Fishermen's Court

by Andrew Wolfendon

  Parked near the dock—here’s a ritual that hasn’t changed—are transport vehicles for all the major inns, waiting to pick up arriving guests and their baggage. The Sea Grass Inn and The Hotel Saint-Étienne, the two upscale hotels, deploy passenger vans with cargo racks on top. Harbor House and Musqasset House, the mid-priced places where you “rough it” by sharing communal bathrooms, send out pickup trucks for their guests. You just climb into the truck bed along with your bags. Guests renting private houses or staying at the smaller B&Bs can take Dorna Caskie’s electric-cart shuttle or just walk to their destinations. It’s not a big island.

  Economic stratification, let me say briefly, is not a subtle thing on Musqasset. Both of the upscale inns, along with some high-end B&Bs, are located on the western side of the island, called The Meadows. That’s where the pricey private homes, higher-end art galleries, and a wannabe-gourmet bistro are also located.

  Clustered around the middle of the southern bay, where the ferry docks, is “the village,” a small collection of tourist shops and galleries, a few restaurants, a grocery/supply store, a donut shop/post office, three or four B&Bs, a tavern, and Musqasset House and Harbor House.

  The eastern side of the bay, a section called Greyhook, belongs mainly to the working people—lobstermen, bartenders, tradespeople. Greyhook hosts a few small apartment buildings and rooming houses where the summer help—mostly young exchange workers from Eastern Europe these days—stay, in tiny quarters, two to a room. There’s also a bar there that serves cheap(er) drinks for the lobstermen and blue-collar folks. You won’t get killed for wandering into The Rusty Anchor unaccompanied by a local, but you might get seriously glared at.

  The central and northern part of the island consists mostly of wilderness and hiking trails, along with a network of houses with attached art studios and galleries, called Studio Row, where many of the island’s famous and semi-famous artists live and work. It’s a major attraction for tourists with cash to burn.

  My uninvited guests must have made lodging arrangements. I wonder which part of the island they’re going to. Perhaps they’ll wait to see where I go first. In that case, maybe I can force them to reveal themselves. After debarking, I hang around the dock for a while, waiting for all the foot traffic to disperse, deliberately stalling before choosing a vehicle and destination.

  The van for the Sea Grass Inn takes off with its three guest-couples. A minute later the St. Étienne’s van departs, carrying two couples and a dowager queen type who is grasping her hat as if she’s already regretting coming to a place so barbaric as to have weather.

  I notice e-cigarette guy standing with the bigger guy in the Davy’s grey slicker, near The Dockside, a snack and souvenir shop. So these guys do know each other. Noted. I climb onto the back of Musqasset House’s truck to see what move they’ll make.

  Sure enough, a minute later, the two guys casually climb aboard the Musqasset House truck too. My heart starts to pound.

  I wait till the driver yells, “Musqasset House,” then I pretend to notice I’m on the wrong vehicle. I jump off and climb aboard the Harbor House truck, where the old photographer couple with the puffy blue jackets and four or five other guests sit nestled amongst the luggage.

  I’m betting e-cigarette guy and Davy Grey will now switch trucks. They don’t. The L.L.Bean family and a chunky guy in a Patriots sweatshirt come rushing out of The Dockside and are the last to board my truck before it starts off with a shout of “Harbor House.”

  Our truck follows the Musqasset House truck for a while. When we slow down to let some pedestrians in oversized rain gear cross the street, I grab my bags and jump off the truck.

  I scoot down a narrow alley between Hook Me Up, a fishing gear shop, and I Scream, a goth-themed ice cream joint I’m shocked to see is still in business. The shops and houses lining the bay are built on pilings. Ducking beneath their floors, I make my way along the waterfront to a small overgrown yard a few buildings away. I crouch among the reeds and scrub bushes.

  With little time to act before the ferry departs, I again try to think like a game designer. If I were designing a puzzle for an adventure game, what would be a good strategy for sneaking back onto the ferry?

  A couple of water drops slap my face. Damn. Looks like the rain that’s been on break has decided to clock in again.

