Marigolds, Ch 4

4

Johnna and I had agreed we’d spend this weekend in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, an attractive old New England seaport city half way between Boston and Portland. We planned to travel separately freeing me to spend the day in Portland before doubling back down the coast. Johnna would take the Massachusetts Turnpike from Springfield to Interstate 495 north, more northeast, to Portsmouth. She’d arrive at our bed and breakfast at dinner. I would return from Portland at the same time. Linked by cell phones, we had a solid plan, all in all.

The next morning, in vivid sunshine, I descended Admiral’s Hill. As I drove north on Route 1, I marveled at the tenacity, if that were the right word, of the Boston-bound drivers on the other side of the Jersey barriers. Many thousands of them left the comfort of their beds, the promise of their showers and the rattle and hum of their families or their TVs much earlier than the distance they needed to cover would dictate only to sit in a three-lane bottleneck grimacing at one another. I toasted them with my green tea.

North to Portland includes New Hampshire’s fifteen miles or so of coastline. I got off 95 in Seabrook, coastal New Hampshire’s southernmost town and meandered up the shore on US Route 1. Window down sipping my tea, I admired the roadside tattoo parlors, the ramshackle fireworks stores and the brilliance of the day. Someone needs to tell the proprietors of these businesses that hand-painted signs even with all their exclamation points do not inspire confidence in either product. But I digress.

Twenty-five minutes later I was crossing the eastern extension of the Great Bay, the Piscataqua River, into Maine. It’s a truly lovely seaside vista, especially if you find nuclear power plants and their saggy webs of buzzing high-tension lines attractive.

In Eliot, Maine I was back on 95. I wanted no part of the outlet mall traffic I would encounter on Route 1. It was less than an hour up 95 to Portland; the largest port in the eastern US north of Boston.

The gentle southeastern slope that is the city’s intersection with Casco Bay and the Fore River ends at Commercial Street. Driving past the ferry terminal that connects Yarmouth Nova Scotia, due east of Portland, I parked at the foot of Widgery Wharf. I had parked near here the day I found Ivana Grdesic. Widgery Wharf is a difficult name to forget.

Walking northeast, I crossed Commercial Street between two idling trucks awaiting their cargo of fish. This portion of Commercial Street is cobble-stoned and treacherous when covered with fish truck flotsam. I shortened my stride.

The condos on and adjacent to wharfs and piers cover an acre or so. Some were on terra firma and some stood on stilts fanning out into the bay. Around a corner of weathered cedar shingles from the window that once framed Ivana Grdesic, I knocked on a door. I leaned back to see the draperies sowly part and quickly close. The room was dark behind them. I knocked again.

“I am leaving my business card in your door. I would like to ask you some questions about a woman who was here recently. Her name is Ivana Grdesic.” I chose ‘is’ instead of ‘was.’ “I am the man who found her here and I am not comfortable with what I have done. Call me, please, if you would like to talk. I’ll be in the city all day.”