Good Harbor

“The tattoos, right? Did it suck?”

“Yes. But I don’t want to talk about that either. Tell me what’s going on with you.”

They left their shoes next to the green trash barrels at the end of the bridge and headed over the tidal plain to the water’s edge. The last tide had sculpted the beach into a wavy pattern made of tiny crenellated dunes; each one held a scrap of blue sky reflected in warm water.

A pair of gulls swooped overhead and skimmed the shoreline until they found a spot to their liking and started strutting, on the lookout, as always, for food.

“Is the tide coming in or going out?” asked Joyce.

“Going out,” Kathleen said.

“It’s such an undramatic difference at this point. You have to be really tuned in to know it.”

Kathleen laughed and said the only reason she knew was because Buddy had told her. She turned the talk to Joyce. What was new? How was the house? Was she writing? What was for supper?

“I have no idea what we’re eating,” Joyce said. “I’m going to paint the kitchen a very strange color. I’m not writing at all. But I do have tidings of strange goings-on with my Virgin Mary.”

“Your what?”

“I didn’t tell you about her yet?’’

Joyce described the statue: her surprising height, the detailed pleats in the veil, the way her hands stretched out as if she were inviting the flowers to grow. Frank had been too busy to come up and get rid of it. This was his first time in Gloucester since the weekend they’d met at temple.

In the meantime, her Virgin had spawned a mystery. “A few weeks ago, she sprouted a crown of plastic flowers on her head. Then someone left a pot of marigolds at her feet. So I figured I’d better try to move her myself. I rooted around a little, but the cement goes way down, much further than I could dig with a trowel. We’re going to have to hire someone to take her out.

“Today, I found a bunch of lilacs lying next to her. Now I’m wondering if we’ve got a local shrine on our hands.”

Joyce felt shy about asking her neighbors what to do with the statue. She couldn’t even get up the nerve to ask the two guys who lived next door, even though they always smiled and said hi when they walked their golden retriever.

“So how do I deep-six the Mother of God without pissing off the whole block or starting a pogrom?”

Kathleen laughed. The sound pleased Joyce immensely.

“I think you might want to call in a priest,” said Kathleen.

“I don’t need an exorcism, do I?” Joyce said in mock horror. “Her head isn’t spinning around or anything like that.”

“Oh, no. I just think you might need help in getting the BVM out of there respectfully.”

“The BMW?”

“Blessed Virgin Mary,” Kathleen said. “Try the priest over at St. Rita’s.”

“I’ve always wondered about Saint Rita. Is she the patron saint of waitresses or meter maids or what?”

Kathleen laughed again. “There’s a million saints I’ve never heard of, but I’m pretty sure Saint Rita is the patron of matrimonial trouble.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I really think so. Whoever she was, St. Rita’s is near your house, so that’s the parish priest to contact.”

“Okay then. I’ll call him.”

Kathleen stopped and faced out to sea. Her right hand shaded her eyes and then she pointed to the horizon. “He’s out late.”

“He?”

“The sailboat.”