Cape Cod Noir - By David L Ulin Page 0,28

was talking about it.

Aunt Christine and Mom are looking away from the camera and away from each other. Mom might be staring at the ashtray she has filled. Liz has her hand in front of her face, and Ronnie, never quite the exhibitionist anyway, his face is a blank. He’d been like that since the morning of Dad’s black eye, which was the same morning I told him about the big fight back home and Mom kicking the window out.

They’re pissed off at me for taking a stupid picture of the table. Or maybe they were all thinking about Dad, and asking themselves why he had to make a call from the pay phone three booths over.

17.

Check out this shot. This was the small private beach for our little Depot Street/Sunset Lane association, a patch of steeply sloped sand next to the big Ocean House restaurant. When it was high tide, it wasn’t even really a beach, more like a dune, or a cliff of sand. I went to that beach today and I don’t know if it’s because of erosion or my memory exaggerating everything, but there’s barely a discernable slope there now.

Ronnie spent our second-to-last day of vacation running and jumping off the steep slope, catching major air, and crashing knee-deep into the sand at the bottom. He jumped so much, he had raspberries on his legs after.

I did it with him a few times, but the landing hurt my ankles. It was too steep. I went off to the side and climbed the base of a rock jetty, and asked what he thought was going on with Dad. He said, “I don’t know.” I asked if he was going to get up wicked early with me to follow him on his jog. He said, “I don’t know.” That was it. He jumped, climbed back up, and jumped.

This is a great shot of Ronnie in mid-jump, arms extended behind him, feet out in front, eyes closed. You look at this long enough, you start to expect him to land.

18.

There isn’t much to see in this one, right? Too dark.

I woke up to the sound of the front screen door shutting. It bounced in the frame, hinges squeaking. That door is still squeaking as far as I’m concerned. It was dark out, but I didn’t look at a clock, didn’t wake Ronnie or anyone else. Just threw on my sneakers, grabbed my camera off the nightstand, and ran outside.

It was a cloudy night, and I couldn’t see the moon or any stars. I didn’t see Dad anywhere, and I was worried that I’d been too slow. The streets were empty, and so were the beaches and the restaurant parking lots. I headed toward the Cokebottle motel and didn’t see him there either. But that room he usually went to, the motel door was wide open, and inside the lights were off. I ran as quietly as I could across Old Wharf, then through the parking lot to another section of the motel just to the right of the open door. I crept up to it with my back pressed against the motel wall, camera held out. I was going to walk by the open door, snap a picture, and bolt.

Then I heard something. It sounded far away, like it had been carried in by the ocean. It was someone crying. I knew it was Dad, even if I’d never heard him like that before.

I ran to the motel beach but didn’t see anything, so I worked my way back to the Ocean House, and to our little private beach with its steep slope and rock jetty. I ducked behind the jetty as I found him. Only he wasn’t alone. Another man was leading him into the water.

It was too dark to see details, but I think there was a bag over Dad’s head. The other guy had something in his hand, a gun maybe. I don’t know. It was low tide, and they were walking way out there, past the jetty already, but only waist-deep in water.

I didn’t know what to do, so I took a picture. I don’t know if either of them saw the flash.

I didn’t see the end either. It was too dark and they were too far out. Only the other man came back to the beach. I ducked behind the jetty again. He walked by, just a few feet away, on the other side of the rocks. I heard him breathing heavily.

I don’t remember