  But wait, maybe that’s my answer. Rain. Maybe the way to get back on the ferry unnoticed is to hide in plain sight. Cover myself in some serious Maine raingear. I don’t think anyone sells that kind of gear on the island, though, and I don’t have time to shop around.

  Where can I get my hands on some?

  An idea strikes almost immediately. Billy Staves. He has one of the few permanent residences in the village proper. Billy’s a lobsterman. He and I were Scrabble buddies back in the day. We’d meet for a beer and a match on the porch of Harbor House two or three times a week in the summer. He kicked my ass on a fairly aggressive schedule. He had a partner, Dennis, who sold lobster and crab rolls from a tiny sandwich shop attached to their house. Jeannie and I had them to dinner once or twice, and I always helped Billy put up his traps for winter.

  It should be safe to walk a short distance on the main road—my followers can’t be everywhere—so I scurry out to Island Avenue and make my way toward Billy’s. After walking a hundred yards or so, I see a hand-painted sandwich board just past Black’s Emporium, “Lobster Rolls. Crab Rolls. The Island’s Best,” with an arrow pointing to the right. Still there. Yay.

  Dennis’s sandwich counter is around the back side of the building, facing the bay, so I cut through the narrow alley between Black’s Emporium and Billy’s place, stash my bags in the open space beneath Black’s, and approach the food counter from the ocean side. Damn. Normally there’s a wide, rocky beach here. Waves are now covering most of it.

  Dennis, a hefty, ruddy man with a curly, graying beard and suspenders, is sitting behind the counter reading The New York Times. Not a lot of customers on a day like this.

  “Look what the catamaran dragged in,” he says, in a not particularly jovial manner.

  “How’ve you been, Dennis?”

  “Can’t complain since they closed the complaints department,” he says, putting an audible period at the end.

  Okay, I’m not in a mood for small talk, either, but I wonder why the cold reception. Dennis and I always got along well. Trying to elicit a little more chattiness from him, I say, “Hey, is it true what I heard about you and Billy?”

  He dutifully holds up his hand to show a gold band around his thick ring finger. “Ayuh, the great state of Maine now recognizes us as a jointly taxable entity.”

  “Wow, that’s amazing. Congratulations. Hey, I’m having sort of a storm-related emergency. Is Billy around?”

  He shakes his head no and snorts. “Still out on the boat battening down the whatevers as much as possible. Obviously, he can’t dock at Fish Pier anymore.” Looking at me in a vaguely accusing way, he adds, “But I guess you know that.”

  I don’t. I have no idea what’s been happening with the Fish Pier situation since I vacated the island. It was getting ugly at the time I left, and I’m guessing it’s gotten uglier.

  “Ayuh,” Dennis continues, “he has to anchor out in the bay now and row in.”

  I don’t have time to wait for Billy’s return. “I really need to get my hands on some rain gear, Dennis, just to borrow for a bit. Long story, but it’s kind of urgent.”

  “He’s got his good gear out on the boat with him today,” Dennis says, “but...” He looks me up and down and sighs, decides it wouldn’t be right to deny me basic courtesy. “I guess you can look through his old stuff if you want.”

  Dennis silently leads me through the house and points into a
closet, where two or three retired rain outfits are folded up under a box of Christmas decorations. One of the suits, liberally patched with duct tape, is exactly what I’m looking for. Bright safety orange in color, it’s a two-piece Acadia-style affair, with pants and a spacious hooded jacket. The hood has a visor on top and a high collar that covers the lower part of the face. Perfect for traveling incognito.

  I thank Dennis and buy a crab roll from him, which he sells me only grudgingly, then I scurry around the corner of the building and duck under Black’s to put on the rain suit and eat my sandwich. The food gives my blood sugar a needed kick. I recall that I still have my travel bags to deal with. They might give my identity away if I carry them openly. I head for Musqasset Mercantile, a grocery and supply store a little farther east on Island Ave.

