Of Sea and Cloud

by Jon Keller

  Jesus fucking Christ, Bill yelled into the wind. He went to the stern and grabbed a fish tray and lifted it to the washrail. He held it on the rail and he tried to keep his balance as water drilled against him and broke against the gunwales.

  Hurry the fuck up, Virgil shouted. He maneuvered farther into the swell and the bow dove and surfaced with a shower of water over the house and onto Bill and it nearly knocked him over. Jonah pushed past Virgil and went to the stern and grabbed the skull from the tray and dropped it overboard and it disappeared too fast. Water poured over both brothers and they faced each other as each silently beseeched the other. Then Bill reached into the tray and dropped a bone overboard. Jonah did so as well and they stood there on the stern with the ocean churning and seething as they tossed their father into the chop bone by bone by bone and Virgil glanced back and bit his cheeks with his molars and pinched his eyes closed and said out loud, God help us.

  Celeste sat on the edge of the bed and placed her hand on Virgil’s foot. The skin was damp and the foot swollen. Veins rose black beneath the skin and Celeste thought for the thousandth time that her husband had spent more waking hours at sea than on dry land. His body proved that. Hundreds of thousands of hours squinting over wave and through fog or into sun and it was no wonder that his reality was so different from her own.

  Through the window she could see the small cove and the old towering spruces and the chunks of salt ice that scoured the shoreline. Virgil shivered beneath the blankets. He lit a cigarette then rolled onto his back and set the ashtray on his stomach. He smoked the cigarette down as Celeste watched.

  She swallowed. She couldn’t tell if she was angry or scared or disgusted. She said, I don’t know what you’re doing, and frankly I don’t care. You’re killing yourself and you’re taking Jonah with you. If you want to hurt yourself then goddamn it don’t do it around your family and don’t do it around Jonah. Just crawl off into the bushes and die on your own.

  Maybe I will.

  I will not allow you to drag Jonah down with you. And I will not allow you to go down. Nicolas died by accident. Even the Coast Guard said so. I’m sorry, but people die and we all have to deal with that. And Osmond Randolph might be a strange man or a bad man but he’s no murderer. And if he is that’s up to the cops. Not you.

  Nic wouldn’t get caught in a trap warp. It’s not right.

  Then call the cops. Call the FBI. I don’t know what happened and neither do you.

  It ain’t right, Virgil said. They found his boat out past Spencer Ledges. His boat shouldn’t have been out that far.

  Virgil’s voice drifted off and he closed his eyes. Celeste heard the deliberation in his breaths. She brought her legs up onto the bed and crossed them ankle to ankle. She looked up at the ceiling white and shadowless. Her voice was soft when she spoke. You can’t call the police now, can you? It’s too late, isn’t it? You dumped his body. That’s what you three were doing today. Now it’s done, at least.

  Virgil opened his eyes.

  She leaned forward and kissed him. Her lips lingered on the big loose cheek. She whispered into his ear, I’m proud of you for that, Virgil. Nicolas would have wanted you and his sons to do that. I’m scared of what is going to happen, but goddamn it I believe you did the right thing today.

  Virgil’s pupils shifted back and forth. Celeste wondered with a feeling like a waterspout pressing her chest if her husband was right about all of it. She could feel his heart thumping against the silence then a series of muscle spasms shook the mattress and Virgil lifted his torso from the bed.

  Celeste put her hand on his forehead. I’m calling a doctor.

  I’m fine. Tired is all.

  You are not fine. You have a fever and you’re shivering, Virgil. She ran her hand down the side of his neck and onto his bicep. And you’re soaked.

  It got cold out there.

  If you don’t look better in the morning, I’m calling a doctor.

  Fine.

  I know you miss Nicolas, she said. But this isn’t helping. Whatever this is. I told you that I trust you and I believe in what you did today, but that is as far as I go. This madness has got to end because my trust is about to.

