Fishermen's Court

by Andrew Wolfendon

  “You coming back here was a mistake,” declares Jeannie.

  I don’t reply at first. Instead I watch the tide hammer Table Rock for a minute. As if to confirm Jeannie’s earlier prediction, a monster wave crashes, spraying us from below. When it hauls itself back out to sea, I hear the deep cetacean groan of submerged metal dragging on rock. It’s a sound that ices my skin. The K.C. Mokler inches closer to the Atlantic.

  Still gawking at the historic drama unfolding below, I ask, “Why do you say that?”

  I turn to look at Jean. She is gone.

  Chapter 12

  As I’m passing the lighthouse on my way back to Miles’, the wind carries a sound to my ear. A seashell crunching in the dirt. Jeannie? I turn my head and see nothing, but that’s unsurprising given the darkness of this starless night. I don’t want to spin around and shine my light on whoever it is, because if it’s just a stranger out for a stroll, that would be a breach of island etiquette. And if it’s someone trolling for trouble with me, I’m not eager to light that fuse.

  I shut off my flashlight and step up my pace, hoping I can navigate the route back to Miles’ house in the dark without breaking my fool neck.

  I haven’t gone twenty feet before my foot snags on a creeper and I go sprawling on the ground. So much for hope. I rise, listening intently. I hear only the whistling and howling of the wind, but my gut tells me I’m not alone out here.

  I reach into the pocket of my jacket to see if I have my cell phone with me. Yes, it’s there. I don’t know whom I’d call for help or how they’d find me out here, but still, the phone feels comfortingly warm in my pocket.

  I walk on, my eyes adjusting somewhat to the absence of flashlight, and come to a familiar fork in the path where the scrub pine starts to turn into real woods. The right path is a pretty direct route back to Miles’ house, but by taking it I’ll run the risk of leading my possible pursuer there. The left path is longer and twistier but will lead me into the village, the island’s most “public” place.

  I pause to make up my mind when a flood of light strikes me from behind.

  Like an idiot, I turn.

  About a hundred feet behind me, three bright circles of light throw their beams at my face. Flashlights. All three shut off at once. Island courtesy or am I being messed with?

  Being a cup-half-empty kind of guy, I put my chips on the latter.

  I scurry down the left path, the one that leads to the village, at the briskest pace I can manage without using my light. It’s a well-worn path, so I’m able to walk it pretty fast. But with each step, my apprehension mounts.

  I go a hundred feet. Two hundred. The wind whipping the trees is loud enough to mask the sound of any footsteps behind me, but I can feel a presence gaining on me. I remember I still have the knife in my pocket, though exactly what I’ll do with it I have clue zero. I grope for its handle. Goosebumps tickle my back. Nervousness starts to give way to panic.

  I spot a tiny, overgrown path snaking off to the left, through a stand of pine. If memory serves, it leads to an old abandoned property. I ditch the main path, hoping my detour isn’t noted.

  I can’t see John T. Shit as I pick my way through the wet spruce pincushions pressing in on me from either side of the narrow footpath. I get a face-full of spider web at one point and step in something squishy and bitter-smelling. I’m trying to move as quietly as possible, but the path is riddled with sticks that snap and vine runners that snag my shoes. My jeans are getting soaked from water beading on the fat needles of the branches.

  Up ahead, about twenty-five yards or so, I can dimly sense a clearing in the trees. I head toward it, letting the old scratch-mark of a path guide my feet.

  I dare not turn on my light, but I can make out a couple of shapes in the dark clearing. One is a rectangular patch of inkier blackness on the ground, which I believe to be the foundation of an old cottage. How deep it is, I can’t tell. The other appears to be a rotting, upside-down dory I recall from my old island excursions.

  Instinct tells me to hide under the dory, though I’m not sure why. If someone follows me this far, they’ll definitely look under it. But instinct wins. I lift the port side of the boat, allowing time for any resident fauna to disperse, then duck beneath its bowed gunwale. It stinks of wet, decaying wood and vegetation under here, but the hull is bowl-shaped and deep enough for me to sit up a bit. I resist the temptation to turn on the flashlight and see who my zoological co-tenants might be, and just sit in silence, letting my heart rate resettle.

