I mean Charlie and his hippie lady) leads me.

Option two wins out and I flip my directional and go right, hanging back like the true private detective that I am. The roads on Martha’s Vineyard are all looped and connected — eventually ever street leads to every town — so I don’t feel like a stalker, just, um, a very enthusiastic tourist. Through the wooded area past The Black Dog bakery, past a miniature golf course where I have to insist on taking Arabella, who thinks she’s a natural putter as — if the acting thing doesn’t work out — that she might put professionally, and then I let the truck go ahead, off in the distance as the woods gives way to clear fields and marsh.

When we (and by we I mean me and my sad sleuthing self) get to Menemsha, Charlie and his luscious lady (I can still see her perfect feet sticking out the window) pulls over to the right on a sandy, dusty road and I wait until I can’t hear or see the truck before proceeding. Inching the car up without stalling, I stop by the foot of the driveway to see where the truck has gone. Parked by a small shingled cottage (a real cottage, not a mansion cottage), I can see Charlie emerge from the driver’s side, and watch him take walk around to Hippie’s door and virtually life her out — maiden in distress that she is. So this is their cozy summer shack. They walk up the steps of the porch to go inside and do God knows what while I feel jealous and then annoyed at my jealousy: one — I never really had Charlie and two — if Hippie wants to be with a guy who strands you at a diner, then she can have him. I, however, am on the road to bigger and better things.

I figure since I’m in Menemsha and already semi-lost, I may as well try and find Menemsha Potters, where Mrs. Dandy-Patinko’s brother lives. And pots. What an odd verb I think as I circle around a wooded cove and past a couple of beachy stores selling. Then, a very helpful signpost appears in front of the general store. It’s one of those signs that have town names and stores painted onto individual wooded planks that jut off in all directions — Edgartown, where I’m supposed to be right now, that way — Beach, that way, post Office, over there, Hale Farm that way, and — yes — Menemsha Potters one half mile to the left.

A blue and red faded sign in the shape of a big mug swings from a post at the edge of the road and I turn onto the sand and dirt drive, following it past a couple of oversized bulls (maybe they are regular sized, but they are enormous enough to warrant the super size name), a crumbling little house, and park my car in front of a large barn.

In front of the barn are shelves piled with ceramic bowls, pitchers, and chowder mugs. I carry the pamphlet from Aunt Mable with me like it’s a ticket of admission — welcome to the show of my summer — and stop to admire the pottery as I go by. The coffee mugs are perfect; round-bowled at the bottom with a small neck so they won’t slosh on you. Too good to pass up — what kind of seventeen-year-old am I that I am more captivated by a coffee cup than a new pair of trendy pants. Oh well. I choose a mug lazed in a deep blue and head inside to find the mysterious Tink.

A cat (AKA allergy bag) brushes past my leg and I try to step aside lest I become hive-covered.

“You must be allergic,” the bearded guy in baggy overalls says from behind the counter.

“How’d you know?” I ask and immediately see the resemblance between the overall guy — Tink — and Mrs. Dandy-Patinko, my college counselor.

“She only goes to people who can’t pat her,” Tink explains about the cat.

“Feline unrequited love?” I ask.

He nods and stands up from his position near a pottery wheel. All around him are vases, utensil holders, plates, and butter dishes waiting to be glazed or fired. “You like this?” he points to the slab of clay currently on the wheel. “It’s a chip and dip sort of thing.” It looks more like a piece of strange art but I give a small nod and smile. “I’m just kidding — it’s nothing yet — I just slopped it onto the wheel.”

“Oh — I didn’t want to offend you — I was…” I blush. Two minutes in the pottery place and I manage to make an ass of myself.

“No — you were just being kind. No harm in that.” He studies my face as if waiting for something. Then I realize he must know who I am.

“Do you know why I’m here?” I ask and feel like a martian sent to investigate another planet.

“Yes,” Tink nods and wipes his clay-covered hands on his thighs and motions for me to come back behind the counter. “But do you?”

I think for a second and unfold the pamphlet. “Not really. It’s all slightly surreal.”

“Isn’t that the way life goes?” His voice is gruff and mellow, like he belongs on one of my albums from the seventies — crooning about smoking pot while admiring nature. “Follow me.”

We walk around several pottery wheels, past some drying racks, and out the back door of the barn. Down three small steps, a path set with giant circles made of pottery and glazed in alternating red and the deep blue of the mug I picked out; Tink leads me to a covered recycling area.

“This is it,” he says and pats the side of a huge metal bin.

I wait for him to expound further. He doesn’t. “Is there more?”

“Look inside,” he says and backs away so I can peer over the edge of bin.

“Wooah.” Heaped inside are pieces of pottery, mounds of red, blue, yellow, apricot, deep purple — triangular shards, random mug handles, and discarded squares. “This is so cool.”

“Your aunt knew you’d like it,” Tink says.

I turn to face the odd artist and ask, “What did she want me to get here? Is there, I don’t know, I big picture that I’m not getting?”

Tink twists his mouth to the side. “You know, I’m not sure. She came here and told me about some sort of puzzle — and being interested in life and the myriad paths it takes, I agreed to give you this…”

I wait for him to hand me something. “Give me what?”

“This,” he points to a small barrel of pottery pieces off to the side. “And this.” From the chest pocket of his overalls he pulls out a folded note and hands it to me. “Good luck.” He starts to head back to the barn. “And that mug you’re holding — it’s on the house. Enjoy.”

“Thanks!” I say and gesture with it then put it down on the ground so I can read the note.

Greetings and Salutations (remember Charlotte’s Web, that book you loved when you were little and how you used to walk around saying greetings and salutations when you were in second grade?)

