Page 65 of Drawing Home
“As you probably know, it was not a successful battle,” Tom said. Henry nodded vigorously. As she probably knew? Who on earth had ever heard of the Battle of Long Island? “Morale faded pretty quickly after that loss. The British took control of the island and held it for over half a dozen years. The townspeople of Sag Harbor were forced to house and feed the British army. They had to pledge their allegiance to King George the Third or they would become prisoners of war.”
“Can you imagine?” Henry said. “Right here!”
“Well, I doubt they sat at this bar, Henry.”
“Actually, they did,” said Tom. “Or at least, at this site. The British set up a naval blockade so that supplies couldn’t be sent to the American army through the Port of Sag Harbor. Officers used this very spot as their lodging and tavern. Some of the original brick is still part of the facade.”
“Imagine that!” Henry said, slamming his palm down on the bar.“Imagine that!”
“Henry, I’ll pull the car around. We should get on the road.”
Henry shook his head, finished his coffee, and set the cup down with a flourish. “I’ve decided to stay a few days.”
“What? Why?”
“Tom is going to show me around. What am I rushing back to New York for? The banality of the now?”
The banality of the now? How was she supposed to argue with that? No, she knew better. She had learned, over the course of two decades, to accept his sometimes infuriating artistic and impulsive temperament. And yet leaving him in that hotel bar that morning gave her a feeling of deep trepidation.
Three days later, after not so much as a phone call from him, she finally swallowed her pride and left him a message at the front desk of the hotel. It was two more days until she heard back.
“I’ve decided to rent a house out here for the summer,” he said.
Fine. Let Henry have his Sag Harbor adventure. Maybe it would inspire him to get back to work. He hadn’t produced a substantial painting in months. He would return to Spring Street refreshed.
How could she have imagined that he would never again call New York City his home?
In the windowless archive room of the whaling museum, Bea looked up from the drawings at a mounted harpoon on the wall. Next to it, a display of maritime art. She thought of the book in the case in the front room,Moby-Dick.The greatest whaling story of all time.
What story are you trying to tell me, Henry?
“Now, this is the way to live!”
Penny was in the pool, and her dad sat in the same chair where her mother had lounged just a day before. But the house felt different with her dad there. Somehow it felt more like her own. “You’ve got the pool, a view of the bay. What more could you ask for?” he said.
When they’d first walked inside, he’d let out a low whistle. “This place has got to be worth a fortune,” he said. “Explain to me again how you knew this guy?”
Penny told him about meeting Henry in the lobby of the hotel and how that had turned into weekly art lessons. She’d introduced Henry to the whole graphic-novel thing, and they decided to write their own. “But I haven’t worked on it at all since he died. I just can’t focus. And it doesn’t feel the same. What’s the point? There’s no one to show it to when I’m done.”
But by that time, it was clear her dad had tuned her out. He walked from room to room, examining the art and the furniture. She stood next to him in the dining room, staring out at the pool.
“What do you think?” she said. He’d turned very quiet.
After a pause, he’d looked down at her and said, “I think we should go swimming.”
So now Penny was in the cold pool, waiting to warm up like she had yesterday. Her father was busy on his phone but said he’d jump in soon. Penny floated on her back, watching a cloud drift over the sun. She closed her eyes and tried to luxuriate in the perfection of the moment, but something wasn’t right. When she let this feeling take shape, she recognized that it had something to do with her mom and the fact that her mom would not be happy to know she was at the house with her father. She didn’t know why her mother would be upset, but she felt certain she would. It was another example of her not doing something truly wrong but still wrong enough that it put herself and her mother at odds.
“Dad,” she called out, holding on to the edge of the pool.
“Be right there.”
“Dad, I need to ask you something.”
He looked up from his phone. “What’s up?”
“Can you not tell Mom about coming here today?”
Her dad smiled. “It will be our little secret.”
