Fisherman's Bend

by Linda Greenlaw

  “Roger. I’ll intercept your course just south of Green Haven.” And with this, Cal turned the Sea Pigeon back offshore. Within ten minutes we could see the Asprella heading toward us. As the ship grew near, I could see that she was a very large and well-maintained oil tanker. Seven hundred feet of hulking steel diminished Cal’s boat to suit her name. I was at sea on the back of a pigeon. The bright yellow shell painted high on the ship’s superstructure was further evidence that she was indeed a member of the oil fleet. The ship’s captain called Cal with some instructions, basically telling him that his intentions were to maintain course and speed at eighty-five degrees and twelve knots, allowing Cal to come along on the Asprella’s port side. On that side, just ahead of the bridge, there would be a rope ladder directly under which Cal was instructed to press the side of Sea Pigeon against some heavy chaffing gear and fenders. A deckhand would be the first to descend the ladder, lending assistance to the pilot if needed, the captain explained. Once the pilot was safely aboard, the deckhand would return to the Asprella, and Cal should pull away. To these instructions Cal replied, “Roger.” Knowing that we had just been through a similar drill capturing the circling Eva B., I had great confidence in Cal’s boat-handling skills even when running up against the huge tanker. But I was relieved to not be the one jumping ship this time.

  It went just as the captain suggested it should. Cal maneuvered alongside and against the rugged fenders just under the rope ladder, which was more of a net of coarse webbing, and held position there using the throttle to keep us against the Asprella’s hull. A small, sharp-faced man scrambled down and straddled the gap between the two boats, keeping one hand and one foot on the webbing. A canvas tote bag was lowered on a hook to the man who took it with his free hand. Next, the pilot appeared high above us. He was a much bigger man and was more careful on his way down. He looked before each step to the next rung and seemed reluctant to force the release of each handhold. Finally, he stepped onto the rail with a hand grasping the deckhand’s forearm, grabbed the tote bag, and jumped into the middle of the deck with a flat-footed thud. As soon as the deckhand saw the pilot safely on deck, he waved and scurried back up the ladder, as agile as could be. “Adios,” the pilot yelled cheerily after the deckhand, who quickly scaled the tanker’s mountainous wall. Then under his breath he muttered, “Fuckin’ monkey.”

  We were quiet as Cal pulled away from the expansive steel tanker, I suppose because it was a bit tense. The speed of the massive ship as it increased throttle was quite amazing, I thought. Something that big shouldn’t move that fast. When we passed her stern, I noticed the Asprella’s hailing port was Honduras. High in the rigging I saw the Honduran flag and recalled what I had learned in grade school regarding the significance of its markings. Blue stripes represented the Pacific Ocean and Caribbean Sea and white was the land between them. I couldn’t remember what the five stars depicted. I closed my eyes and saw flags from Cuba, Nicaragua, Haiti, and Honduras surrounding Old Glory on the classroom walls of Henry Flagler Elementary. Flagler, of railroad fame, was the first lesson every year—a way to create school pride and unite the factions of kids from the host of countries whose flags adorned our walls. A refugee of sorts, I fit right in with my Latino classmates, who hailed from every ethnic corner of the neighborhood. Ours was an incidental and circumstantial cultural integration—while desegregation busing was being enforced elsewhere, we were a thriving melting pot of inner-city kids unaware of Brown v. Board of Education. Funny, all I remembered about Henry Flagler now was that he married three times and died after falling down the stairs.

  Once we were in the clear of the Asprella’s wake and pointed back in the direction of Green Haven, the pilot introduced himself with quite a flourish of smiles and enthusiasm, not to mention volume. “Hello, folks! The name’s Kelley, Willard Kelley. I can’t thank youuuuu enough. What a lovely daaaaay, isn’t it?” The only urge stronger than the one to plug my ears was the one to hold my nose. Wow, I thought, Willard Kelley has been nipping something. He wasn’t, as far I could tell, intoxicated. But there were signs other than his breath that indicated that he had been drinking heavily in the not too distant past. He appeared to have sobered up with a shower as his hair was slicked back and he was heavily perfumed with aftershave: Old Spice, I thought. We exchanged names and handshakes, after which Kelley referred to Cal and me using our full names, Jane Bunker and Cal Dunham, and persistently drew out a random single-syllable word to the point of irritation.

