Muddy Waters

by Ellis Quinn

  “I’m glad you decided to come,” she said, and ruffled Drew’s hair. But then thought about what he’d said. He said last night he’d only been here but one time before. Of course, one time was enough, she supposed, to formulate memories. He didn’t need to live here nineteen years and grow up, face all kinds of challenges and obstacles in order for the place to have an effect on your soul. She would bet somebody visiting only one time could have long lasting memories.

  Pete leaned close again and now asked her, “I was thinking what you said about that other woman who was killed, how she just lived down the street.”

  “Oh, yeah? Do you remember seeing something or was there—”

  “No, nothing like that at all,” he said, “it’s just so . . . This is such a double tragedy.” His voice went breathy and pained.

  “Sure is,” she agreed. “Really, it’s a triple tragedy.”

  “Triple?” He paused with the cocoa near his mouth and looked aside at her.

  She leaned close and whispered, “The other woman who was killed, her name is Julie, she was such a sweetheart. I mean a real sweetheart from what I understand. You can’t find a single person who’d say something bad about her. She was reclusive, talented—”

  “What’s the triple tragedy?”

  She said, “Julie was three months pregnant.”

  Brian’s eyes stayed in her direction, not meeting her gaze. He contemplated what she said, then shook his head. She wondered if he was ready for details like that. Wondered if he was ready for anything when he was trying to help his son through his wife’s death. What she told him seemed to burden him. He shook his head again, raised the cocoa, but changed his mind and holding it at his waist. His eyes were on the water, not on the fishermen but on the lapping waves between the two crab boats. “That’s terrible,” he sighed. “Terrible, but . . . Maybe that’s a blessing, too.”

  “Blessing how?”

  “The little boy—little baby—wouldn’t want to grow up without its mother.”

  His cheeks reddened, and now he was lost in a grievous fog. She raised her hand, but took a moment before she committed to touching his arm and gripping it lightly. She stroked her hand up and down. Pete shook his head once more, lips slightly parted, that same vacant look he had in the Bronco last night drawing down his features, relaxing his brow, emptying his insides of their humanity. She watched his lower lip quiver, and then he clamped the top row of his teeth to steady it. He looked her way, let his lip plop free. “I’m so sorry—what I said . . . That must sound so terrible, I’m so sorry . . .”

  “Don’t be sorry,” she said, and patted his arm. She put her hands in her pockets, but Pete was still embarrassed.

  He said, “I think I should go. I think I . . . Hey buddy”—he patted his son’s back—“Daddy’s feeling a little tired. Let’s head back to the room for a little spell, okay? You can play one of your games, or, hey, want me to rent you some movies for your tablet?”

  Drew looked up. “But the fishermen, Daddy.”

  “We’ll come back,” he said. “I swear we’ll come back.”

  Bette patted Drew’s back and said, “Maybe mind your daddy today. I don’t think he’s feeling well. Let him have a nap, and if you’re good and you bug him enough, maybe y’all can come to my place and play on the beach with Buster Crab.”

  The opposite of his father, Drew’s features expanded instead of shrank. His eyes widened until they were almost perfect circles. A gentle gleam lit up his bright brown eyes. He emitted the tiniest gasp. Now she rubbed Drew’s arm and said, “It’s up to your dad. Maybe if you let him have a nap, he’ll be up to it.”

  Drew looked up to Pete and said questioningly, “Daddy?”

  “Back to the room first, buddy,” he said. “Go back and lay down, you can play your games, maybe we’ll give Ms. Whaley here a call a little later.”

  “Bette,” she reminded him and stood.

  “Bette, you’ve been a rock through all of this. I don’t know if I can even explain to you what it means having met someone like you at this time that’s so . . .” His trembling eyes wandered down to his son, and he left his sentence incomplete. She understood and nodded.

  She gave Pete her phone number, and said, “Take care, get some rest. If you need anything, just let me know. I’ll watch Drew, I’ll bring you lunch, dinner . . . whatever you need.”

  “Thanks again,” Pete said, and looked to Drew. Drew looked to her again and said, “Thank you, Miss Whaley. Bette, I mean.”

