No more bad news there at least, just a bill and two pieces of junk mail. He dropped the bill into the in-box on his desk and considered the other two items. The first one was yet another credit card offer. He opened it and stuffed the contents of that envelope and the envelope itself into the enclosed postage-paid return envelope. The other one, a special offer for some kind of home security system, didn't have a postage-paid return envelope, so he crammed everything from that one into the postage-paid envelope from the credit card company as well. Recycling was a virtue after all, was it not? The postage-paid envelope was now too fat to seal properly, so he taped the flap.
He considered taking the pickup, then decided he needed to pedal. The dog appeared ready for his afternoon nap anyway. If they don't get their eighteen hours a day they get cranky, he thought, but with affection. "Jack, I'm going out. I'll be right back, you be good," he said. The dog, settled in on his designated end of the couch, wagged once without picking up his head and closed his eyes.
The bike had saddlebags mounted over the rear wheel, so he wouldn't need his backpack. He stuck the envelope in the mailbox, flipped the red flag up, and headed out, with the open shirt he still wore over his tee shirt flapping behind him in the breeze and an OBX ball cap in place of the tarp hat. His twenty-one-speed Schwinn all-terrain bike was overkill on this mostly flat part of the island; a balloon-tire island bike would have sufficed. He couldn't recall the last time he'd had to shift out of whatever gear it was currently in, but he'd brought the bike with him when he moved and he liked it.
He pedaled south down North End Road, enjoying the sunlit scenery along the way. This was a pretty drive. The grounds of most of the soundside properties bordering the narrow paved road were grassy and often attractively landscaped as well, with various kinds of trees and interesting semitropical foliage providing a soothing contrast to the sand and rocks and stock plantings that predominated on many of the oceanside properties on the other side of Route 12; though a lot of those were also impressive in their way.
He passed the Sands of Time campground, cheery-looking and well-kempt as always, and the Baskins Gallery, probably his favorite place to impulse-shop on the infrequent occasions he indulged in that quintessential American pastime. He briefly considered stopping there today, but decided against it. They'd undoubtedly have some new piece of nautical bric-a-brac or artwork that he'd have to find a place for in the house, and he should save the saddlebag space for the food he needed to buy. He should also watch his time, he supposed.
The houses in this part of town varied in size and age, and most were not new - including his own, which had begun its life as essentially a four-room bungalow on stilts. The living room and dining area in the front, and a galley kitchen in the back behind the dining area, were now open. One of the two adjacent back bedrooms included a full bath, and there was a half-bath with a washer-dryer stack along the inside wall of the kitchen. The flooring was rustic wood plank throughout.
Wooden riser steps led up from the front yard to a covered deck that ran the length of the front of the house and continued down both sides, where it was screened-in; and a set of open wooden steps led down to the back yard from the kitchen door at the end of that side deck. The tan-stained decks and deep brown cedar shake siding were in fair shape all around.
There was no shed, but he had a sizeable though low-ceilinged enclosed storage area under the house that served the same purpose. Since it was an older property that predated the recent building boom, he had a relatively large lot irregularly bounded by lush wild scrub on both sides, which provided some privacy; and he had some grass, which he kept neatly mowed. There was no garage, but he could park a car on the gravel driveway under the kitchen-side deck; also no pool, but he didn't need one since his back yard abutted the sound and he had a small boat dock he could swim from.
With its simple design and about a thousand square feet of living space on its single floor, it was nowhere near as impressive as the newer places around town - but still, it had cost him about half of the savings he'd managed to accumulate over the years, which included the proceeds from the sale of the last house he'd owned. A similar place on a lake where he'd lived back North would have cost him half as much or less - but a similarly aged oceanfront bungalow, if any still existed here, would cost twice as much or more, and then he wouldn't be able to keep a boat. In any event, he was on the water and he felt it was worth it. It wasn't fancy and it wasn't huge, but it was all he needed - and it was his, damn it.