I grmile — grimace and smile — as I remember that. Aunt Mable is — was — in so many ways my memory. She stored up so many days, sayings, and childhood moments that I won’t remember now. So it’s nice — if slightly embarrassing — to think of saying greetings and salutations like a spider from a novel, but I keep reading…

Remember in Charlotte’s Web, you got all sad because Charlotte died? All the time you read that book you were worried about Wilbur, the pig, but then — boom — Charlotte was the one to go?

My eyes well up even though Mable’s referring to fictional animals from long ago.

Well, if you’re reading this, you know I’m gone, too. But — wait — don’t cry yet, Love.

I disobey her and let the tears stream down my face. I miss her. I can’t help it.

Okay, okay, I know you’re crying. And I know your nose is red. I’d be crying, too, and then we’d look at each other and crack up.

I laugh now because she’s right.

The point of this little puzzle — this web, if you will — is to keep you going forward. Too often in my own life I felt like I was treading water (or coffee) when I should have been making motions. So since I’m not there to kick your butt in person, I’m kicking it figuratively. Life is all about the pieces, and here’s a bunch for you to sort through. Once you’ve looked at them, you’ll know what to do. Love you to bits — heh. Aunt Mable x.

Pocketing the note, I crouch down and begin to look through the various shards in the small bin. Each one is different — patterned or plain, glazed or just grey. First I just look at each one and put it into a pile, but soon I notice there are three main types — green the color of the Atlantic in the fall, sort of mossy and dark with lighter lines on them, a bunch of plain gray ones with darker lines on them, and ones that are striped blue and white, like a beach chair. I separate them all into piles just to make the process less confusing — which of course it still is because I don’t know what I’m looking for. I suspect that the process — just following the flow of the pieces — and not really knowing why — is part of Mable’s plan. She always wanted me to allow things to happen, not to think too much, and in this — I can’t really thin too much so I just do it.

Then, once I’m almost all the way through the barrel, I notice that each pile contains a mug handle. I take the three broken handles out and look at them. No clue. What the hell and I supposed to make of all this?

I head back inside and ask Tink.

“Do these mean anything?” I ask him.

He looks up from the wheel. “My sister says you’re bright — that you’re headed to a good college.”

“I hope so,” I say.

“Well, I went to RISD myself. And if I learned anything — which I’m not sure I did — then it was to consider the art not just for its parts but as a whole, and not just for the whole but for its parts.”

Oh, um, thanks — you’ve been really helpful. Not quite. “Oh, okay,” I say and go back outside. For some reason I thought he’d just tell me something, explain the whole ting, but no.

Then, as I’m about to put the handles back down, I notice the dark lines and the light lines kind of line up. So I take each curved handle and line it up. On the outside, the lines are just patterns, but on the inside, the lines and curves for letters.

“Find the matching blue and white mug and drink in all life has to offer. Everyone deserves a”

The words cut off after ‘a’ — everyone deserves…what? I don’t know now, but I will if I can find the mug that matches the green one. With my next clue in hand, I take my blue coffee mug from Tink, the note from Aunt Mable, and the mugless handle, and head back to my car. Who has the matching mug? And why?

My cell phone rings, breaking the quiet and my thoughts. “Are you here or what?” Arabella asks.

“I’m on my way — seriously,” I answer, “I’m just going to call my dad and tell him I’m alive and well and then I’ll get there.” So I call home, have the perfunctory but obligatory talk with my dad about being safe and having but not too much fun, and then drive my cluttered car toward Edgartown and the café.

After circling the block for fifteen minutes and dealing with traffic and pedestrians crossing the street with little notice, I double-park outside Slave to the Grind II. Nestled between a bank and a clothing store, but on an angle so it’s sort-of separate, the café is teeming with people. Good news for business, perhaps bad news for Arabella whose arms are streaked with espresso, her forehead damp. Doug and Ula, the brother-sister team Mable hired to help run the place, are an example of yin and yang. Where Doug is calm and smiling, Ula is frantic and frowning — hurrying coffees over to the tables, plumping pillows as soon as people stand up from the orange and purple floor cushions, and generally looking miserable.

Not that I expected a marching band to herald my arrival nor a chorus of well-wishers hailing me as the latest and greatest ferry transport, but a notice might be nice. Instead, all I get is a smile and cheers from Doug who looks robotic in his caffeine-charged cash registering, and nary a nod from Ula who gives off the emotional air of soured milk, until Arabella delivers a frozen mochachino to one customer, wipes up a spill with her trusty cloth, and then sashays over to me.

“Fucking hell, Bukowski, it’s about time.”

And just like that, summer has officially started.

A few minutes later, during a lull in the fairly steady stream of tourists and locals looking for an afternoon pick-up-up (AKA frozen lemonade or ice coffee), Arabella shows me up the narrow, creaky stairs in back of one of the storage closets to our small apartment. Each of the risers on the stairs is painted a different shade of blue.

“Cool — it’s like walking up the ocean!” I say as we climb the steps — passing azure, sky blue, turquoise, indigo, navy, and every other blue that exists.

“That’s exactly the look I was going for!” Arabella beams at me over her shoulder.

“You did this?” I ask. “Isn’t this a summer lease?”

“And your point is…”

“Point being you’re not supposed to paint or permanently alter the place?” I say and take the last two steps at one time. “I mean, my dad and I don’t even move the furniture that much at home — since it’s like a long-term rental…” My voice trails off as I take a second to think about my dad — right now he’s tying up all those end of the academic year issues, dealing with Aunt Mable’s will and trying to get over his grief by plunging into a trip to Europe with his girlfriend, Louisa. I won’t see him until mid-August here when he visits for Illumination Night in Oak Bluffs, when the whole town is lighted up by lanterns — it looks so romantic in photos, but I haven’t seen it in person since I was little.