Momma? Are you here, Momma? Have you come to be with your Beauty?

No. Wherever Momma is, she's not at the SeaHarp. She's gone to a place I should have gone to first. She's already seen things I never have. But we can be together again! Can't we?

If I want to be with her, I have to leave the Cinderella dream. I don't think I'm ready for that yet. I'm afraid. I love the springtime, and I'm so afraid of winter.

But I have my answer now. I know what time it is. Annie told me: it's time to leave here. It's time to go on.

Maybe I will. Maybe. But if you were to take a dream and put sugar frosting on it, you'd have the SeaHarp. Do all dreams have to end at midnight? Do they?

My head hurts. I get tired real easy. I want to rest in the blue sheets, and I want to hear the Bay crash against the rocks. I want to dream of pink dresses, a dozen roses, and a sign that said Welcome, Beauty. Maybe my Momma will find me in that dream. Maybe she's waiting for me there, and if I hurry we can go together.

But the SeaHarp holds me. It's so full of light and beau-ty, so full of dreams. Can't I stay here, just a little whilelonger?

I need to rest. Mr. Clancy will be waiting, at the elevator. He is the master of his little square of the SeaHarp, just as I am the mistress of mine. Tomorrow is the first day of spring. I am sixteen years old, there will be fresh-cut flowers in the crystal vases, and all the world will be beautiful.

SERVICES RENDERED.

by Bryan Webb

The "Betty" caught the breeze. All hands looked aloft as the lines creaked and the square sails rustled and rose against the spars.

The lookout on the fore-mast called down, "A breeze, Captain, quartering abaft the starboard beam."

Captain Jeptha Collins had heard the lines moan, and watched the sails swell with the gentle breeze. He called back, "Aye, mate. Now, let's see if she'll move."

Not enough wind to move this scow, he thought. She's down to the mark. Last time out for this old relic, but by God her tanks were full of whale oil. He'd show those Boston bankers that a man with a good crew could still make money in an obsolete ship named for his wife.

Not that they cared. Not with the Depression in full swing. Not in 1937. He'd divide the shares among the hands, and pay the rest toward the note. Nothing for him. When was that new? Screw 'em. The ship was lost to the times, and some lines on a piece of paper. He'd known it to be a voyage of futility when they'd set sail fourteen months ago. Just one last time. To show 'em he still could.

"A hole in the fog, Captain. Ten degrees to port," called the lookout.

"Aye," he answered. Then softer, "Steer to port, ten de-grees."

. "Aye, Captain," answered the helmsman. The wheel eased left, but the "Betty" did not to respond. She needed more headway.

The dense autumn fog shrouded the New England coast like an undertaker's sheet, covering the living and the dead alike. They were closed in by the dank, smothering cloud with only a little slanting light from the coming sun. And less hope, he thought.

And so quiet. The sails rustled and the lines moaned softly, but no sound came of the hull moving through the water. The feet of unseen men moved across the deck in soft patters. The ship's cat purred beside the binnacle, licking its breakfast paws.

Nothing else. What had he expected of this last homecom-ing to Greystone Bay? A parade? Most likely the damned bankers in their black suits would be on the docks waiting, like so many vultures glaring down at a salt-sick cow.

"A whale. A whale! There she rolls, dead ahead." The lookout's cry caught the men up, but they were not prepared for it. The whaling was done. For them, and for the ship.

"A right whale. Full sixty feet. A big one, Captain."

Collins thought quickly. No need for this whale. And a right, not a sperm. But hell, what's one more to the sea?

"Longboat over the starboard side. Harpoon crew to sta-tions," he called out through cupped hands.

The helmsman asked, "Where you gonna flense it, Skip-per? We're close by home port as it is, and the tanks are already full."The Captain pierced his seaman with a glare as sharp as his whaling lance. "We'll lash it alongside, and tow it in. If those old copper pots still hold oil we'll try out the blubber on the beach."

This one was for him. No harpoon cannon for this last whale. He'd take this one the old way, with longboat and lances. And the money from this oil would go into his ac-count. To hell with the bankers.

The helmsman said, "Kinda risky in a longboat in this fog . . ."

Jeptha Collins did not answer as he walked forward. No. This one was for him. This was his whale.

The men lowered the longboat. They strained at the oars, and it surged through the water with each splashing. The "Betty" faded astern into the fogbank.

The right whale was just ahead, blowing softly at the sur-face.

"She's got a calf, Captain. There alongside her."

"I don't want its damned calf. Just the whale. Take the tiller, Mason, I'm going forward."

Collins stepped eagerly between the oarsmen's legs, and braced himself in the bow. He hoisted the old harpoon, and gazed into the dark water. There she was. An old right whale. Maybe as old as he. Maybe forty-four. And the faint outline of the young calf beyond, nudged into her side.

"Easy now, men. Don't bump her, but get close. We'll stick this last one for old time's sake."

He rose up, arms outstretched, and rammed the lance into the whale with all the strength born of his frustration and fear for tomorrow.