He turned onto Harbor Road and proceeded east toward Route 12. As he passed the firehouse, he decided to take a little time out after all and stop at the dive shop before hitting the market. He didn't enjoy biking along the highway as a rule, but the shop wasn't too far up the road and it wasn't a freeway, just a two-laner; but it was that time of year and there would definitely be traffic.
The Sea Dog Scuba Center sported a colorful sign on its roof, complete with the traditional American red and white diver-down flag and a pirate dog inspired by an unfortunately deceased pet, but that was its only notable feature. Otherwise it was a nondescript unpainted wooden building that was completely incongruous with its more modern strip mall neighbor. It did however house something special that made it another of Ketch's favorite places.
She was no Miss America, nor that young if truth be told; but she was attractive and perky and in good shape, and though Ketch had figured he was pretty much done with women now, something about her just rubbed him the right way, and her agreeable nature and pleasant voice with its classically seductive Carolinian cadence affected him more than he'd voluntarily admit. And her shoulder-length auburn hair, which perfectly framed her lightly freckled face when it wasn't tied back in a ponytail.
"Hello? Kari? Anyone home?" he called as he entered the shop and glanced around the interior. After his ride the air inside was invitingly cool, and so was all the shiny and neatly displayed gear. And it was the middle of the day during tourist season and the place was deserted. Ketch hoped she was making ends meet. She might do better in a better location, which would probably mean Hatteras on this island, but maybe not as there was already competition down there. Or better yet somewhere else entirely perhaps, but Ketch didn't like to think about that.
Not that he was in a position to help a lot, and not that she'd be likely to take charity from him or anyone else anyway, but he wished he could do something for her. He could buy some new gear, maybe a buoyancy compensator since his was starting to get a little raggedy - but she'd unfortunately probably insist on giving it to him at cost as she often did. That and free tank rentals were the only rewards he got (or wanted) for occasionally assisting with her certification classes and dive charters, and he didn't think he could forgo even those without getting her hackles up.
"Well hey, Ketch!" she said as she emerged from a room in the back. "Long time no see! What brings y'all round today?" It was funny how he sometimes bristled at Southern accents and idioms when they were coming from a man; depending on the man, of course - Ingram's manner of speaking being especially irritating to him, for example. But her voice had quite the opposite effect on him.
"Oh, hello." Looked like today was a ponytail day. Ketch unconsciously stood a little straighter and brightened visibly. "Well, I was thinking of picking up a tank, for one thing." After he'd said it, he supposed he had thought of doing that sometime recently; but that wasn't really why he was here.
"Okay, no problem. Hey, where's my Jacky?"
"I'm on my bike. Jack's sacked out back at the ranch. We went out with the Captain this morning."
"Bike, huh? What are y'all gonna do, strap that bad boy on your back and pedal it on home?" she asked with a grin. "You remember those tanks weigh about forty pounds full out of the water, right?" Seeing Ketch's look of consternation, she added, "Hey, you look hot. You want a Co-Cola with some ice?"
Ketch cleared his throat. "Well, I can come back with the truck later or tomorrow, you don't have to fill on
e for me right this minute. And yes, a cold drink would be nice, thanks." What was the matter with him? She'd been over to the house at least a couple of times before. He felt like an awkward teenager.
"Come on back here to the kitchen and I'll pour us a couple," she said with a follow-me wave. While she set them up she remarked, "I hope you're not fixin' to dive solo. It's not sanctioned and you ought to know better, bein' a divemaster and all."
"Not really, I just want to clean the bottom of my boat," Ketch replied. That would be the used seventeen-foot Whaler he'd picked up for a song a while back. Though the boat was ancient, the outboard wasn't, and he'd gotten a great deal on it. "Besides, it was only unsanctioned until they found a way to make money on it. As I imagine you know, PADI started offering what they call a 'distinctive specialty course' on diving without a buddy, and I heard SDI has a class like that too."
"Yeah, they did, but that doesn't mean they advocate solo divin'. It's to teach experienced divers how to take care of themselves in an emergency in case you get separated from your buddy, or when you might not have a competent buddy, or can't have one. You know, like if you're takin' pictures, or buddied with a stranger, or tec divin', and even just when you're teachin' students, if you think about it. And when you're cleanin' boats," she pointedly added. "They're not just doin' it for money, it's so you can dive safer. And I know you, sir, haven't taken that course."
