A Dredging in Swann

by Tim Garvin

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And you’re a rich man now. You got two miles of Sable River frontage. You could sell half that, and there wouldn’t be a bottom to your money.”

  Cody watched him, half-smiling. Something was coming, something not greed.

  Seb said, “So you know what would be good?”

  “What?”

  “Something for the kids. Like a school maybe. Or a camp. Some kind of deep pocket community thing to give back for all the raggedy-ass worthlessness you have inflicted on society.”

  Cody laughed. He said, “We’ve been talking about it, Keisha and me. We’re getting married. Charlene’s excited too. It’s going to be a community center. And definitely lots of stuff for kids, which is what Charlene does. She says we can probably get matching grants too.”

  “So I don’t have to strong-arm you.”

  “Also, we’re buying the Lands’ house, for plenty enough so they can get a good place. We’re taking the hogs out anyway. And guess what? I’m going to start a flytrap nursery, but kind of an eco-thing, to go with the community center.”

  They started into the cemetery.

  Seb said, “Another thing you owe me is you got to join the singers.”

  “I’ll come.”

  “Great. We’re working up a special song. You like hip-hop?”

  “Sort of. If I ever hear it.”

  “We’re working on a hip-hop ballad sort of thing. For a woman I’m trying to get up with.”

  “I’ll definitely come.”

  Down a lane, the gravesite came in view. The minister and his helpers were positioning the coffin under the octopus. Three lines of flat straps descended from its jaws. Charlene stood to the side, watching with folded arms.

  Seb stopped, stopping Cody. They faced each other. Seb said, “One last thing. Why the fuck did you do it?”

  Cody shook his head. He smiled. “It didn’t occur to me not to. I kind of think it was fate.”

  Seb said, “Maybe so. I listened to the 911 call from the guys that found them. They said the Marines forgot some ammunition on the beach. They were reading all the numbers off.”

  “I left them standing up like a little forest.”

  Seb gave Cody a direct look. “One day all this will make a hell of a story.”

  Cody returned the look. He said, “Which I will never tell.”

  “So three of us, you, me, and Charlene.”

  Cody hesitated. Then he said, “Five of us. I told Elton Gleen, and he told his nephew.”

  “For God’s sake …”

  “He told me I was going to end up in an eight-by-eight cell unless I worked with him. I almost drowned myself.”

  “He saw money?”

  “Oh, yeah. I was supposed to email the terrorists. Then he and Peener wanted to sell to the Mexican cartels.”

  “What’s he say now?”

  “Nothing. I met him at McDonald’s and had my phone taped under the table. I called him later and played it back to him. He turned peaceful. Otherwise I would be dead. I think he killed my friend Harvey Clement.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “That leaves the nephew.”

  “Carl Peener never made it back to Georgia. I think he’s gone the way of your friend Harvey.”

  “Oh, man. I even imagined that, that Elton would do that.”

  They started toward the grave. A cluster of photographers stood at a respectful hundred feet and took pictures. The minister and the two men began to circle the coffin with the straps. Charlene spoke to them, and they stepped back.

  As Seb and Cody approached, she said to Seb, “Tell me this. Did Virginia call you and say, I’ve got an idea? Or how did it come up?”

  Seb said, “I called her to tell her I wanted to return them. They were supposed to be buried with Leo. When she heard Squint was going to be buried in the same cemetery, it just came up. She didn’t insist or anything, just asked me to ask you.”

  “You tell her I said I’m so happy she asked. She’s going to be our neighbor, and we’re going to be good neighbors.”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  Seb opened the end of the casket, exposing the legs.

  Charlene said, “Open it all. Please.”

  Seb lifted the front of the casket, exposing Squint’s waxen face.

  Charlene said, “Let’s put them all around.”

  Seb opened the tobacco box, and Charlene lifted a handful of the pink and green and white envelopes and spread them over the corpse, above and beside the head, on the chest, on the loins and legs. When the box was empty, she said, “I’ll save the box for her. You can close it now.”