The giant, dark head reared back in pain and blew bloody water onto the men. It arched back under, and the flukes rose behind them like black sails on some devil ship. The line between his legs whizzed out, and gray smoke, heavy with the smell of burning hemp, flared his nostrils.

The whale's run was not deep, and short. The Nantucket sleighride ended when the dead whale neaped on the rocky shore of Blind Point. And the men cheered, "We're home. She brung us home."

At the tiller again, Captain Jeptha Collins looked back into the fog, and saw the water rise in a small, dark hump. The calf. It rolled, and turned aside. A low-fixed eye peered at him from just beneath the black water, and the young whale squalled.

"To hell with you," he muttered. And the bankers, too, he thought. This was his whale.

Peter Collins stopped the rental car in front of the SeaHarp Hotel, leaned back, and smiled. Just as he remembered it.

But why not? The whole town was the same, except for a few more factories he'd passed on his way in, and a few more homes. Harbor Road-what he could see of it-seemed caught up by time, no different than the dim childhood memories of a seven-year-old.

How long had that been? 1940 when he and Mom had left Greystone Bay after Dad's death. Forty-eight years. And no changes ...

"Help with your bags, sir?"

"Huh? Oh, yes." The words had been soft, but right in his ear. He was embarrassed by his startled reaction. Silly.

But he'd drifted away for a moment, back to a time before World War II had begun, when mourning for Captain Jeptha Collins was still new and painful.

"They're in the trunk."

The intruder turned and walked toward the back of the car, but seemed to be looking at the ground, watching for snags that might snare his short steps. He was as thin as a reed. Peter looked down at the bellman's hand as he tendered the keys. It looked like a map with blue lines, the tendons ex-tended ridges from wrist to knuckles. The old man's head and shoulders were stooped, his white hair hidden beneath a gray cap that matched the coat and trousers.

"Is that you, Mister Jim?" Peter asked.

"Yes, I always was. And how do you know me?" The old man leaned back so he could look up at this visitor. Paleblue eyes met Peter's, and scraggly white eyebrows shaded those eyes in puzzlement. Then, the eyebrows rose like two crest-ing waves.

"You're a Collins, aren't you? Jeptha Collins' boy? You're the spittin' image of him."

"Yes, I'm Peter. I haven't been back to Greystone Bay since Mom and I left when I was seven."

"Well, welcome home, Peter Collins. What brings you back to this washed-up old place?"

"I'm not sure, Mister Jim. I just had an urge to see it again." And that was the truth. He hadn't been able to ex-plain to his wife the feeling that had come over him. To see it all one more time. To come back home? Maybe. But he knew he had to see this childhood place again, the mulberry bush he hid in when Jamie Barlowe was on the prowl, the elementary school where he'd learned to fight with his fists, and the small harbor that had greeted his father for the last time one foggy morning so long ago.

He was embarrassed to let the frail old man carry his suit-cases up the steps to the hotel. But to deny him that would be to deny the old man himself. So he just smiled, and let Mister Jim lead the way while he fished in his billfold for three dollars. More than it's worth, but being recognized by the first person he'd talked to today was a bonus he hadn't expected. No homecoming parade, but it would do.

He lingered on the porch, gazing out at the bay, afternoon green water marked by a light chop from the breeze. The oak trees on the front lawn were a brilliant red. He hadn't for-gotten the glories of fall in Greystone Bay.

He pulled open the door and stepped into the lobby, the wall's rich paneling darkened by age. The faint aroma of a man's pipe still lingered in the air as he walked to the regis-tration desk. Oriental rugs muffled his steps, but the colored designs were worn thin by a million crossings. Worn down like this old hotel, and this old town.

The receptionist looked up from her papers. "Welcome home, Mr. Collins. I'm Noreen Montgomery." She extended her hand in friendship. "Welcome back to Greystone Bay."

She must have learned of his identity from the bellman. His name had brought no hint of recognition from her when he'd registered by phone.

"Thank you, Ms. Montgomery." Peter began filling out the form she offered. Funny old family. Montgomerys had operated the SeaHarp since the turn of the century. It was the only thing they knew.

"Is Simon still running things?" he asked while filling in the boxes.

"No, he passed away a few years ago. We children are holding on. Don't know why." She looked up as the grand-father clock struck five, then glanced down at her wristwatch to confirm the ancient timepiece. "Don't know what else to do, I guess. How long will you be with us, Mr. Collins?" She poised her pen to write.

"I'm not sure. Couple of days, maybe. Until I'm done." Done with what? It wasn't as if he were here on business. He had no business in Greystone Bay. How long? He didn't know. Until it was over.

"Well, you stay as long as you like. I'm giving you room 202. It has a beautiful view of the bay. I think you'll like that."

"Thank you, Ms. Montgomery. That's very nice."

Mister Jim was posted by the open elevator with Peter's bags inside. Only one flight, but he'd already lugged them up the front steps. The safety gate creaked behind Peter as he stepped in.