  Kelley was a mammoth of a man. He towered over me and moved in close to talk. “So, my friend Parker had to be towed by the Coast Guaaaaard, did you say? My, my, that must certainly have ruined his daaaaay. Probably didn’t sell his lobsters yet, either. Too bad. Bad newwwwws.”

  “You’re a friend of Parker Alley?” I asked.

  “Well, not a close friend. But he’s been my pilot boat for years. Nice maaaaan. Do you know him?”

  “No,” I said, still wanting to know more about the missing fisherman. After a thoughtful pause to wait for Cal to launch into the story of how we happened upon the Eva B., I realized that Cal was not in the mood for conversation. He had turned on the radar, as it was getting dark, and was focused on navigating us into Green Haven. I thought it might be inconsiderate to allow Kelley to believe that Parker Alley’s bad luck was as simple as a broken-down boat. Thinking I could get information by giving information, I told the story, beginning with our trip and reason for going to Cobble Harbor that morning. Kelley listened with interest and interjected a few questions for more detail. He winced at appropriate places and shook his head in disbelief when I got to the part where we found the circling boat with nobody aboard. Kelley seemed genuinely saddened by the loss of a man with whom he had worked for so long.

  My ploy to learn more about Parker Alley was a complete failure. The apparent loss of his business associate seemed to have shaken Kelley into a silent mode. As Cal made the boat fast to the dock in the inner harbor, where I had met him so many hours ago, Kelley crossed himself, mumbled what I interpreted as a prayer, and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. Before heaving himself onto the rail and then onto the wharf, Kelley took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “Thank you both for everything. I very much appreciate your caaaaaaare and time in helping meeeee and for what you did for Parker Alley.” He reached into his canvas tote and pulled out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label, offering it to Cal.

  “No thanks. I don’t drink.” If only Cal knew that this was the favorite scotch of Winston Churchill, I thought, perhaps he’d accept the gift of thanks. Although I prefer the Green Label, I hoped the bottle would be offered to me. It was not. If I was going to splurge on anything, it would definitely be truly great whiskey. Johnnie disappeared into the depths of the bag, where he clinked against whatever other distilled treats were cloistered within.

  “You’re a better maaaaan than I, Cal Dunham. Thanks again. Now I’m off to fiiiiiind a lady friend. A gal in every port, right, ol’ boy? I’m in no rush to find my way back to Cobble Harbor. All work and noooo play…” With this he snickered and banged Cal on the back. “Just my luck, I’m walking distance to the chicken coop. Any port in a storm. No offense, Jane Bunker.”

  We said our goodbyes and watched Willard Kelley disappear on foot up the dock and into the parking lot. “What a rig,” Cal said with a smile as he snapped taut the hitch he’d made around a piling with the stern line. “I probably should have taken that jug and given it to you. Sorry I didn’t.”

  “I like single malts. Don’t usually drink blended whiskey,” I said with an air of superiority that I am sure went unappreciated. I climbed over the rail and onto the dock.

  “I wouldn’t know the difference,” Cal said as he joined me on the dock. We walked to Cal’s truck, where he opened the door and asked, “What’s next?”

  Although my heart wanted to search for Parker Alley, I knew that Cal was asking about the job we’d begun in Cobble Harbor this morning. “I’ll file the pa
perwork for the insurance claim and the police report and let you know if there will be follow-up with another trip. Other than that, I’ll wait for the next assignment and call you when I need a ride. Thanks for everything, Cal. We’ll settle up when I get a check from the Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Okay. Ride home?”

  Knowing that a walk up the hill would stretch my legs and clear my mind, I declined the offer of a ride and bid Cal good night. I slung the handles of my bag onto my shoulder, tucked my hands into my hip pockets, and struck out for home. Soon it would be my first winter in Maine—or at least the first one since I had been old enough to pay attention. I anticipated the cooler weather with a childish excitement. God, I thought, what if I couldn’t tolerate the cold? All of those snowbirds couldn’t be wrong. Snow angels and hot chocolate could be overrated. Autumn was certainly splendid, I thought, as the tempo of music through an open window quickened my pace. I hustled by the darkened doorways of the coffee shop and past the Old Maids. I imagined Marlena and Marilyn strategizing how to best hook customers into unnecessary purchases as they doted on their litter of Scottish Folds, their prized and odd cats that were fixtures as permanent as the cash register in the gals’ all-purpose store.