Ketch ruefully shook his head, his awkwardness gone now. These certification agencies... From the Fifties on, they'd admittedly done a lot to advance the sport and make it safer - certainly orders of magnitude safer than when Cousteau pioneered his prototype Aqua-Lung in the Forties - but it seemed to him that nowadays they always had a hand out, trying to nickel-and-dime everyone with innumerable 'specialty' classes and unnecessary certification levels and always looking for new ways to make money. They put him in mind of car dealers at times; or maybe labor unions, another institution perhaps outliving its usefulness.
"Always the instructor, eh? What could a course like that teach me that I don't already know? I'm a divemaster, I can take care of myself, I carry a Spare Air. Me diving solo has to be safer than diving with the eight-year-olds they've started trying to suck in. What do they call that silliness, 'Bubble Blowers' or something like that?" Then, as he paused to catch his breath, a light bulb suddenly came on and he quickly backtracked. "But you're probably right," he said, sheepishly enough he hoped. "It's probably a sensible thing to do, especially at my age, and I should probably carry more redundant gear if I go solo. Are you qualified to teach that course, by any chance?"
She looked up at him in surprise. "I think so. I could check into what I'd have to do."
"Well then, how about if you do that and tell me when? I'll pay the going rate, whatever it is."
"Really? You're serious, right? You're not funnin' with me?" Ketch shook his head and she continued. "Well, I know there's some classroom material, of course, and three dives. And I know you'll need some more gear. You sure about this?"
Ketch nodded. "I am."
"Well then, will you put off cleanin' your ole boat 'til after?" she inquired mischievously. "Never mind, I think you'll be okay this one time. But you can't get the tank tomorrow, I'll be closed. It's my day off and I'm supposed to go see my mama."
"Oh, that's right, I forgot," Ketch said. "You know how it is with us retired folks. Like Mister Buffett said, the days drift by and they don't have names. Oh well, another time then. Now that I think about it, I might not be able to get back here before you close today. I have to prepare for a cookout at my place tonight."
"Oh yeah? What's the occasion?"
"No occasion, I just felt like it. We got some cobia today and I thought we could grill it up, that's all. The Captain's coming, and maybe some folks from the boatyard. No one was around when we docked, but I left notes for Mario and Len." He paused for a moment and took another drink. "Are you doing anything after work?" he casually inquired.
"I don't know - why, is that an invitation? I can't tell," she teased. "Sure, why not? Mick won't be around anyway. And hey, I could carry a tank over with me. What time?"
Kari attending would be good; Kari without that layabout Mick would be even better. He hadn't explicitly invited Mick anyway, but he wouldn't point that out. "Thanks, that's good of you. You close at five today, right? I'll start grilling at six if that's okay."
"Okay, sounds good! I could do with some partyin', I've been so busy here," she said. Ketch doubted that, but he didn't say so. "Can I bring somethin'?" she asked.
"No, you don't have time for that. I already have the kind of wine you like."
"You remember what I like? I'm impressed. Okay, I'll see y'all then, and I'll bring you a tank."
"Good," Ketch said with relief. Mission accomplished. He glanced at the wall clock. "Well, I should be going, I have another stop to make. Thanks for the drink."
"Anytime, Han Solo," she said as he hastened to make his exit. "See y'all later!"
Well - back to the business at hand. Ketch adjusted his cap, mounted the bike, and allowed himself a deep breath before he started pedaling again. He'd noticed he was finally starting to seriously tire in there; he felt a bit spryer now, but it was probably temporary. Maybe he'd have time for a power nap later if he hustled.
He headed back down Route 12. He'd intended to pick up something to go along with the fish at the Village Market, the town's homier alternative to the Food Lion supermarket at the south end, but he decided to quickly try his luck at the Barefoot Station first. It was closer, being located right at the Harbor Road turnoff, and if they didn't have anything suitable on the shelves they might sell him some lunch counter leftovers.