"Be serving dinner in the dining room soon. It's quite good." The old man stood as straight as he could as he op-erated the elevator, his pride in the place, and his work, ob-vious.

Peter looked at a yellowing placard to his left, promoting the hotel's food. It said, "Our goal is to make you a most enjoyable dinner." For whom? he thought.

The old man opened the door to room 202, and dragged the luggage across the carpet to the closet. With a grunt he hoisted the largest bag onto a bench, and stationed the smaller suitcase alongside.

"Can I bring you some ice, or something from the bar, sir?"

"Yes. How about some Cutty Sark on the rocks?" He handed the tip to the bellman, and smiled."Very good, sir." Peter turned toward the windows, and heard the door close softly behind him as Mister Jim went on his errand.

He'd always liked that scotch. Not the best by any means. But it had a picture of a sailing ship on it. Sort of like his father's.

He stood at the window, leaning forward with his hands against the frames. He looked up at Harbor Road as far as he could see, and then out at the bay. There were four tall ships, berthed close together, hulls dark with age. Their masts pointed up at odd angles, lines dangled in disarray, and their sagging spars reminded him of empty crosses.

Relics of a forgotten time. Tools for forgotten men.

He noticed that it was much darker now, but it was not late enough in the day for that. Then he saw the fogbank rolling in from the sea. Was it real? It had crept up on him while his back was turned. Just there the water mounded darkly, and a large, rounded shape pushed a small wave ahead of it. A chill ran through him, and he trembled. He shook his hand in the air as if to cast off the dark illusion. The black form disappeared beneath the surface, and its small wave angled toward the shore. He stared in wonder at the spot. Had he really seen something?

It rose again. Much closer this time, as if it rode the mist. Larger and blacker. A gigantic mouth parted the shape.

The head rose higher above the wave, and he saw an eye, low alongside the strangely smiling mouth. . He heard a knocking and quickly turned away from the dark vision. He opened the door, and Mister Jim was smiling in the hallway, an old-fashioned glass balanced carefully on a small silver tray.

"Ah, that was quick," Peter said. The bellman stepped into the room. Peter took the drink off the little tray, and took a long swallow.

"Can you add this to my tab?"

"Of course, sir." The old man looked deep into Peter's eyes, A faint frown crossed his face and he said, "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Uh, I think I just saw a whale. Is that possible?''

The bellman raised an eyebrow. "Not really, sir. The whales have been gone from these waters for a long time. You should know. Your father sailed the last whaling ship out of Greystone Bay back before the war. That's her there." The old man went to the window and pointed. "The second one in that row of four. His ship's never moved since the day he lost it to the bank. Same with those others. Not much use now. All rotten. But the tourists like to take pictures."

Peter wondered what the old man remembered of his fa-ther's last voyage on the ' 'Betty.'' About that last whale? He had heard the story, of course, from his mother. Often. But somehow he'd sensed that she had not told him everything, as if a seven-year-old boy could not understand such things.

He had been confused and frightened by his father's grow-ing depressions. A dark gloom had consumed the man, and made him older. Times had been hard with his ship lost, but there seemed to be more to it than that, more than the loss of money.

Their little house enjoyed a wonderful view of the bay, but Jeptha Collins never looked out upon the sea again. He sat in the living room, slumped in his favorite chair, a bottle standing on the rug near his limp hand. The room was dimly lit by sunlight intruding through the drawn curtains.

Peter crossed to the front wall, pulled back a drape, then another. Light streamed into the room. He looked out beyond the front porch, and gazed at silver water dancing in the sunshine.

"Don't do that again." His father's voice was firm, but muffled, and the words came slowly. "Close the curtains."

The boy did as he was told. He stood for a while in the darkened room, and stared at the back of the unlined curtain.

Outside there was light, and the bay. He knew it was all still there, just blotted out. His compulsion to see it again forced him to pull one curtain aside a little, and put his head into the gap. Just to look out, to see the bay.

His father's blow struck him from behind, the clenched fist hitting his shoulder with great force. Then the man sat down again, and stared at the floor.

Peter fought back the tears. He ran to the porch, then down the steps and onto the narrow footpath that led to the rocky shore. There he sat on his heels, and stared at the water for hours. He watched the boats moving across theharbor, and listened to their sounds. He watched crabs scurrying side-ways just beneath the surface. The world around him slipped away as he was lost into another world of water, and salt, and strange creatures operating under different rules. He did not rise until he heard his mother's voice calling, "Dinner."

The old bellman coughed. He was saying something. What? Answering Peter's question.

"Town talk is all I know, Mr. Collins. Odd story. They were almost home when they spotted this whale in the fog.

They put a boat over the side and he speared it right outside the harbor. That whale pulled them right up onto the beach over there, near Blind Point." The old man pointed into the fog, as if he could see that distant spit of land and rocks through the fog.

"Is that all?" Was there nothing else?

The bellman's brow furrowed. "Well, there was some talk that whale had a calf, but nobody mentioned it much.

Maybe that part's not true. Just sailor's talk mixed with beer. Will that be all, sir? I must help in the dining room."