  “I’ll see you around, Drew,” she said and watched them walk away from the throng gathered around the fishing boats, back up the gravel trail that would lead out of the old seaport. She’d already seen the crabbing exposition, so now she took her hands out of her pockets, gave them thirty seconds head start before she followed their way, going back up the gravel path heading toward the busy town center.

  Drew and Pete were ahead of her, about to crest the hill where the quaint Victorian homes began when she saw coming her way another heartwarming sight. Sam, his longish hair bouncing behind him, washed, like he’d spent a good hour in her shower this morning. Some of the pallid demeanor had been scrubbed from his features, and he looked more like a young man of twenty-two with open possibilities ahead of him.

  He saw her coming and waved to her with friendly enthusiasm. She waved back.

  Pete and Drew were passing by him, just where the sidewalks began again. They looked at each other for a moment, continued by, then both of them looked shocked and wheeled around. Pete looked at Sam, and Sam looked at Pete. Sam put up his hands pleadingly, and Pete’s face twisted into a grimacing mask of rage. The cocoa cup he held in his right hand fell to his feet. The lid popped off and hot chocolate spouted out in a creamy brown geyser. That right hand cocked back and Pete followed through with a wallop that parted Sam’s upheld hands and smacked him in the face.

  Drew burst into tears, dropped his own cocoa cup and hurled little round fists into his eye sockets. Pete stood ready, hands in tight fists, glowering balefully at Sam, who stumbled back a step, bewildered, then fell backward to the ground in a heavy thump.

  SECONDS LATER

  A giant crab, more than a head taller than anyone else, scrambled through the gathering crowd. Its enormous claws led the way, parting the shocked onlookers while Pete Headley took a step toward Sam, seated on the ground, raising up a spread out hand in surrender. The crab burst free from the group with authoritative determination; from his sides, long, articulated locomotor legs bobbed, and he stood with two black clad legs and boots planted wide, shimmying and struggling.

  Pete paused his advance on prostrate Sam to regard this sudden odd and unexpected spectacle.

  At last, the crab’s struggling ceased, and two thick and muscular human arms were pulled free of the crab costume’s pincer clause, while the spiny side legs of the costume still jittered and swayed. The two shiny black-ball eyes sticking up from the head on antennae rolled comically. A booming voice from within the blue foam costume shouted with the command: “Stop! Police!”

  Now, hearing the voice, it was clear Jason Mitchum—six-and-a-half foot tall cop and strongman competitor—was inside the crab costume. Pete had halted his advance on Sam, who’d raised his hands, ready to comply. Bette had been transfixed by the spectacle but now darted on fast-moving sneaker feet to protect Drew, who’d burst into tears.

  Stacy popped free of the crowd, stumbling forward and stooping to snatch up Drew—who she probably figured could be the at-risk centerpiece of a domestic dispute playing out on the grassy patch of the historic seaport. Stacy rose with Drew clinging to her chest, one arm hugging him tight, the other hand spread out in support on his small back, while Jason lurched forward to get between Sam and Pete. The crowd of tourists all held the same wowed expression, almost all of them holding up their phones to film this bizarre scene.

  With Drew safe, and Jason Mitchum corralling the now compliant Pete, Bette trotted to Sam, who was struggli
ng to his feet. She went to him, laying a hand on his back, and checking the damage to his face. Sam’s head hung low, a hand to his mouth and nose, hair falling forward in thick sandy waves. Blood seeped between his fingers, the fingers still showing the faded smudges of ink.

  “You okay, Sam? What the heck was that?”

  Sam didn’t answer, shaking his head and grimacing, lurching away from the scene of the assault.

  Stacy called out to her: “Bette, you got him?”

  With her hand still on Sam’s back, she turned to see Stacy with Drew hugging to her, her arms around him. Behind Stacy, Jason marched Pete through the crowd which parted for the huge cop in a crab costume. He held Pete by the back of the neck, the pincers and crab legs knocked at all angles from the rough interaction.

  She shouted to Stacy: “I got him. How is Drew?”

