by Tim Junkin
“We’re going to make a stop up ahead. Down Ware Neck.” Matty pointed to a road sign indicating a public boat landing just as he passed it. He made a U-turn and drove back, turning down a narrow roadway.
“But this seems stretching it. Even for them.” Clay glanced toward Matty. “Do you know any of the local police? I mean, is there a local guy? Or is there just county police?”
“There is at least one town cop—that I’ve met. Sleeps in his car mostly.”
“Maybe I should say something to him. Maybe he could have somebody talk to this guy.”
Matty grimaced. “The cop’s worthless. Over the hill. But go ahead, if you want. I’ll introduce you. His name’s Pruitt. Ewell Pruitt.” He frowned as he slowed behind another car. “I’m going to see my father tomorrow. For a few days. He wants to take me through his investments. I’ve been promising him all summer. He called. I told Kate. Be leaving early. We’ll find Officer Pruitt when I get back.” Matty put on his signal and then turned up a dirt lane rutted with potholes. Streaks of river reflected through the breaks in the trees. “My father said he’d discuss your wharf while I’m there. I’ll push for you.”
“Thanks,” Clay said. But his present problems seemed more immediate. He wasn’t sure that speaking to Officer Pruitt could wait a few days, over the hill or not.
At the end of the dirt lane stood a wooden structure with a truck loading platform on one side and a waterfront loading dock on the other, the cove beyond placid under the shadows of the surrounding woods.
“I’ll be just a minute,” Matty said.
“What?”
But Matty was out. Clay watched him knock on the door to an office. A thin man with a ponytail stepped from inside. Clay noticed the sparkle of an earring in his right ear. Looking about him quickly, the man pulled Matty in. No one else seemed to be around, though the front fender of a truck was visible off to the side of the building. Bushel baskets were stacked on the platform, dirty with scattered bits of crab shells. Clay figured the crab cooler was behind the office.
Soon Matty was back.
“Let me guess,” Clay offered.
“He was pissed,” Matty responded. “That you were in the car. He’s paranoid. I told him you were cool. Plus he’s out of blow. I couldn’t believe it. He said he’d have plenty first of the week, though.” Matty reached in his pocket and pulled out a small vial. He smiled. “I keep a touch in reserve. Not enough to party hard, but enough to pick us up. For later.” Matty winked.
As they turned back out of the dirt parking area, Clay noticed the plywood sign he had missed before. Splintered, with sloppy hand-painted lettering, it was propped against some garbage pails. INDIGO SEAFOOD, it read.
Ten minutes later they reached the bull roast, where cars were parked in a field. Matty pulled off early and started his own row. Music wafted from inside a red barn. Double doors opened on each side and split-rail-fenced corrals ran from each end. People were filing in through the wide doors, and Clay could see others walking out the other side and milling about in the fenced areas. A band had set up on one end of the barn and was playing a Willie Nelson song. A few people were dancing on the wooden floor.
Matty led Clay through the barn and out into the corral yard, where several horseshoe pits were set next to one another and games were in progress. Past these, a large tan canvas tent was erected. “The auctioneer’s tent,” Matty explained. “But over here’s the food.” He walked toward the steam and smoke coming from behind the tent. Two overturned and halved steel drums were filled with hot coals and covered with screens. Several large pots hissed and bubbled over, steaming soft mano clams in beer broth. Massive slabs of beef, pitchforked from a marinade barrel and tossed on the grills, sizzled next to the pots. The clams were a dollar a dozen with melted butter. Matty ordered two dozen. A keg was against the fence, and while they waited for the clams, he brought over two beers and set them on a picnic table. They ate the clams with the butter and drank the beer. They watched the cooks occasionally ladle a thick reddish brown barbecue sauce over the meat, a carver standing ready to slice a portion of whatever doneness was ordered.
“Two dollars a plate, there.” One of the cooks wiped his dripping brow.
When they were done with the clams, Clay bought two plates of the beef.
After they finished, Matty went off to find dessert. The place was filling up with people. Clay watched them passing by. There seemed plenty of girls around, in pairs and groups. The air was cooling.
After what seemed a while, Matty returned with two slices of apple pie. “Sorry, man. I ran into a few people I know.” Clay took his plate and started eating. “I’ve met people here so fast,” Matty continued. “Through the photography some. And the firehouse. Word got out I take pictures.” He held his hands up. “Small towns aren’t so bad.”