  Osmond crossed the bridge over the river. The traffic was fast and steady and streamed in patterns he had trouble discerning. He stole glimpses at the barges and the tugs and the murky water below. He dipped into the tunnel and it glistened and howled like a wolf throat and when he came up he was in the city. He turned off the interstate and took several turns and drove through an industrial area on a wide empty street with dark puddles and piles of dirty snow. He parked beside a warehouse lined with refrigerated trucks and dumpsters and a stack of wooden pallets and three broken-down ice machines.

  Daniel sat at a desk and smoked a cigarette and wore a suit and tie. He stood when Osmond came in. He was a foot shorter than Osmond but he was stocky and muscled. They shook hands.

  I’m glad you came down here. How was the drive? New bridge. New tunnel.

  Fine. You’ve done well, Osmond said as if Daniel himself had built the bridge and tunnel.

  Check this out, Daniel said. He opened the large metal door and led Osmond into a tank room which held one swimming pool–sized tank and other smaller tanks along the periphery. Stacks of blue and gray lobster crates lined one wall. A man on a forklift sped by. The sound of running and bubbling water and exhaust fans echoed throughout the warehouse. The room smelled like saltwater and bleach.

  Here it is, said Daniel.

  Osmond peered into the new tank. The sides came to his waist. The bottom was clear blue like a swimming pool and lined with metal aerators. Cables spanned the tank creating lanes that held neat rows of submerged lobster crates. Osmond put his hand into the water and swished it around.

  Good, he said.

  The forklift shut off and the man who’d been operating it crossed the wet concrete floor and stood in front of Osmond. He was Osmond’s height and had a round stomach which hung from beneath his white laboratory jacket. He wore cutoff sweatpants and rubber boots and his beard was gray and white and his nose was big and round.

  Osmond my man, he said. His voice was loud.

  Jason. How are you?

  Staying the course, Osmond.

  I’m glad to hear it.

  And you’re joining me tonight?

  That is the plan, Osmond said.

  I’m happy, said Jason. Come with me.

  The three men walked around the tank and into a smaller refrigerated room. The smooth wet concrete floor was covered in pallets and the pallets were covered in big eye and skipjack tuna and broadbill swordfish and striped marlin. Each fish had a wedge of meat cut from its tail and the wedges were set atop the fish.

  I bought these in Honolulu yesterday, Jason said. He bent over and shoved his hand into a big eye’s gills and nodded at the temperature. He took the wedges of meat from two big eyes and held them next to each other. Both pieces were red but one was dark and cherry as new blood. The other looked like cheap beef.

  See that, Jason said. That’s a three-dollar-a-pound difference right there.

  He drew a knife out of a plastic scabbard attached to his boot and sliced deeper into the dark tuna and cut off an additional wedge of meat.

  Open up, Jason said.

  Osmond opened his mouth and Jason placed the meat on Osmond’s tongue.

  Osmond let it dissolve for a second then chewed. He nodded his approval.

  All longlined down there. It’s all Japanese run in Hawaii. The Japs know what they have. They know how to treat a fish, unlike these poor Italian bastards around here. The Mediterranean is beautiful and the people are beautiful but they are slobs, Osmond. Absolute fucking slobs.

  Jason looked at his watch and said, We’re getting set for an auction in a few minutes. Stick around. This is our first time buying from Honolulu.

  Osmond stood against the back wall and sipped a cup of coffee as fifteen men and women arrived and examined the fish. D
aniel poured himself a cup of coffee and stood next to Osmond. This is how they do it in Japan. One fish at a time.

  I’ve seen it done, Osmond said.

  In Japan?

  Portland used to do it.

  Yes, said Daniel. We don’t get enough fish here but Jason will start a line with Honolulu. Honolulu is skeptical but you know Jason.

  Yes, said Osmond with a nod.

  The buyers all held clipboards and Jason led them up and down the aisles of pallets. He started the bidding on each fish and the process was fast and Osmond couldn’t understand the quick and thick Boston accents. When the bidding stopped Jason wrote the buyer’s name and the price on a tag and set it atop the fish. The buyers were chefs and restaurateurs and specialty marketers and purveyors.