  Seb closed the rear section, then the front.

  Charlene said, “Tell Virginia I know it’s not vengeance. It’s more like justice, if there is any. Tell her we’re sisters now. We’re neighbors and sisters.”

  Seb said, “I’ll tell her.” Then he said to Cody, “You ever been in Elton Gleen’s trailer?”

  “Once.”

  “You ever see a teapot in there?”

  From the House

  to the Home

  Seb could have entered the studio without knocking, as he had before, as any customer might, but a knock would bring her to the door, which was the plan. He knocked three times and listened. He peered through the panes of the door window into the studio. He knocked twice more. Since it was Memorial Day it was possible she was gone, maybe with friends to the beach, except it was raining, and also Gloria, their soprano, had called an hour ago, and Mia had answered. He waited and listened, resisting another knock. On the right, the display lights in the gallery were bright.

  He had spoken with her twice on the phone since their unhappy meeting at Debbie’s Diner. The first call had been to inform her that the FBI had confirmed that Grayson Kelly had been with his grandmother—and been seen by neighbors—on the night of the helicopter crash. Kelly faced federal charges for the possession of hand grenades, but the conspiracy theory had been dropped. The FBI had not recalled Mia, but also had not called to put her at ease or apologize. She expressed concern about his gunfight and sympathy about his wounded calf.

  The second call had been to let her know that her burglary had been solved and a teapot recovered.

  The first call had been awkwardly formal, the second more cordial, but both calls brief. She offered that she recalled that particular teapot, liked it especially, and would be glad of its return. Her reserve, he sensed, had become more protective than angry. She was hesitant, seeking a flow, but unable yet to find it. He had been working hard all week with Ahmad and the Pass the Salt singers to help her.

  A shadow fell across the door’s window. Mia opened and stood before him in tan shorts and a white, clay-spotted T-shirt, drying her hands on a towel, which she wore tossed across her shoulder.

  “Hi,” she said. “You don’t have to knock.” Her smile was faint and waiting. She would open and receive him, if he had the proper key.

  He said, “I know, I guess.” He fished up his phone from his front pocket, opened the photo he had taken that morning in the property room. Her teapot. “We found it in the home of a dangerous felon. He’s going to prison for receiving stolen goods. So that’s good at least.”

  She said, “You want to come in? How’s your leg?” She stepped back.

  He said, “Can’t right now. The leg is good.”

  She delivered a curious look and stepped forward again. She said, “I’ve been reading all about your famous case. It was in the New York Times this morning.”

  “Right. One of their reporters wants to do a book.”

  “No kidding. You going to do it?”

  “At first, I thought no, but then she said it won’t just be a crime story, but it’ll be about the whole context, and justice, and race, and be a crimes-of-the-father ty
pe thing. Plus it’ll give me a chance to talk about Pass the Salt. So maybe. I’m considering it.”

  She nodded and waited.

  He said, “Me and the singers have been busy all week, working on a new song. Remember I told you about Ahmad, the hip-hop guy who came up with the name Pass the Salt? He’s been bugging me to do some rap.”

  “Are you going to do a hip-hop song?”

  “Sort of. It’s sort of a hip-hop ballad. Ahmad says it’s pretty white.”

  She nodded. Her hands went to the towel across her shoulder. She waited.

  He let a long pause go. He gave off a faint shrug, a direct look. He said, “Want to hear it?”

  She smiled. “Sure.”

  Seb stepped backward down the wet stone walkway into the drizzle. He motioned for the singers, who strode fast from their concealment around the side of the building. There were eighteen of them, free on Memorial Day, under a moving cascade of colorful umbrellas, one of which was handed to Seb. Eight of the men, Cody included, carried a four-by-eight-foot sheet of plywood, dropped it on the lawn with a whump, and arranged themselves on top of it. They were the rhythm section. The rest of the singers made a semicircle around them. Ahmad had the boom box strapped around his neck and, after a four count, started off a quiet rain of snares, toms, and cymbals, neatly combined with a little shush-shush car-crushing sound. The rhythm eight started a booming stamp-back response on the plywood, then settled into a half-note groove. A boom box organ began a droning melody. The singers snapped their fingers in a syncopated popping.