They ate the food and watched the horseshoe games, the dancers inside, and the girls in bright shirts and cowboy boots walking by.
“I’ve enjoyed seeing you and Byron,” Matty started.
Clay glanced up briefly as he finished his pie.
“I remember you telling me about Byron when he was younger. I remember because I was struck by his odd brilliance.” He sipped his beer. “You know, within his own world. Before he enlisted. I mean, he was building that cabin on his uncle’s land. He was working the trotline—is that right?—in the morning and selling the crabs, and building the cabin from scratch in the afternoons. And trapping muskrats at night. Right? Skinning them, and tanning and selling the pelts?” He shook his head back and forth. “I mean, there is a certain brilliance to that.”
Clay nodded in agreement. “I suppose.”
“Whatever happened to the cabin?”
“His uncle wanted it. Paid him for it, though.”
“Perhaps there was some kind of inevitability for Byron. You know, with his father a drinker and all. Some people suffer terrible experiences and come away intact. Some don’t. But certain things are meant to be.”
“Like fate, again. Or hurricanes?” Clay leaned back in his chair. “I don’t believe I agree with that. Not as to him.”
“Maybe not,” Matty conceded. “Sometimes it seems like I’m going in a direction, though. Taken by forces that can’t be controlled.”
“Like a boat in a storm,” Clay ventured. “Like a crabber with no crabs?” Clay picked at some crumbs.
“What do you do in a storm. In a boat?”
“Try to keep your compass. Try not to let it catch you sideways.”
“Resist.”
“Resist losing your steerage, your control.”
“Go with the flow? Or fight back?”
“That’s what Byron wants. With Amos Pickett. Stand up, and he’ll back off.”
Matty pushed his plate away. “Probably. Or sink your boat.”
“Aren’t you the jolly one.”
“Tonight I’m the grim reaper.” He looked at two girls passing by in blue jeans and cowboy hats. They tipped their hats as they passed, and he followed them with his eyes. “I’d like to grimly reap one of those two,” he said, deadpan.
The staccato stutterings of the auctioneer started up over a microphone. They listened for a while and decided to get up. They ambled over to the tent. Inside, rows of tables offered junk of every description. The auctioneer talked so fast that Clay couldn’t understand a word. Two helpers carried larger items onto a stage where the auctioneer stood. Smaller items were referred to by lot numbers off a master list.
“I’ll get us a refill,” Matty said, reaching for Clay’s cup. “Let’s get hammered.”
Clay watched the auction, half curious because he had never seen one before. He watched brass beds and oak tables, oil paintings, and cheap glassware sell, each in a matter of minutes. When Matty did not return, he walked along the tables, checking out the objects for sale. He saw a pocket watch with a gold back and chain that he liked. He had always wanted a pocket watch. An old brass ship’s telescope sat on one of the
tables. He picked it up and put it to his eye. He could see little in the dim light of the tent, though the lenses were intact. Auctions must thrive on dim light, he thought. He replaced the telescope and then saw, sitting close to it, a thin seashell, the size of his palm and perfect in shape. On its inside surface was painted a miniature landscape—a farmhouse, not unlike the one he and Byron lived in, and a barn and pasture, and tiny cows and a flagpole with an American flag blowing in the wind. He had never seen anything quite like it. It was number 27. After three or four more items were sold, he understood number 24 was on the block. He waited and Matty did not return. He listened and watched as numbers 25 and 26 were sold, and then when 27 came up, he just reached up his hand and held it up, and the auctioneer said, “Sold!” pointing in his direction. He had bought it for eleven dollars. He paid the money to the lady at the table, took the shell, which was wrapped in a piece of tissue, and carefully put it in the pocket of his blue jean jacket. He had bought it without ever really thinking of what he was doing. He would give it to Kate. A gesture of thanks, he told himself, for her kindness. He walked out of the tent and met Matty, who was heading back in.
“Jesus, I’m sorry, Clay. I’ve been running into people everywhere. Here’s your drink. Let’s head for the party. C’mon.”
“Somewhere out there,” Matty said as they walked toward the barn, “lies a trap or a promise.”