  Time dissolves. Sitting there in the almost perfect darkness, my senses—and perhaps my imagination too—shift into overdrive. I am almost certain I hear the approach of stealthy footfalls below the sound of the wind. Someone creeping into the clearing. More than one someone. I think I hear a “shh,” though I can’t swear it isn’t a trick of the wind catching a pinecone scale or a curled leaf.

  A small twig cracks.

  Something flutters. A piece of fabric flapping in the wind?

  A sixth sense—or maybe a fusion of my conventional five—tells me several human beings are standing stock still in a semi-circle around the perimeter of the flipped dory. Why aren’t they moving? Speaking? Why aren’t they looking under the boat? What game are they playing? Every nerve and muscle in my body is at DEFCON 1.

  I suddenly become absurdly certain my cell phone is going to ring, but I don’t want to make the move to shut it off, afraid the slightest rustle of Gore-Tex will give me away.

  Minutes pass. I remain motionless.

  I hear a light rapping on the hull. I almost scream, but then I realize it’s just the rain starting up again. Within seconds, it starts to whoosh down harder.

  I hear a faint “ssst,” like a signal—but again, it could be an artifact of the wind. Then I hear—or sense, rather—the figures moving away. Or am I just imagining that? Did I imagine their presence in the first place?

  I can’t stand the tension, the uncertainty, any longer. In one swift, coordinated move, I turn the flashlight on, thrust the boat-edge upward, let out a lunatic yell, and charge out from beneath the dory. Holding the knife by the handle, I slash at the air while shining the light around, screaming like a crazed baboon.

  No one is here.

  I sweep the light around the whole clearing. Vacant.

  I stand in place, panting, for a solid minute or two.

  I start back toward the main trail, about to write the whole thing off, when my face smacks into something wet and slimy suspended on a branch in the middle of the path. It falls to the ground with a flabby thud. When I see what it is, my head goes woozy.

  A dead mackerel. A two-inch thorn has been jammed through one eye and out the other. It was placed there for me. A message. From Trooper Dan and friends.

  How they found me so easily in the dark, I have no idea, but one thing is certain: they could have confronted me, or taken me, or done whatever, but chose not to. Why, I don’t know. Maybe they’re just toying with me, like a cat with a mouse, but I suspect the reasons run deeper. I’m freaking terrified.

  I decide, screw it, to run to the village. Keeping my flashlight on, I book it back down the brambly path, turn left onto the main trail, and run, full speed, till I reach the short dirt road leading to the village. Then, what the hey, good children, I run some more.

  Standing in the rain and wind and darkness in the center of the village, hauling air into my lungs, I feel both safer and more exposed. All the shops are closed, of course, and the lights are all off. I shine my flashlight back in the direction I came from and see no sign of pursuit from the woods.

  I feel like I’m coming unspooled. Maybe there was no one following me. Maybe I imagined the whole thing. T
he presence I detected in the clearing? Raccoons stalking one another for a fish. Sure, why not? I scared them away and they ran up a tree, dropping their prize on the way up. The thorn through the mackerel’s eye? Just an accident of the forest.

  And yet the thought of going all the way back to Miles’, collecting my belongings, and then prowling around the island some more, in the dark and the rain, looking for some possum-infested shed or rotted old boathouse to hide out in for the next day or two, feels like a terrifying prospect. I’m exhausted, nerve-fried, soaking wet, and freezing. Neither the island nor my own mind feels like a safe place to me right now.

  What I really want to do is sneak back into Miles’ house, go to sleep in that big, soft, stupidly comfy bed, and take a fresh look at everything in the morning.

  Maybe that’s what I’ll do.

  Yup, new plan.