  Stacy didn’t answer but hugged Drew tighter and showed Bette a sympathetic scrunching of her pretty features. “I’ll take care of him, we’ll get him down to the station. Marcus’ll be here in a minute. You hang tight?”

  “Yeah, I got him,” she said, then turned to see Sam had stalked off without her. She waved to Stacy and trotted to catch up with Sam, leaving her question why Jason was dressed like a crab to be asked at another time. “Sam, Sam,” she called, catching up to him and laying a hand on his back again. “Let me get a look at your nose.”

  “I’m fine, Bette, I’m fine,” he murmured into his bloodied hand.

  “Come on and let me see, Sam, let me be the judge of that.”

  She walked Sam away from the dispersing onlookers, across the grass and toward a boat plopped on the land as a tourist exhibition. Fifty years ago, when the Maritime Museum had been founded, one of the first exhibits was this 19th century crabber boat. The hull had rotted, so it was hauled onto dry land, the hull cutaway and laid to rest as a feature. The boat sat on the grass like the land was the water line, the gunwale about seven-feet up, with ramps lined by handrails as access for visitors. One night when she was seventeen, she and some of the gang from high school had snuck onto the grounds and when Marcus found out, he’d come down here to advise her it wasn’t a good idea, Marcus Seabolt a man of law and order even at seventeen. He’d taken her aside to give her a good talking to, and it was here on this old iron crab boat, the two of them squeezed into the tight sardine can of the boat’s pilothouse that she and Marcus had first touched their lips together.

  “Sam, come on and set your butt down here on the steps,” she said, guiding him to the rear of the boat where the back had been cut away and a sturdy set of iron steps welded on.

  “I’m okay, Bette,” he hissed, angry, but then apologizing. “I’m sorry,” he said, softer, “I’m sorry, but I’m fine.”

  “He hit you a good one. Let me take a look at you.” She got two supportive hands on him, trying to calm him, but he shrugged out of her clutch and paced from front to back alongside the crab boat. He shook his head and spoke angrily to himself, but she couldn’t make out the words. His hands fell to his sides and as he strutted up and down in anxious lines, those hands balled into fists and struck against his legs.

  She let him work back and forth for a while before she slipped in to snap out of it, keeping pace beside him, hand on him once more, then slowing. Sam slowed with her. As he slowed, a calmness settled on her, making her realize how his erratic, frenzied behavior just now had alarmed her.

  “Hey,” she said in a quiet voice, “come sit with me. Okay? Sit and we’ll talk a minute.”

  Sam didn’t answer but walked with her now to the checker-plate stairs that led onto the boat. She sat first, then patted the spot next to her.

  With Sam’s hands away from his face, she could see Pete had punched Sam in the cheek and that it’d swollen already. His nose had been bloodied, too, crimson lines running from both nostrils through the scruff above his upper lip, then smeared on his chin and mouth from where he’d cupped his hand. He cut such a sad and sympathetic figure, her heart went out to him. She searched a jacket pocket, looking for a tissue. “Sam, sit with me,” she urged.

  Sam traced his long hair away from his face and tucked the locks behind his ears, nodding, then turning to lower his butt next to hers on the middle step. They sat in silence and people-watched for a moment. The crowd that had gathered for the fight had broken up and moved on to new entertainment, and the boat where she sat with Sam was unattended, all the festival’s other expositions and exhibitions stealing the attention. It was the two of them alone, sitting on the boat’s steps.

  From her jacket pocket, she produced the wad of napkins Marcus had offered to protect her hands, and. she held them where Sam could see. “Let me take a look at your nose.”

  At last, Sam had calmed enough he turned his face toward hers, eyes looking away, mouth scrunched to one side. She scooted closer and wiped the blood from his chin and mouth, then folded the napkins over and wiped at his nose. He flinched a little when she did, but let her clean him and check to see if Pete broke it.

  “Not broken,” she told him happily.

  “He didn’t hit me in the nose,” he said.

  “The bleeding’s stopped already.” She lay her hands in her lap, the bloody napkins held loosely. “What the heck was that about, Sam? Do you know that man?”

  Sam’s soulful blue eyes turned up to hers. “I don’t want to press charges.”