“I’m the one needs to be trapped,” Clay said. “Trapped and treed.”
“Desire can strip a man clean.”
Clay looked at Matty. He had nothing to add.
“I’ve got questions.”
“You’ve got everything. Except a grip.”
“Who wants a grip?”
“I do,” Clay answered. But Matty had walked ahead.
Inside the barn, paper streamers decked the rafters, and balloons bounced high against the roof. Near the band, a microphone was set up for the callers. An introduction had just been made, and a square dance started. Three girls began right out dancing together.
Clay and Matty found a fenced livestock stall to lean against. While watching the women dance and watching others take to the floor, they drank their beers. Clay went off by himself and took a slow tour of the crowd in the barn. He thought to begin a conversation with a slim brunet over by one of the slot machines, but the music was loud, and his mind was elsewhere. He settled back next to Matty, who hadn’t moved. When the music stopped, two women approached. They came up to them from the side, and one of the women said hello. Matty hadn’t seen them approach, but he turned quickly at the woman’s voice. The one who had spoken was stunning. She was dark haired and olive complexioned, with a high forehead and an exotic, almost haughty air. She wore a long red-patterned cotton skirt and a blousy shirt that was tight at the waist, showing a fine figure. Her sleeves were rolled up. Her hands were on her hips. As Matty turned in surprise at her voice, she laughed and flipped her head slightly, throwing her hair back, a gesture that reminded Clay of Kate.
“Matty,” she said lightly, “this is my cousin Celeste. Celeste, this is my friend Matty.”
Clay thought the one who spoke looked familiar, and then it came to him.
Celeste held out her hand, and Matty shook it. “Celeste,” he said, “it is a pleasure. Please meet my friend Clay Wakeman. And Clay,” he went on, turning toward the girl who had spoken, “this is Rosa Satie. A client. She’s a model.”
“Hello, Clay,” Rosa said. She spoke with clear, impeccable pronunciation, but with a hint of a European accent.
“Hello, Clay,” Celeste repeated.
“My pleasure. Twice.” Clay took each hand in turn.
“Celeste is visiting our family,” Rosa said to Clay, as if there were a need for an explanation. “She may stay all summer. She is a student in California. Her parents are from Castille. She is learning English.” She turned toward Celeste, who blushed. Celeste was thin. She reminded Clay of a sparrow.
“Rosa,” Matty broke in. “Would you have a dance with me?”
The band had taken a break, but someone had started playing records. Bob Dylan sang “Lay Lady Lay.” Rosa had offered Matty her hand and they were walking away. Clay considered asking Celeste also, to be polite, but sensed her discomfort and instead led her to one of the nearby tables. He tried to talk with her, but she had trouble understanding. She smiled and nodded but said little. Matty and Rosa remained on the dance floor for several songs. When they returned, Rosa had her arm linked in his.
“He’s a marvelous dancer,” she remarked. “He dances on air.”
Rosa and Matty sat, making light conversation, and then, over Clay’s protest, Rosa insisted on buying beers for everyone. She pulled Matty with her, and Matty pulled Clay. He followed them out to one of the far corrals. There, Matty took the small glass vial from his shirt. “Dessert time, Clay. Special occasion.” Matty had a shortened straw. Rosa went, and then Matty. This time Clay tried to pretend to partake. Without meaning to, he inhaled some and felt the jolt. Walking back, his head was rushing like a heavy sea.
The caller started again. Matty and Rosa pulled Clay and Celeste out and made them try the Virginia reel. A large crowd was square dancing and Clay lost track of everyone. Back at the table, he found Celeste, alone. She smiled but didn’t speak. Night had fallen, and outside, the lanterns glowed in the air and the summer insects whirled. After a while Matty and Rosa returned, hot and sweaty from the dance. Matty gave Clay a five-dollar bill and asked him to bring four more beers back. Clay told Matty to walk with him. It was in the line at the keg that Matty, stumbling through his words, told Clay about Rosa. That they were having a fling. “Fling’s not the right word,” he said. “She’s burning into my heart. It’s on fire. I’m in love with two women.”
