by J. J. Murray
I cruise around West Main and see a few minor changes, mostly in the names of businesses. Village Pizza is now Little Vincent’s Pizza, and Century Lanes is now a Walbaum’s Supermarket. I wonder if they bowl turkeys there around Thanksgiving. St. Pat’s is still here. Good old Catholic buildings don’t ever become bowling alleys. Bingo parlors, maybe. The Blue Dolphin is now the Golden Dolphin, the Hamburger Choo Choo has ridden out of town, the Hungry Boar has gone off in search of greener pastures, and Herman and Ray’s is now called Munday’s. Finnegan’s is still here. Irish pubs never die. R.L. Simpson is now part of the Huntington Town Hall Building, and Hecksher Park has new paths and a bigger children’s playground.
And the pond is still green.
Tired of sightseeing, I take Southdown Road past the Southdown Community Market, where I used to buy beef jerky and Slim Jims, to Preston Street, my hands sweating slightly. Up the hill, a left on Drohan Street, and a right on Grace Lane and—
There’s a white woman in Candace Mills’s old yard. She’s planting bulbs around the oak tree, where Ebony and I once planted petunias. It just doesn’t seem right somehow. A huge tan van, complete with a wheelchair lift, sits in the driveway in front of a car covered by a tarp. The house itself doesn’t look as if it has changed much: same royal blue shutters, same gray wood siding, and same white door. When I cruise by a second time, the woman looks up, waves her trowel at me, and I keep cruising.
I loop around again to Preston Street and head to my old house, parking the Nova in front of Mrs. Hite’s hydrangea bushes, now grown to nearly ten feet high. Once they grew four feet tall, she couldn’t reach high enough to trim them. I wonder if she’s still around.
The Captain’s old house still stands, the cedar shingles looking warped and gray. I wonder what the newest owners paid for it. Since no one seems home, I slip around the side of the house to the back path and see the deck, still there among the trees. I thought the Captain was crazy for putting it back there, but now it looks as if it belongs there, almost as if the trees are holding it in place. While the edge of the house slowly ambles closer to the bank, the deck has held, sentinel trees guarding it from a house heading out to sea.
I slip down the slope beside the deck and head to the cistern, the Cave, only to find it has been filled with cement. Another hallowed place gone. But the woods…our woods…they’re still here.
Yes, when I was home, I was in a far better place.
On my way to the yacht club, I remember the November day in 1990 when I came to the funeral parlor to view the Captain’s body, his lips pale, his chin set, his weak eye bulging, his hands folded gently on his chest. He looked so waxen, much like the so-called professionals associated with his funeral. The Captain’s will called for cremation, but the funeral parlor folks said, “No, what you want is a military funeral.” It’s not what the Captain specified in his will, I told them, but they were persistent, almost as persistent as the new pastor at the Methodist church the Captain hadn’t attended in twenty years. “He would have wanted the service to be here.”
Everybody had his or her hand out: pay the preacher, pay the organist, pay the soloist, pay the funeral parlor, pay for the programs, pay $2,000 up front—all this for a simple cremation. I even had a guy try to sell me a “choice plot of land” at a cemetery, saying, “You’re never too young to start thinking about death, and if you pay now, you’ll spare your relatives in their time of grief.” What relatives? I’m the only Underhill left!
I fish in my wallet for a little note I wrote to myself almost eleven years ago, finding it sandwiched between two expired Visa cards: “Cremate me and spread my ashes over Mrs. Candace Mills’s garden.” I crumple it up and squeeze it into the ashtray. Another idea balled up and buried.
I had even looked into the Navy’s Mortuary Affairs Burial at Sea Program. According to the official, acronym-crazy Navy, I was the PADD (Person Authorized to Direct Disposition) in charge of my father’s Cremains (Cremated Remains) and would have to complete a BASRF (Burial-at-Sea Request Form) and include a copy of the death certificate, the burial transit permit or the cremation certificate, and a copy of DD Form 214, a discharge certificate or retirement order.