The Barefoot Station was yet another of Ketch's favorite places. It was no coincidence that both his house and most of the places he favored were on the north end of town - he'd already gotten the lay of the land during his periodic vacations before the move, and he'd only house-hunted here at the north end.
At first glance the Station looked like just another convenience store with gas pumps out front, but it harbored a few surprises inside that weren't obvious from the road. There was a breakfast and lunch counter in one corner, a room in the back where friends could drink some beer and shoot some pool, and via a side door inside the store the rest of the building housed a theater, with a stage and screen and at least a hundred seats it seemed to him, where old and second-run movies were shown periodically and an occasional inexpensive concert or show with regional performers was presented. He'd attended a memorable one not too long ago featuring an older country musician who called himself 'Gene the Plumber' - because his name was Gene and he was a plumber, he'd explained - whose daughter also sang and who'd sounded like Norah Jones.
He got lucky and came out in short order with a container of pasta salad, a bag of tossed garden salad, and a box of chocolate chip cookies, all of which he managed to pack into the saddlebags. He sprinkled some ice he'd also bought over the contents of the saddlebags before closing them. Once again these good people hadn't let him down. There were a lot of good people in this town, he reflected; in fact, at the moment he could think of only one truly bad one that he'd personally met in recent memory.
He supposed he'd have to start buckling down soon regarding that one - but not tonight, there'd be time enough to think about that tomorrow. He'd been beaten up enough for one day.
~ ~ ~
5. A man shouldn't be alone in his old age if it can be avoided.
Ketch had his second wind now. He had one of those small refrigerators that are popular on college campuses, and he'd moved it out to the front deck and stocked it as full of beer and wine as possible (but not the wine, which he'd stashed in the back of the kitchen fridge), along with a couple of sodas and water bottles in case it turned out anyone wanted those instead. There was more of everything in the kitchen if needed. The white plastic chairs and tables scattered around the decks were wiped down, and the dog had been fed.
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Four tiki torches were in place out front, one each at either side of the steps and each corner of the front deck; they'd have those and the screened side decks if the bugs got bad later. That was one drawback of living on the sound, but it was manageable; and that and not being closer to the beach at least helped keep the prices around here down some.
He'd managed a shave and shower and a catnap in the hammock as well, and now he and the dog were relaxing on the front deck waiting for their guests to arrive, he in a fresh Hawaiian shirt and shorts, and the dog in one of his snazzier bandanas. Reggae music emanated at an inoffensive level from the satellite radio in the corner.
The sun wouldn't set until later at this time of year, but this was still a pleasant time of day for him and always had been, going way back to his college days when this had been Happy Hour time. Old habits die hard - he still preferred to stay up late, rise early, and nap at some point during the day, a routine he'd first established out of necessity while living in the dorms. Advancing age had if anything reinforced this tendency rather than diminishing it, perhaps because older folks, at least the ones who are still vital, are loathe to waste time sleeping when the end is nearer, he thought. Plenty of time to sleep when you're dead - there was truth in that adage.
"So Jack, pretty soon we'll have some company. You'll like that," he said as he stroked the dog lying next to him on a throw rug. The dog had already inferred this from Ketch's recent activities, of course, and though he appeared calm he was in fact vigilant and slightly tensed in anticipation. He got more attention at parties, as well as a tasty tidbit now and then, and he did indeed like that.
This dog was a smart one, probably the smartest one Ketch had ever had. He couldn't speak, of course, but his listening vocabulary was prodigious for a dog, and he knew his way around and how things worked. He was a handsome five-year-old brown and white beagle/labrador mix, bigger and heavier than a beagle but smaller than a large lab - or to look at it another way, small enough to be manageable but big enough to be a factor to be reckoned with in a confrontation, as Ingram had learned earlier today. And emotionally, the dog had probably done more for Ketch than any high-priced therapist could have, in Ketch's opinion. Ketch figured he could maybe have another ten years with this one if they were both lucky.
Port Starbird (Storm Ketchum Adventures) Page 5