  Mia came forward from the doorway and stood on the sidewalk with folded arms. Her mouth opened. She beamed.

  The organ went silent, and Seb began his white boy chant-singing over the stomps and pops.

  “I used to be afraid of love, I hid my fear in pride.

  All I felt was loneliness when I looked inside.

  Now I’m facing up to love like a shadow on the wall.

  Love is getter brighter, and the shadow’s getting small.”

  The organ started. The singers sang:

  “Everybody’s traveling from their house to their home.

  Some go together. Some go alone.

  All I’m trying to say, girl, is I want to walk you home.”

  Seb took up his chant.

  “I had a head full of differences and a heart full of pain.

  But when you find love there’s nothing else to gain.

  When you find love, it’s like a candle in the night.

  If you get lost, just head for the light.”

  The singers sang the chorus to the organ. Seb chanted.

  “I know love’s for the chosen few, maybe I don’t belong.

  But a broken heart’s a small price for something that strong.

  So I’m standing here outside your door. Hurts like a prison wall.

  But I’ll be right here standing, till the last shadow falls.”

  The singers sang,

  “Everybody’s traveling from their house to their home.

  Some go together. Some go alone.

  All I’m trying to say, girl, is I want to walk you home,

  just walk you home, back home, back home.”

  The organ faded, the stomping slowed, and four finger pops ended the performance.

  Mia put her fists against her temples, opened her hands, touched her heart. Her eyes had wet and overflowed. She went to Seb. She kissed him, holding, then stroking his cheeks. She drew back. She laughed. She bowed and touched her heart to the chorus. The chorus laughed and beamed. She embraced Seb again. She kissed him again. The singers milled and commented. Wine bottles appeared. Mia led them into the studio, where she gave a tour and several singers bought goblets, bowls, and vases. Eventually many toasts were drunk, to Seb, who they treasured, and to Mia and Seb, who they had hopes for, and, since it was Memorial Day, for soldiers they had loved and lost.

  Then, in twos and threes, goodbyes were said, and the singers left. Mia closed the door, then led him back through her studio and across a small yard to her home, where she showed him her living quarters, with pots from many potters and with colorful paintings from many art fairs, and the patio and herb garden and the forest behind and this and that.

  And things went on from there.

  Acknowledgments

  Lots of people contributed to the research behind this novel, and I’m truly grateful to all of them. I needed to learn about police procedure and Marine MPs, the hog farm fiascoes of North Carolina, and make a thorough study of PTSD. I read books and combed the internet. I talked to cops, lawyers, professors, hog farm researchers, and lots of Marines. I’ll name them in no particular order: Sheriff Hans Miller, Major Don Baker, Deputy Philip Crider, Sergeant Todd McAllister, Nat Fahy, Louis Lapointe, Kerry Mason, Mike Surles, Mike Saniford, Sam Kellum, Jane Preyer, Mike Williams, Daniel Wallace, Tom Demmy, Bill Showers, and Don Lloyd. Lieutenant Brian Williams, my go-to guy for cop life, deserves special mention. He always responded cheerfully and fully to my many inquiries.

  I’m grateful to Fred Chappell for getting me started in the world of agents; to my captain in the sea of publishing, agent Peter Rubie; to my editor Madeline Hopkins, who tracked down all my missteps; to my editor Ember Hood, who sweetened the writing; and to Kurt Jones, who devised a cool cover.

  Lastly, and chiefly, I’m grateful to my wife, Cynthia Drake, whose glad support and sensitive critiques shaped both me and this novel.