I couldn’t find the Captain’s discharge papers, and inquiries to the Department of Defense yielded: “It’ll take us a few days. What years did he serve again?”
I didn’t feel I had the time—I was still “in like” with Edie then and wanted to get back home to her—so I called around to bona fide companies specializing in burials at sea. For $150 if I wasn’t there and $600 if a charter boat was used, they would sprinkle the Captain’s ashes in Great South Bay. No wonder the fishing’s always so good there. I have found out since that Rock Hudson, Steve McQueen, Janis Joplin, Jerry Garcia, L. Ron Hubbard, Vincent Price, Robert Mitchum, and Ingrid Bergman were scattered at sea—interesting company for the Captain. Who wouldn’t he argue with?
But like half the folks who have had loved ones cremated, I took the Captain home—sort of. I took him to his home, the Argo. I had him placed in a cremation urn called, appropriately, “The Captain,” an eight-inch solid oak cube complete with a brass nameplate and the Navy emblem, and I secured the box under the plank from the Iowa. It’s the Captain’s little shrine. I guess one day I’ll scatter him out in the Sound, but until then, I’ll have the Captain’s bones rattling around on the boat he loved more than me. They say cremated remains look like crushed seashells, but I doubt the Captain’s remains are that beautiful. I had him cremated in his dungarees, Navy pea coat, plain white T-shirt, black shoes, and white socks—his eternal fashion statement.
But that memorial service of his was a completely unexpected event. I still don’t know how anybody knew about it. The Long-Islander ran the obituary without his picture, so I didn’t expect anyone to come. Yet…they did.
I stood in back of the church watching grown black and white men walking up to the casket, whispering something to the Captain, and moving on. It was just me walking down front to start the service. The organist played the National Anthem, the preacher read from the Old and New Testaments, someone prayed, and I barely heard the sermon. The organist then played the Navy Hymn (“Abide With Me”), and every man behind me stood and sang it loud and strong. I still get goose bumps just thinking about that. After the benediction, four burly black men carried the Captain out to the hearse. I assumed at the time that they worked for the funeral parlor, but they quickly set me straight. In the receiving line—again, I was the only one anyone was consoling—these four grizzled old black men wished me “fair winds and following seas,” told me that the Captain was the “king of the Mighty I” and the “prince of the Big Stick,” told me “your daddy was a terrible canasta player, but a true shipmate.” A younger black man, wearing his Navy uniform, told me that his father, a mess steward, and my father were friends. An older black man said he used to work belowdecks in the Black Gang, but that my father always said hello. The last, a young black man no more than twenty, who had come all the way from California, said that his grandfather Marcus Minor had been killed on board the USS Thompson and that “his final resting place was on the Iowa in your daddy’s arms.”
Strange I remember all that as I drive on West Shore Road, which follows the curves of Huntington Bay. My racist daddy had an integrated funeral. I wonder if he was pissed about it…wherever he is now.
I look out over the harbor. “Water looks choppy, good day for a sail,” the Captain would have said. I wouldn’t dare take out the Argo today. One does not take one’s home into harm’s way when one is not a good sailor.
After easing into the Huntington Yacht Club parking lot, I stare out at the Argo and wonder again why, after nearly eleven years, I remember what those men said at the Captain’s funeral. He was a hero to those guys, but why? I had always thought that if heroism depended on lost causes, then the Captain had died too young. He had died undefeated in his berth, died peacefully on his ship, the Argo. It wasn’t the way he would
have wanted to go out of this life. A storm and a watery grave would have been better for him. It was lucky someone from the yacht club had gone out to check on him when they hadn’t heard from him for a few days.
I walk into the yacht club expecting a hefty bill that will wipe out my advance. Eleven years’ dues must come to…I don’t want to think about it. And from the looks of all the remodeling done since I visited last, it’s going to be an extremely hefty bill. The clubhouse, docks, pool, dock house, restaurant, and lounge—everything looks brand new. But where is everybody? The place is usually crawling with people on Saturday afternoons. I wander past two ladies’ rooms—I don’t even remember one in the old days—and a beautiful trophy display case, many announcing the winners of the winter Frostbite races. The Captain and I endured many of those icy races, and though we never won, we were always in the lead pack. Wish we had a trophy with our names on it in there.