  Chapter 13

  I awaken at nine in the morning, hours past my usual wake-up time, and sit up on the edge of the bed. I feel oddly rested and recharged. My situation hasn’t changed, but something has subtly shifted inside me. I suddenly feel as if I have access to inner resources that have been walled off for ages. Like I might even have some fight in me.

  I replay last night in my mind. Despite the threat I’m dealing with, the foremost thing on my mind is Jeannie. I won’t say it was “good” to see her—binary terms like good and bad don’t apply where Jeannie is concerned—but it was illuminating. A truth I’ve been denying for years has become as plain as the taste of oyster cracker a la carte: I’m still in love with her. I was in love with her in college but too thick to know it. I fell in love with her again when I ran into her on Musqasset Island several years later, and I am in love with her now. I know, I know: love, in itself, doesn’t change anything; that and a five-dollar bill will buy you a caramel macchiato. I’m sure Jeannie is not even “available.” And even if she were, it’s colossally unlikely that she would subject herself to another go-round with the likes of me.

  Still, it’s good to know my own truth, for better or worse, and to name it. Maybe that’s what has shifted in me. Truth is power, maybe that’s really so.

  I think back on my experience in the woods. A night’s sleep has not convinced me the threat was imaginary. Quite the contrary. I feel doubly certain there were men in that clearing. Trooper Dan was fucking with me. The dead fish was intended for me, and its meaning seems clear: You’re dead, but at the time and place of our choosing.

  Maybe, maybe not, assholes.

  I open the window curtains, using the remote on the nightstand. Motorized curtains—Jesus, Miles. The rain has returned, I see. In spades. I switch on the bedroom TV and surf for a weather report. I find a live broadcast of a yellow-slickered imbecile with a mike standing on a sea wall as waves crash behind him. “The storm system is feeding off unusually warm waters in the Gulf Stream,” he yells over the wind. “Its forward progress has been stalled by a high-pressure zone, and right now it’s ‘parked’ over the ocean south of Nova Scotia and spinning like a top. That means we can expect high seas to continue for coastal Maine and the islands, perhaps through the holiday weekend, along with intermittent rain and—as you can see!—strong winds.”

  I’m not getting off this island till Sunday or Monday.

  So be it. I refuse to spend that time feeling trapped and afraid. Fuck that. I intend to do something. What, I haven’t the remotest idea, but something.

  I look for my jeans and see them folded on the dresser, along with yesterday’s shirt. Some early riser has thoughtfully washed and dried them for me. Shit. That means Miles and Beth know I was out last night. I suppose I’ll have to explain that.

  . . . . .

  Dressed and as groomed as I get, I venture out of the guest room. As I wend my way to the kitchen, I can see Miles sitting at the table, talking to someone in a low voice. I pause before entering the room, trying to catch a glimpse of the other party.

  Miles spots me before I can ID the visitor and shouts, “He’s conscious!”

  “Let’s not say things we can’t take back,” I reply, stepping onto the imported, handmade tile of the kitchen.

  “Finn, you remember Jim.” Damn. The off-duty statie.

  “Hey there,” says Jim, standing for a handshake. “Don’t punch me this time,” he adds, doing a mock flinch. Ha, so funny. Jim is tall and broad, and I swear his head has a permanent groove around it from twenty years of wearing a state policeman’s hat. “You’ve got a pretty fair right hook for an artist.”

  “Finn grew up in Wentworth, Mass,” says Miles, as if that explains everything. Jim laughs heartily.

  There’s a bit too much forced bonhomie in the air. I wonder why. Then I notice the butcher knife sitting in the middle of the kitchen table. Crap, I forgot to return it to the rack last night. Miles or Beth must have found it in my room, along with my wet clothes. I nod at it pointedly and say, “I assume you’re going to ask me about that. Mind if I grab a cup of coffee first?” Miles throws his palms open as if to say, This isn’t a locked ward.

  Armed with my small-batch-roasted, single-origin, fair-trade Guatemalan coffee, I join the men at the table, and we make a couple of fizzling attempts at small talk. The Sox, the storm. Then Miles gets down to business. “So... seems you were ‘oot and aboot’ last night.”