  “That’s fine. Do you know who he is?”

  “Pete,” Sam said, “Pete Headley.”

  “Why would he hit you like that?”

  That was the wrong question, because now Sam’s features scrunched, and he moved away, attempting to stand. She snatched the back of his T-shirt and yanked him to sit with her. He was sad and frail, and didn’t struggle against her. Now he sat with his elbows on denim knees, face hidden in his hands, breathing heavily into them. His hair hung in tangles around his fingers, and she could see streaks of crimson in some of his curls. She scooted close again and wiped them. Sam let her.

  Pete had spooked Sam. Sam knew Pete, but she had no idea how. As she sat with him, her mind raced to connect hidden dots, but found nothing. When the time seemed right, she asked Pete, “Do you know Pete’s wife?”

  Sam withdrew his hands and turned his face to her. His eyes were wet with tears. “Do you know Pete?”

  “Not really,” she said, shaking her head.

  Sam’s shoulders slumped, and he wove his fingers together, his hands hanging between his knees. He said, “Pete’s married?”

  “He was, yeah. You sound surprised.”

  Sam drew in a long breath and let it out. Bette put a hand on his back to steady him. He had the demeanor of a frightened cat, like one wrong move or one wrong thing said, and he’d scramble the way Ripken did that night Bucky Snead was sneaking around her house in the dark and fell over her garbage bins. “I’m surprised,” he said.

  “Surprised why?”

  With his hand still between his legs, fingers wringing together, Sam said, “Surprised because I never expected him to settle down.”

  “Why not?”

  Sam still looked into the grass ahead of them and shook his head. “Not with the way he was five years ago. Wild.”

  “You haven’t seen him in five years?”

  Something about what she asked stabbed at Sam and he crumpled forward again, his features scrunching up. He said nothing for a while, softly breathing. Her hand rubbed circles on his back, and she could feel the heaving of sobs. He sniffled and wiped his eyes, then sat up. “I haven’t seen him in five years,” he said.

  “What happened between you two?”

  Sam crumpled again, but her hand still made slow circles in the center of his bony back.

  She scooted closer again till their hips touched, and she slunk against him, and put her arms around his shoulders. “Take your time,” she whispered.

  She could feel his head nodding in agreement. He still cried. But soon Sam found the strength, and he raised up again and she let h
im go. Her hand went to his back, and she studied his agonized features.

  “You can tell me,” she whispered.

  Still looking straight ahead, he took a shaky breath and said, “Five years ago . . . Five years ago, I . . . I killed Pete’s sister . . .”

  The last of his words were almost unintelligible, broken up in the soft chuffing sounds of crying. He folded forward again, and she rubbed her hand on his back, squeezed at his collar while Sam still cried. Her heart went out to him, and she could feel the torture that twisted at him.

  That was when her eyes caught the long shadow pooling around their feet. She looked over her shoulder to see a tall figure standing at her side, leaning on the step’s handrail, hands folded together, big cop hat—like a cowboy hat—pushed up off his handsome face.

  She said, “Hey there, Marcus.”

  HALF AN HOUR LATER

  In the kitchen at Whaley’s Fortune, she regarded Marcus, standing tall, one hand on the island’s countertop, the two of them face-to-face. Next to his hand sat his cop hat. It wasn’t enough.

  She said, “Can’t you make yourself look less official?”

  He said, “And how do I do that?”

  “I don’t know, undo some buttons, roll up your sleeves or something. You have to wear that gun on your hip?”

  “I’m on duty, Bette.”

  She scrunched her mouth to one side and stared at him. Sam would never open up to him looking the way he did.

  Sam sat in the kitchen sitting room, chin touching his chest, a generous pillow with an embroidered oriole on it clutched in both arms against his skinny stomach. It took great effort, but she’d managed to convince Marcus not to take Sam to the police station to finish the questioning. They wouldn’t do it sitting there amongst all those festival-goers, but Sam had confessed to a murder, and it was Marcus’s duty to take him in. She’d worked every bit of magic she could to weaken the resolve of her officious friend, convincing him they would get much more out of Sam if they brought him home to Fortune where he felt safe.