“Pete? Pete Underhill?”
I turn and see a vaguely familiar face. “Mr…. Cutter?”
He shakes my hand vigorously. “You remember!” He lets go of my hand. Stooped, jowly, and always sporting a baseball cap of some kind, Mr. Cutter is the yacht club director and one of the oldest members. “You know, you’re looking more and more like your daddy every day. What’s it been, ten years?”
“Almost eleven.”
“And you’re here because…”
“I’m here to settle up my father’s bill, maybe spend some time on the Argo.”
“Splendid, splendid. But what do you mean about settling up? Your daddy is a lifetime member.”
“He…was?” He always told me the only reason he joined at all was for the decent deep-water mooring and boat taxi service so he wouldn’t have to use the dinghy as much.
Mr. Cutter points to a plaque inside the case. “He’s listed right there.”
I see his name—John D. Underhill—gleaming back at me. “When did he become a lifetime member?”
“Far as I know he had always been a lifetime member, and now the membership passes to you.” He drapes an arm around me. “Not much going on around here since nine-eleven. Battening down the hatches, that sort of thing. Anything you need right away?”
“I guess I’ll need a ride out to the Argo.”
He squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll take you myself.”
We head down to the docks and get into a small orange Zodiac, the kind of rubber boat Jacques Cousteau used on his voyages. “Any service done on her recently?”
He pull-starts the outboard. “We pull her out once a year, clean her stem to stern, run and tune the engine. She’s in perfect condition, an incredible ship. What is she, almost seventy years old now?”
“Think so.”
“They don’t make them like that anymore.” He eases away from the dock. “You aren’t thinking about selling her, are you?”
“No.”
“I’ve had lots of offers over the years.”
I smile. “She belongs to me now.”
Mr. Cutter throttles down as we near the deep-water moorings. “What kept you away for so long, Pete?”
“Long story.”
“Well, you’re here now, right?”
We cruise past larger, more modern yachts in the sixty-foot range to a gap, and there’s the Argo at rest, a dark hulk with its sails down.
Mr. Cutter eases the water-taxi alongside. “You got a cell phone, Pete?”
“No.”
“Get one. It’ll save you on your radio batteries and the commute to shore. Just call, and a taxi will pick you up.”
“Um, is this part of the membership?”
“Sure is.”
I slide my carry-on and laptop onto the deck. “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Cutter.”
“No problem, Pete. Good to have you back.”
The Argo doesn’t seem as big as I remember, but it is still in pristine condition. Eleven years bobbing in Huntington Bay haven’t hurt it at all. I first check out the engine, turning over the Volvo. It still purrs like a dream. I leave it running to, as the Captain used to say, “juice the batteries.” Once in the galley I open all the wooden blinds and windows and smile. I am in a museum. Everything glistens and shines—the wooden bench, the tabletop, the paneling, even the Iowa plank and the Captain’s urn. Not a speck of dust anywhere, which is extremely odd. Someone has to have been cleaning recently, the scent of lemon in the air. Who would clean a ghost ship? Maybe cleaning is part of the membership, too. I open the doors to the head and my old berth and find more spotlessness, my bunk completely free of dust. I don’t open the Captain’s door. I can’t quite do that yet. But why is everything so clean? It’s as if someone knew I was coming.
“Ensign Peter Underhill, reporting for duty, Captain,” I say to the Captain’s urn. I run my fingers over his name on the brass plate. “But as usual, there’s nothing for Ensign Underhill to do on your boat.”
I unload my clothing in my berth, make up my bunk, and take the laptop out on deck. The battery will give me two hours of writing tops, and this wind will bite through me before then. I’ll have to do most of my writing belowdecks or in the clubhouse at the yacht club.
