Free Outerbridge Reach by Robert Stone Page A

at the corner of route 9, waiting to turn north, away from the city. Mrs. Manning was driving one of them. She put her window down.
    â€œIsn’t it great?” she called. “It’s on the National Register of Historic Places.”
    â€œHow about that,” Strickland said.
    â€œHow do you like the project?” she shouted, shifting into gear. “Think you’ll take it on?”
    â€œIt does look like fun,” Strickland told her.

7
    W ALKING to the gate for the morning
Times,
Anne found the previous day’s snow disappearing from the lawn. Though it was still a few minutes before sunrise, the air was gentle and earth-scented. She picked up the paper and stood for a moment, looking toward the light that was breaking over the Sound.
    Back in the kitchen, she heard him stirring upstairs, accompanying himself with a tuneless whistling that she knew was a measure of his unease. On some days he would seem driven by a kind of shadow energy, working at home for hours over dummy sheets and manuals with a stolid absorption she found impenetrable. Others he passed aimlessly, ending up in a book or listening to music. Sometimes he would quickly, almost suddenly, fall asleep in a chair. He was wakeful at night.
    Over the long weeks of winter, Anne had come to realize how little her husband had bothered to make their house really his own. It was extraordinary, she thought, after so many years. His meandering presence there seemed vaguely awkward, as though he were continually about to apologize for being in the wrong room.
    The
Times
’s front page was all White House intrigue and child murder; she decided, for that morning at least, the news was more than she could bear. In the Living section she found the tidings of a good-humored and sophisticated world that seemed altogether unavailable.
    â€œOwen,” she called up to him. “Can I make you something?”
    â€œNo thanks,” he said after a moment.
    â€œYou will eat something, won’t you?”
    â€œSure,” he said.
    Then she had to dress for work, rushing for the eight-twenty train to Grand Central. Her work required her presence in Manhattan at least three times a week. Headed for the back door, she saw him at the kitchen table, hunched over a cup of black coffee. She could not bring herself to simply pass.
    â€œGoing to the shop?” she asked.
    He looked up at her so forlornly that she wanted to cry. There was no time.
    â€œOh, shit,” she said. “I have to go!”
    â€œGo,” he said. He made a fist and shook it in mock encouragement. “Go, go.”
    â€œOwen,” she said. “Buck up, old sport.”
    He looked at her again and got to his feet and put a hand on her cheek.
    On the train, she worried about the money. At home she forced herself not to mention the subject but it caused her considerable anxiety. They had succeeded in meeting the margin calls, cashing in some retirement accounts and some of their best investments. They had saved the house on Steadman’s Island by refinancing it. A considerable debt remained to them.
    One of the specters haunting Altan Marine was the state of its parent company, the Hylan Corporation. Creditors were pressing Hylan, which had owned Altan for over ten years. Its colorful and mysterious chief executive officer, Matty Hylan, was unavailable to the press. At the Altan branch, some scattered panic selling generated commissions to provide for the short run. Most owners with boats to sell could afford to wait for spring. A few salesmen were let go. Owen, the company scribe, had a fairly secure position. Nevertheless, making her way through the crowds under the starry vault of the terminal, Anne decided to call her father.
    Most of
Underway
magazine’s staff worked from home so there were only a few people in the office most days. That Wednesday she found John Magowan, the elderly editor, and a young woman from Kelly Girl who was filling in