  “I didn’t realize I was under house arrest,” I say, leaning back and folding my arms. I’m in no mood to be treated like a mental patient this morning.

  Miles snorts dismissively. “You’re our guest. Obviously, you’re free to come and go as you please,” he says, “but I thought we had agreed on a basic script.”

  “Yeah, well, the writers and I got to chatting last night,” I reply. No one laughs. I tell him about seeing Jeannie.

  He winces as if a crab just pinched his scrotum. “Do you think that was wise?”

  “It wasn’t a date, Miles. I didn’t plan it.”

  “Really? You just happened to run into her after going to bed in my house? I thought the whole idea was for you to relax and stay emotionally calm. I can’t imagine seeing Jeannie was an emotionally calming experience.”

  “It wasn’t. She took me to see the new Disney World over there at Fish Pier. Wow, Miles.”

  “That’s a subject for another time, Finn. Right now, let’s keep the focus on you.”

  “Haar? Kaiyo? North Atlantic Charcutiers? Really? No wonder you want to keep the focus on me.”

  “See? This is exactly my point. This is what Jeannie does. She stirs things up. She stirs people up. She’s a one-woman wrecking crew...”

  “She’s a wrecking crew? Seriously, Miles?”

  “...And I don’t think seeing her is particularly wise, given your current—”

  “Whoa there, gents,” interrupts Jim. “I’m less concerned about who’s dating who than I am about this.” He picks up the butcher knife and twirls it weightily in his hands. “Can I ask why you felt the need to take a weapon with you last night, Mr. Carroll?”

  I think I can pretty easily justify that decision, actually, given the circumstances, but I don’t feel I owe Jim Hat-Head an explanation. “Can I ask why you’re here, Jim? Not to be rude.”

  He ignores my question. “You see, Miles here was under the impression that you’d given up on this... notion that you were being chased across the Gulf by crazed psycho killers. But then you sneak out of the house late at night with a sharp knife in your hands, and we don’t know what to think.”

  “It’s not your job to think about it, Jim.”

  “Well, now, that might not necessarily be true. From a law enforcement perspective, the question arises as to whether a person might be a danger to himself and others. And with your rece
nt—extremely recent—psychiatric history...”

  “What’s the bottom line here, guys?”

  Working in tandem, the two of them trot out a proposal they obviously hatched before I awoke. They would like me to “see” a woman on the island they think can help me. A counselor. Wow, so Musqasset has its own shrink now; that’s miles past overdue.

  I stand up. I’ve had about enough of this. The only reason I copped an insanity plea last night was to placate Miles so I could sneak out of his house and vanish. Now I’ll need to make my exit more obtrusively. Time is short and I have a rather serious problem to solve.

  I go to the guest room, pack my clothes and belongings, and head back into the kitchen wearing my rain jacket and carrying my backpack.

  “Thanks for the invite, Miles,” I say. “But I can’t stay here. I shouldn’t have come in the first place.” I make a move toward the door and feel Jim’s strong fingers clamp my upper arm. “Jim, you have about two seconds to remove your hand.”

  “You want to think very carefully about your next words and actions, Mr. Carroll.”

  “Or what, Jim? You have no authority to hold me or stop me. I haven’t been charged with a crime, and I’m not under psychiatric commitment.”

  “That could change.”

  “In the state of Maine, you need a blue paper”—an involuntary commitment—“to hold someone against their will,” I tell him. “And I’m pretty sure it needs to be signed by a psychiatrist, not a licensed social worker who sells Herbalife on the side.”

  “In special circumstances, such as a storm like this, Mr. Carroll, if there’s a clear and present risk, I can get a blue paper approved by phone on an emergency basis.”

  I suspect he’s full of shit and tug my arm away from him to test that theory. He lets go. Theory supported. I push the door open, make my exit, and march up the walkway that leads away from Miles’ house. I barely notice the rain stippling my face with hard pellets.