  The local businesses had shortened their hours, and would further reduce the times they were open by Thanksgiving, as the seasonal residents had left Green Haven in droves on Labor Day and were still trickling away. Many of those who would stay took great pride in their status as year-rounders, but the cachet of this had evaded me so far. I hoped it was not testimony to their toughness or need for survival skills. Full-time residents of Green Haven were quick to let you know how many generations their family had endured here. With this in mind, I realized that winter might be very difficult to bear. I’d soon know if the hardiness boasted of by the natives of this town was genetic or conditioned.

  I decided not to attempt to evade the motion-sensing lights in my landlords’ gift shop and sneak to my apartment unnoticed, so I walked right through the Vickersons’ front door after a knock and yelled, “Hello. Anybody home?”

  “Jane! Of course we’re home. Where else would we be at happy hour? Come in, come in,” Mrs. V called back in a tone that hinted that happy hour was well under way. I entered, closing the door behind me, and found the elderly couple whom I had come to adore—in spite of their many quirks and annoying habits—sipping highballs and splitting attention between the local nightly news and the stereo. “Where have you been, girl?” asked Alice. And before I could answer she added, “Henry, get Jane a drink.”

  “Great. Thanks, Mr. V. It’s been a long day,” I said and sank into the recliner that they always seemed to leave vacant for me.

  “What’ll you have?” Henry asked as he headed for the liquor cabinet.

  “Whatever you’re drinking will be fine, thanks.”

  Henry hesitated in mid-stride and reached for the volume knob on the stereo. “I love this part!” Turning the set back up, he sang along, “I picked a good one. It looked like it could run.” Although he was off-key, Henry was right on tempo with Marty Robbins’s lamenting of his lost love Feleena. Henry pumped a fist in the air and announced, “That man is a musical genius!”

  “Turn that down, dear,” Alice whined. “Jane and I want to visit and it’s almost time for the weather … Kevin Mannix … Channel six. He’s the genius.” Henry did as Alice requested and made his way to the well-stocked liquor cabinet. He returned seconds later with a healthy pour of some brown beverage over ice, handed it to me with a cocktail napkin printed with a phone number for the Betty Ford Center, and relaxed on his end of the couch. “Now, if you haven’t had dinner, Jane, we have a mussel soufflé in the oven that’ll be done in twenty minutes.”

  I considered the combination of mussels and eggs. I considered the options that might come from my fridge. “Sounds great, Mrs. V. Is this another experiment for your All Mussel Cookbook?” While Alice explained the recipe—ingredients and inspiration—I swirled my drink with hopes of diluting it. The All Mussel Cookbook had been in the works for years and the Vickersons, despite having cooked mussel dishes every night since the book’s inception, seemed no closer to finishing it than when they started.

  “And Henry found the most gorgeous, petite mussels right below Horseman’s Point. We thought the small ones would work better in a soufflé.” Alice had certainly been blessed with the gift of gab, I thought. It was incredible how she was simply never at a loss for something to say. “Of course, I couldn’t go with him. Art came to visit today, and stayed.” I knew that this was code for Alice having had a bad time with her arthritis, and interjected with a sympathetic groan and frown. “You’ll be glad to know that I took your advice and began my medical journal yesterday,” she continued as she placed her hand on a notebook on the end table beside her. “I haven’t kept a diary in years, but I think you’re right. It will be helpful to my doctors to see what I have been experiencing between visits.” She handed the notebook to me as she continued with her schedule of upcoming appointments. The cover of the notebook showed a Raggedy Ann doll to which Alice had added a hand-drawn thermometer, Band-Aids, crutches, and facial stitches.