Then, as the Argo rocks with an occasional roll, I resume Promises to Keep, first examining the last paragraph I couldn’t finish yesterday:
A door slammed above them, the door to the kitchen slammed, the door to the kitchen slammed and rattled and footsteps came down the narrow path to the deck and
You weren’t supposed to be home, Captain. You were supposed to be out sailing. Ebony and I had so little time together…and you came storming into our oasis.
A larger wave, the wake of a passing fishing boat, shakes the Argo, and after it passes, I swear I hear the rattling of the Captain’s bones down in the galley. I delete my unfinished paragraph, and continue:
“What the hell’s going on under there?”
Ebony popped out from under the deck first. “Hi, Mr. Underhill.”
The Captain’s eyes popped, and his face turned beet red. “You…you get out of here this instant!”
“What’d I do?” she asked, not moving.
Peter ducked under the eaves of the deck but kept his eyes glued to the leaves at his feet. He couldn’t speak.
“I told you to leave, Missy.”
“My name ain’t Missy. It’s Ebony.”
Peter touched Ebony’s elbow. “Just go,” he whispered.
“We weren’t doin’ nothin’ wrong, Peter.”
“Please go,” Peter whispered again.
“I ain’t leavin’.” She looked up at the Captain and smiled. “So how you doin’, Mr. Underhill? Didn’t you go sailing today?”
“Pete…inside.” The Captain slammed up the deck stairs and disappeared around the side of the house. In a moment, Peter flinched as the screen door slammed.
“I better go, E.,” Peter said as he started trudging up the slope.
“Where you goin’, Peter?”
“I’m in trouble, E. Big trouble.” He reached the top of the slope and wiped a few leaves from his pants. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
“Later, like when?”
“I don’t know.”
“I wasn’t finished with you.”
“Pete!” the Captain called from the kitchen window. “Get your ass up here pronto!”
“Please go, Ebony.”
“I don’t want to leave you, Peter. Meet me at the Cave after dark.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Promise me.”
Peter sighed. “I can’t promise.”
Ebony blinked. “Yes, you can, and you will.” She bit her lip. “Promise me you’ll meet me later.”
“I promise.”
After sighing “You and your daddy” and shaking her head, Ebony backed down the slope then tore off through the woods, her shiny legs flashing like her eyes, her legs replaced by trees that never moved.
When Peter entered the kitchen, it was as if Minos, the judge of the
damned in hell, had set up shop in the kitchen. The Captain sat at the head of the table tapping the knuckles of his fists, his teeth audibly grinding together.
“What in the hell do you think you were doing down there, Pete?” the Captain hissed, frowning grotesquely.
Peter felt as if he were falling through space. He stood at the window and looked into the woods at the silence, at the quiet, at the swaying limbs calling him back, storm clouds gathering above them. “I wasn’t doing anything, Captain.”
“So you say, but I know you’re lying. Look at me, boy!”
Peter turned from the window but focused on the linoleum floor. “We weren’t doing anything, I swear. We were just talking.” With our hands and lips, he thought. I like talking like that.
“Just talking. You could have been talking out on top of the deck, right? But no, you were hiding out underneath, which lets me know you were up to no good.”
“It’s shadier underneath.” And we can’t talk with our hands and lips on top of the deck.
“It’s shady everywhere back in those woods! I know what you two have been doing. It is a wide and easy passage that snares a man’s soul.”
Peter blinked. “Is that in the Bible?”
The Captain’s knuckle rapping stopped. “Of course it is, I’m sure it is. Aren’t you the least bit ashamed of yourself?”
No, Peter thought. “Yes,” he said eventually, cursing God but not cursing the Captain since it was God who had made him. “Yes, Captain, I am ashamed.” Mainly for how I didn’t stand up to you in front of Ebony.
“Have you lost your mind? What were you thinking?” He pounded the kitchen table. “Answer me!”
You’ll never know those thoughts, Peter thought. Those are between me, Ebony, and God. “I’m sorry, Captain.” But I’m not. I was just thinking about it. I know my hands were thinking about it. But her butt was so smooth!
“You’re sorry. That is the truth. You are a sorry excuse for a son. And in plain sight? Anyone could have seen you two.”