Clay walked out soon after. He was dizzy and disoriented. Matty had given him the keys, telling him he would get a ride home with Rosa. Clay found a fence post to lean against over past the barbecue pits. He took a few deep breaths. Through the smoke, he thought he saw a familiar face. Then two. He wasn’t sure. The smoke was thick and their faces were shrouded. The first looked like Hugo Brigman. He was talking to the second, unmistakably the man with the ponytail and earring. They turned and moved away from him. Clay pushed off the fence post, his head spinning. He walked through the field and managed to find the car.
He drove slowly back. He passed the turnoff to Indigo Seafood and continued down the highway. He veered off toward Bavon and went down the long gravel drive to the Waterman’s Hole. It was closing but sold him a last-call whiskey, which he took outside to the dock. He sat in the silence of the summer night. A light breeze cooled his face and brushed the halyard of a lone sailboat against its mast. He could hear the cicadas from the nearby woods. He watched a near-full moon rise over the creek and bay, backlighting the shadowed horizon and firing a swath across the water, to the other side of Mobjack’s shining mouth. He wondered at its brightness and then at the strangeness of human behavior, and of coincidence. He stayed until the moon was well overhead and, trying to regain his sense of balance, drove back through the glistening fields of corn to Kate and Matty’s house.
23
Clay slept late. When he got downstairs, Matty was already gone. He had left a note. Clay’s head buzzed as he read it.
“On my way to Richmond,” it read. “Sorry about last night. I needed to talk. Compulsion. Be back in a few days. Matty.”
Clay showered and dressed. He drove the truck to the Highway Diner and ordered a big breakfast, which made him feel better. His plan was to find Amos Pickett. To confront the problem. Then he would make the decision. Outside, the day was hot, the sun rising in the sky over the fields. He drove to Pepper Creek, but again the Vena Lee wasn’t there. He stopped back by the cottage to wait awhile. Kate met him at the door.
“We’re going to the beach,” she said. “I’m taking you. It’s Sunday and I need some sun. I’ve had enough of grown-ups. That bad boy Matty is off again, but he’s making h
is own way. And you deserve a day off. I’ll be your chaperone.” He told her he couldn’t. “It’s Sunday,” she pleaded. “I drove back early to be here.” Something in her eyes wouldn’t let him say no. He showed her the painted shell he had bought for her. She took it and turned it over and over in her hand. Then she put it on the mantel, leaning it carefully against the mirror over the fireplace. “It’s so delicate,” she said. She saw herself in the mirror and shook her hair loose. “C’mon,” she said. “The sun is calling.”
Kate knew a place on the north end of Virginia Beach, away from the crowds. Clay drove the truck and she directed him there. She had a blanket, a cooler, and beach chairs, and they set up camp just above the breaker line.
“We’ve got enough stuff to be on safari,” Clay mumbled.
“When you go, you got to go in style,” she pronounced.
“We look like an Arab encampment. You must be the belly dancer.”
Kate had just wiggled out of her jeans, revealing a bikini beneath. She threw the jeans in his face, then picked up a small seashell and tried to put it in her belly button. She ran down to the water, and Clay followed her. It was cold, and neither went in further than their knees. They watched the breakers fold over themselves and slide down the shore. The warm sun felt like a balm on their skin.
They had pâté out of the cooler, with French bread and a chilled Chablis Kate had brought back from Maryland. She even had canned peaches for dessert. Kate fed Clay a peach, dripping the syrup on his chest.
They washed their hands and faces in the surf and kicked spray on each other. They took a walk down the beach. Gulls and terns hovered overhead in the light breeze. Sandpipers were all along the beach, scampering ahead of the surge. Four pelicans cruised the water beyond the breakers, gliding over the surface looking for shadows underneath. Occasionally, one would swiftly rise up, as if lifted by a thermal, and then fall like a dart into the water. Kate and Clay walked back, their feet in the sea. Back on the blanket Kate lay on her stomach. Clay asked if she’d like him to spread lotion on her back and she laughed. She unfastened the back of her top. He sat next to her, his arms around his knees, watching the ocean, watching her tanned shoulders in the sun. Lying there, she told him about the steeplechase. She had competed with her father. Her horse was a three-year-old chestnut gelding, and she had done well. Her father would expect her to go fox hunting in the fall. On the last hunt, she said, the riders had fox’s blood smeared on their foreheads. It bothered her more than ever before. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to hunt again. She sat up, holding her bikini top to her breasts.