  When the auction was finished Jason gave his clipboard to Daniel and took Osmond by the elbow and led him back into the tank room. Jason was sweating and his shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and his laboratory jacket flopped open. They climbed a set of stairs to Jason’s office which had a window viewing the lobster tanks and one facing the harbor. The walls were dark mahogany. Osmond sat on a black leather couch. Jason went to a small glass bar and poured two glasses of sake and handed one to Osmond.

  He sat at his desk. To a good year, he said.

  To a good year, Osmond repeated.

  Jason licked his lips. It’s hard to get good sake in this city, he said. There’s mostly Chinese here.

  You have friends in Japan.

  This is from Honolulu, and I wouldn’t call them friends. I have what they want so they give me what I want. You know how it is. Those little ratfuckers would as soon eat my balls off my ass as toro off a mermaid.

  He put his glass down and eased his weight onto his elbows. His lab coat stretched across his back and shoulders. How much product is left in your pound?

  Fifty minus shrinkage.

  Which is what? Ten percent?

  Roughly. Eight to fifteen lately.

  That’s a lot of loss.

  Osmond nodded and he thought of Bill’s intention to kill all of the crows. It is not an arc. It’s a pound. We deal with the otters and gulls.

  Fucking raccoons, said Jason.

  Yes, the raccoons as well.

  I’m sorry about Nicolas. He was a solid man.

  Yes, said Osmond and he moved forward as if to bow and he remembered the weight of Nicolas’s skull as he heaved it over the dam and again he wondered how the skull had ended up in the pound. He’d tried over and over to imagine the body floating its way into the pound but he knew that to be impossible and he knew the notion of accident to be nothing more than a naive explanation of an action that began when the world began so the question was simply who?

  But Nicolas was not always easy to deal with, said Jason. The last time I spoke with him, things did not go well. He had no interest in our plans. I trust your mind has not changed?

  Osmond waited for his pulse to slow. My mind has not changed.

  Jason leaned his weight back. He finished his drink. Good, he said. Now tell me if what I say is mistaken. Jason waited for a response and when Osmond nodded his consent Jason continued. The pound is incorporated and you and Nicolas carried a key man policy. With Nicolas gone all of his shares revert to you, leaving you the sole owner.

  Osmond nodded and said, Yes.

  But Daniel tells me that Nicolas’s son was there for the pickup.

  Captain Bill, said Osmond.

  Are you thinking of selling Nicolas’s shares to William?

  He’s a good man. He’s honest and he works hard, Osmond said. He paused and considered what he would say then said, He believes that he is part owner already.

  Jason slid his chair back and stretched his legs out and crossed the rubber boots at the ankles. He reached down and pulled the knife and its scabbard from his boot and set it on his desk. He put his hands in his lab coat pockets. How does he believe that?

  Apparently Nicolas never told him about the policy.

  And neither have you.

  No, Osmond said.

  Because you aren’t sure what you will do yet?

  I am sure of myself.

  What will you do?

  I will run the pound.

  Jason straightened in his chair and lifted his shoulders up near his earlobes then settled. Nicolas’s son lacks vision?

  He lacks vision, yes. He’s a fisherman. Good fishermen are simple and they are greedy. Like sharks. They have to be.

  Nicolas’s death seems to benefit you, Osmond, Jason said and waited for Osmond to respond.

  After a full minute Osmond said, Don’t.

  All right. Forget that for now. I’ll tell you what, Jason said and stood and looked out the window at the harbor. What if we stop all of that loss? It was Nicolas who hated change, wasn’t it?

  Osmond sipped his drink.

  What we do is drain it and dredge it and rebuild it. We wire in aerators and we make it the nicest lobster pound in the fucking world. You have big tides there, plenty of clean water and not a drop of fresh water. What limits us is size and size is always negotiable.

  Osmond stared at him.