  I half listened to Alice and thought I heard Henry snoring on the far end of the couch they shared. That was the best thing about Alice’s monologues, I thought. She didn’t expect any participation whatsoever. In fact, if I had something to say, which was rare, I knew to rudely interrupt. That was absolutely acceptable. I kept an eye on the television and was captivated when the ticker that ran along the bottom of the screen promised an upcoming story about a missing fisherman. At least Parker Alley is getting a bit of airtime, I thought, as Alice defined fibromyalgia. Somewhere between Alice’s unexplained pain and chronic fatigue, the newscaster gained my full attention. “In a bizarre twist of cruel fate, a Cobble Harbor fisherman went missing from his boat today. Authorities have not yet found the body of thirty-nine-year-old Parker Alley. The Coast Guard has suspended their search until morning. Alley was the father of Jason Alley, the recently deceased teen whose death is a suspected overdose and whose funeral is tomorrow. Our thoughts and prayers go out to the entire Alley family and Cobble Harbor community.”

  4

  I FORCED MYSELF OUT OF BED, teetering between feeling good about the extra hour of sleep I’d logged and a little slovenly about not having been up before the sun. Maybe it was the after-dinner drink I had accepted, as a deterrent to retiring too early, that slowed my usual morning routine. I pulled open the window shades. The grayness outside did nothing to lighten the funk in which I found myself. Precipitation so light it appeared to hover rather than spritz the ground distorted the view of the harbor in a way that seemed fitting. Yes, I thought, this is a great day for sadness and grieving and tears. A stone’s throw to the east, the cozy little community of Cobble Harbor was fully exposed to all elements and emotions today. Missing persons and overdosed teens were commonplace where I come from. But even in the short while I had lived in Green Haven I had begun not only to understand, but to feel the shame and disgrace families and whole communities experience when illegal activity is close at hand. I felt bad. Well, maybe more like sad. Weird, I thought, how a mere one-hour difference in the usual start of the day could throw me out of sync. Or there was the possibility that I was changing.

  My past in Miami was littered with similar incidents and statistics. The kid next door could have been killed by a rival gang, an overdose, or just a random drive-by shooting. I wouldn’t learn his name. I’d know only how many others had gone the same way in whichever week he had gone down. I wouldn’t even know his case number. My concentration then was at the other end of the chain—the top of the chain. I knew the life histories of all the major drug barons, all the traffickers in illegal immigrants, prostitutes, and weapons. I dealt with kingpins. I studied them. I knew what their middle initials stood for. I didn’t care to know how old the deceased neighbor was, or what his hobbies were, or what he looked like
stretched out in the coffin. How did the death of Jason Alley, which I learned of only last night, and the disappearance and probable death of his father pull the shades on my world into which thousands of others had never cast a shadow? Was this the compassion I had always been accused of not having? After twenty-odd years in Miami criminal justice, had my move here finally softened the stone-hearted “Let’s get the bad guys at any cost” gal my colleagues loathed? Did I really lie awake last night worrying about the mother and wife of Jason and Parker? Lillian, was it? God, did I actually remember her name? I had changed.

  Even though I had overslept, it was still too early to check in with either of my bosses. Mr. Dubois, my immediate superior at Eastern Marine Safety Consultants, was never available to answer the phone until ten. And the Knox County Sheriff’s Department wouldn’t have anyone manning the desk for incoming calls for another two hours. And, no, it was not okay to dial the emergency number just because you are an impatient, early riser. I had learned that the hard way, twice. With a little time to kill, a mood to lighten, and a need for caffeine, I knew the Harbor Café was the one-stop shop to satisfy all.

  Three steps out the door and into the parking lot, I realized the weather was worse than I first gathered from the upstairs window. It was raw; not just wet, but cold. I pulled the front of my unbuttoned cardigan together to close the gap and hustled to my car. Sliding behind the wheel, I rummaged through my tote bag for the ignition key. I had not yet become accustomed to leaving doors unlocked. I shivered and dug deeper into the bag, frustrated by all of the accumulated clutter I had picked up since the last shaking out. I had never been one to lose things, so was quick to hit the panic button when whatever I needed didn’t surface immediately. It was no use. I had emptied the bag onto the seat beside me and there was no key. “Damn,” I whispered. I’d have to walk. As I pushed the door open, I noticed the key sitting in the ignition. Wow, I really had changed, I thought. I had better keep this departure from the norm to myself, I thought with a hint of glee as I turned the key and stomped on the accelerator.