  The rain is picking up and whipping sideways in sheets, so I don’t look out of place as I tramp down the main drag in my full-body raingear. No one’s out on the streets anyway, though I do get one “Hey, Billy” from a t-shirt shop worker in her doorway. Guess she recognizes the duct-taped rain suit.

  I enter the Mercantile, where the clerk behind the counter is Barbara DeCamp. I once did a painting of her cat and helped her clean out her tool shed after her husband died. I don’t identity myself as I buy a box of Glad Lawn & Leaf bags, and she doesn’t greet me by name. Just rings me up and says, “Nice weather for lobstas.” Good. The disguise is working.

  I go back under Black’s, fetch my shopping bag and backpack—the surf is getting wilder by the minute—and place them inside a black trash bag to conceal them. According to my phone’s clock, I’ve still got twenty-five minutes till the ferry leaves. My plan is to be the last passenger to board, which means I’ve got a bit of time to kill.

  A singularly bad idea begins to ooze from the three-pound chimp-steak in my skull: dare I try to get a glimpse of Jeannie? It would be a shame to come all this way and not even take a peek. And hey, she won’t recognize me in this ridiculous getup.

  Jeannie’s house—our old house—is up near Studio Row. I don’t have time to safely make it there and back on foot. But I wonder if she still tends bar at Pete’s Lagoon. That was where I ran into her, about nine years back, for the first time since college, and where, upon seeing her face behind the bar, my life’s path took a sharp left. She worked there the whole time I lived with her on the island, so maybe she still does. Maybe she’s on duty now.

  And what if she is? Do I really want to load up my brain’s hard drive with fresh images of Jeannie to hijack my dreams and ruin my nights?

  I pace back and forth between Billy’s and Black’s, trash bag over my shoulder like a demented Santa Claus, debating whether to try to see her. I actually say aloud to myself, “Don’t be a fucking idiot. Don’t be a fucking idiot.”

  As if such an existential choice were mine to make.

  . . . . .

  Pete’s Lagoon perches on the bay on the eastern edge of the village, near the western side of Greyhook. It’s a bustling bar and restaurant that attracts a mix of people from all over the island—tourists, artists, boat captains, shopkeepers, even some of the “landed gentry” from The Meadows. If there’s a default gathering spot on Musqasset, it is Pete’s. I was known to murder a six-string there of an odd Thursday evening and to muck in as a bartender occasionally.

  No one’s on the outdoor deck of Pete’s today, naturally, and from what I can tell from a distance, the indoor crowd is pretty thin too. No chance of blending.

  So what’s the plan? Stand outside in the rain in my hooded gear, gawping in the window like a Hollywood axe murderer?

  Don’t over-think it, I tell myself. I step up to the front door and go inside. I stride through the place, looking purposeful but staying well hooded. I get another “Hi Billy,” which I don’t correct. I make a circuit of the whole bar, upper and lower level. I’m pleased to note a seascape of mine is still hanging over the fireplace. Jeannie’s not behind the bar, though, unless she’s had a sex change, put on eighty pounds, and become an African-American. Maybe she doesn’t work here anymore. Maybe she doesn’t even live here anymore.

  As I’m looping back toward the exit, the Daily Specials board catches my eye: Jeannie’s printing, in chalk, no doubt about it. Her words too. The Bos’n Burger, today’s special, has the write-up: “We start with a dead boatswain, grind and grill him to perfection, then inexplicably add slaw and a store-bought bun. Fries mandatory.”

  Pete used to get furious when she did these goofy negative write-ups, but then they became a thing. People would come in just to read the Specials board. Looks like they still do.

  Smiling to myself, I’m about to head out the door when I hear it. That laugh.

  Oh, man.

  I peer into the kitchen and there she is. Facing away, one-quarter view. Wild hair barely constrained by a clasp, swan neck, bone-thin wrists, dancing hands. She’s towering over a couple of younger waitresses who look delightedly scandalized as she tells them a story. My feet are nailed to the floor.