  Here’s the other thing, Jason said. What’s wrong with the market? The price is gone, right? That’s because there’s too much product, plain and simple. All this talk about Icelandic banks pulling processor funding from the Canadians, and the goddamned cruise lines cutting back—that shit’s all well and good, but that doesn’t matter to me. What matters to me is basic economics. Supply and demand. You highlining bastards catch a ton of lobster or more a day. Maybe two or three tons. You can’t expect the demand to keep up with that, Icelandic banks and cruise ships or not. You got all these agencies and promotion councils spending all your money on marketing and bullshit when all you need to do is slow down. But you won’t do that because your ball-size depends on how many bugs you catch.

  Jason wiped his forehead.

  But what exists in this shitty market are little niches, Osmond. Little niches that pay as well as ever. You’ll always get top dollar for top quality. Period. That’s a word you never, ever hear in the fisheries. Quality. Most guys catch a ton of product and three quarters of them are hollow and their tomalley tastes like mud. That won’t sell, especially with the Canadian processors offline.

  Osmond crossed his arms. You’re rattling, Jason. Say what you need to say.

  Jason smiled.

  Good pound lobsters are a premium, but you knew that.

  Osmond waited. He thought about Julius. He thought about the future and this was it.

  Jason looked around and lifted his arms in the air and his voice was a whisper. It’s about water, Osmond. Clean, cold water. That’s where the market is. Here we have no space and we have no water. You have the water and the room and you have the catch coming in. I talked with Benji Beal. I can buy his wharf right now. We can rebuild the pound and build a seawater tank house next to it. We grade our own product. Top to bottom. We run the show on that coast. Fuck Iceland. Fuck Canada.

  Osmond swirled the sake around his glass and finished it in a gulp.

  I just visited my buyer in Japan, Jason said. I can move some high-end lobsters, Osmond, but they want to know those bugs come straight out of the fucking seawater. They don’t like these swimming pool pump house bugs. My man says he can taste the fake saltwater in them. He says the tomalley sucks. They want cold saltwater product but they want a lot of it and they want it to be consistent and perfect. The Chinese are the same. They want to slap a spiny little two-claw bastard on a plate and say that Osmond Randolph caught this thing yesterday and it’s still wet as a happy whore.

  Osmond stood and looked out the opposite window. Rows of crates strung together by their beckets filled the tank below. He wondered about Benji selling the wharf and he wondered about Nicolas and he wondered about the strange unrolling of the future but as he did so he saw his own destiny and that of his grandchildren together align like a star cluster turned constella
tion. I wouldn’t want to eat these tanked lobsters either, he said.

  Jason crossed the room and stood next to him and clapped his hand on Osmond’s back. Neither would I, my man. Neither would I. Think it over.

  The fishermen in that harbor won’t like the idea. Not one bit of it.

  Why not? At the very least, they’ll get the same price as any other wharf.

  It’s change, Jason. They don’t trust change. Especially from someone from away. They’ll never trust you.

  Not until I pay them half again as much as the next guy.

  Osmond nodded. They won’t like it. If you pay them more they’ll think you’re setting them up for something. It’s always the same story. Good promises then a good fucking.

  But you, Osmond? Do you like it?

  I wouldn’t say that.

  Jason sat back down and swiveled his chair around so he faced Osmond. There’s a new crowd of fishermen out there, Osmond. The younger generation. They got a hot nut to catch product and they got a hot nut to sell at top price. Their allegiance isn’t the same as their fathers’. They go where the money is. Money talks to these guys. They have big boats and they watch too much television.

  Osmond looked around the room. He sighed. I know it, he said. They’ve lost faith, and it is a shame. But in the harbor they listen to Virgil and Captain Bill and those two have faith in things that no longer exist.

  Much like yourself.

  Yes. Like myself, Jason. I don’t like change but I accept it. Technology has changed and the market has changed so we must change. Virgil and Bill, they will fight it. They think we are still an isolated harbor surrounded by an endless sea. They don’t know this is a global economy. They do not know the world exists. Their faith evolved from their grandfathers and earlier and they hold on to that because it is what they understand. And in a manner, I envy them. But my faith is in something larger than history or tradition.