  I know I can’t continue staring like this—Jeannie has an unerring stare-detector—but I can’t pull my eyes away. Sure enough, she turns. She looks right at my face, though I’m sure it’s unidentifiable in the flaps and shadows of the rain suit’s headgear. She lets her gaze linger for a couple of beats, then turns back to her coworkers.

  I can’t get out the door fast enough.

  . . . . .

  Five minutes till the ferry leaves. Time to make my move.

  I march, businesslike, down Island Avenue in my Billy Staves costume and turn left toward the dock. I have my ticket in my hand and my hand in my pocket. I don’t see anyone hanging around the rain-swept dock area, but that hardly means I’m in the clear.

  My plan is to wait till the boat crew starts pulling up the gangplank and then dash on board at the last second, giving no one a chance to follow me.

  I’m walking past the old bait shack across from The Dockside when a hand shoots out and grabs my arm.

  Chapter 9

  I haven’t been in a fistfight since high school, but instinct kicks in. I start punching at the shadowy figure grasping my left arm. He’s a pretty husky guy, I can see, but I land a couple of jabs and hooks with my right hand.

  “Whoa! Whoa! Easy there, pal!” he whisper-shouts.

  It’s dark in the windowless bait shack, but I can see there’s a second man in here too. Both men are wearing hooded rain jackets. The larger of the two guys continues to grip my arm and block my fist as I flail at him with my free hand. I land a solid blow to his biceps, breaking his grasp. I wheel about and kick the door open, but before I can make my escape the other dude lunges and grabs me around the chest from behind.

  It takes me several seconds to register his voice saying, “Finn! Finn! Calm down! Finnian! Whoa!”

  He waits till I stop struggling, then spins me around by the shoulders to face him.

  “Miles! What the fuck!”

  “Yeah, Finn, pretty much my words exactly.”

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “Um, let’s see, I invited you out to the island, remember? You’re going to be a guest at my house.”

  “I told you to stay away from the dock. I said I’d be in touch later.”

  “Yeah, well, I was already at the dock when you texted, so I decided to stick around. I didn’t like the tone of that text. Not one bit.”

  “I told you I’d explain things later, Miles, and I will. But not right now. I’ve got to get back on that ferry. You have to trust me on that.”

  I pull away from Miles, but the bigger guy steps in front of the door.

  “No one’s going anywhere just yet, Mr. Carroll,” he
says in a polite don’t-fuck-with-me voice.

  “Finn, this is Jim,” says Miles. “He’s with the Maine state police.”

  “What?”

  “Relax. He’s not on duty. He’s just a friend of mine who’s on the island for the holiday weekend. After hearing that stuff you were telling me on the phone last night, then seeing that text, I was… I don’t know, Finn. I felt I should give him a call.”

  Jim holds up a pair of binoculars. “We’ve been watching you since you got off the boat, Mr. Carroll,” he declares, as if this fact alone should explain Miles’ concerns.

  I think about how bizarre my behavior must have appeared to these guys. Jumping off a moving vehicle, hiding in the reeds, talking to myself with a garbage bag over my shoulder, stalking Jeannie at the bar. Cripes.

  I open my mouth to defend myself, but no words come.

  “What we’re going to do,” says Miles in the capable, persuasive voice that must have won his law firm many a client, “is give you a few minutes to settle yourself down, and then Jim is going to drive us to my—”

  “No, Miles, sorry. That’s not what we’re going to do. We can’t go to your house because that will put you, Beth, and the kids in danger. Those guys who tried to kill me? They followed me out to the island, Miles, and they will find me at your house.”

  The two men stare at me like cigar store Indians.

  “If you don’t believe me…” I dig out my phone and fumble open the VoxFox app. In my agitated state, I can’t remember how to play a recording. I can’t even find a recording to play. Where the hell does the stupid program store its files? “I’ll play it for you later.”

  I edge toward the door of the bait shack, explaining, “I wish we could have spent some together. I love you, man, and I’m grateful for the invite. But I need to get on that ferryboat now. I’ll call you as soon as I get things sorted out.”