The Whiskey Sea

by Ann Howard Creel

  She walked the beach for a while back and forth, then came home and sat through the long slog of the afternoon, listless as hell. There was a heaviness in the air, and everything made her think of what was out there in the water. She blew on her coffee and saw ripples on the sea. Laundry on a nearby clothesline flapped like white sails. Birds chirping were the cries of dolphins. She was supposed to be on the sea, where the terrestrial world could close her behind a curtain of water.

  What, indeed, was she going to do now?

  Two weeks later, nearing sunset, she headed out to find Hicks down at the slip for the Wren. She couldn’t take the boredom any longer, and she’d conjured up a new plan out of idleness and desperation. She felt oddly buoyant, a purpose lifting her and keeping her afloat. On the way down the docks, she passed by the row of dilapidated storefronts that lined the waterfront and gazed up briefly at the room where she had been born and had lived with her mother. In the past Silver had always been with her, but now, alone, passing by that awful place brought on an old empty ache and mixed emotions. Sadness about her mother and also disbelief that she had let herself fall so far. How could she have chosen prostitution?

  Some men stood outside one of the bars, supposedly shut down by Prohibition but still operating anyway, and they stopped to watch her pass. Disgusted, she hated the way men roved their eyes over her and probably any other woman who would venture down here alone, but she said nothing and even managed a tight smile. The door to the bar was open in the hope of a breeze, and inside the smoky darkness fishermen sat at stools, hunched over their liquor. She would have to start getting on their right side as soon as she could. Her plan depended on her ability to hide what she felt about these men. She could’ve fished and clammed with the best of them. She could’ve focused all her restless energy on working more hours than any of them did, going out in harsher conditions, finding secret harvesting and fishing spots no one else had discovered.

  And then there was the hidden hope she told no one about, not even Bea—that maybe someday there would be a man who understood her, who allowed her to be untamed, who understood her love of the sea, and who might love her despite her freewheeling ways. Someday, some way . . . Torn by conflicted inner sides of herself—one that felt she could never settle down and become a man’s wife, and one that secretly dreamed of romance. But who would want a woman who wanted to work like a man, who probably could never hold her tongue, and who couldn’t pretend to be something she wasn’t? That little flutter of longing remained, however, baffling her.

  She stepped into the sunlight and continued down the docks, passing by the small, shallow-drafted skiffs and dories of the local fishermen. She smiled at a group of men working on a boat and even asked about their children and wives. Most responded softly, curiously, as if surprised by her sudden sociability but welcoming it, too.

  But Hawkeye, her sworn enemy, just stared. Most of the men who’d come to her mother had become nothing but blurred faces in her mind, but not Hawkeye; she remembered him. He’d come often enough to recall. She remembered his face as he leered at her mother, how he’d had the nerve to sit down at their tiny table and share their food. He’d made himself at home, pulled her mother into the bedroom; then after he’d had his fill he’d slipped away. He had always looked both ways before he passed out of their door, slinking off like a snake. A married man. Obviously guilty over what he had been doing. Frieda knew that her mother had been his weakness but also his shame. He’d not lifted a finger to help once her mother started lapsing. Frieda would have to make herself tolerate the others, but not that one.

  Still glaring, Hawkeye stopped what he was doing and wiped his fish-slimy hands on his overalls. As she strode down the pier away from him, he called, “Why you being so nice? What’s got into you, girl?”

  She kept walking. For some reason Hawkeye was always nosing into her business, watching her, waiting, as if hoping to find some reason to criticize.

  “What are you up to?” he bellowed.

  Frieda ignored him.

  “Cain’t be good, girl. I know that. Cain’t be good.”

  She mumbled to herself, “None of your business.”

  “Seems like you might need us now that Silver’s done given up his boat.”

  That old bastard, how dare he speak to her? How dare he pry? She tossed back over her shoulder, “Don’t need anyone, just want something.”

  Hawkeye called out, “As I guessed, Frieda. As I guessed.”

  Frieda walked up to the Wren. Hicks had put a fresh coat of white paint on the hull above the waterline, painted the deck rails blue, and had outfitted the boat with a bigger, rebuilt engine. Although she was handmade, she had always been one of the better and larger clamming boats in the harbor. As Frieda had heard retold many a time, Silver and his father had built her themselves plank by plank with heavy mahogany and good ballast, and they’d bought the motor from Sea Bright Dory Works in Long Branch.

  Hicks had just pulled in for the day with a haul of clams. It was true summer now; June had ushered in sun-drenched skies, and today there was barely a breeze. Hicks was dripping sweat as he moored the boat to the pier. He looked up at her, and she registered the surprise in his eyes.

  She’d been forcing herself to watch him since the day he’d bought the boat. She’d tracked him as he headed out each morning to clam and looked for him when he came in. His course took him past the house and out into the bay. The first time she saw him she watched until he had disappeared into the glare of dawn over the bay, and she felt sick. And yet a form of self-torture, a desire to feel the pain, drove her to look for him each day. She noticed that Hicks knew how to handle the boat and that he worked hard, long hours. Still, she’d have to shoulder past the fact that he had her boat. The way forward had once seemed simple, but now she needed help.

  Surely Hicks knew by now she wasn’t interested in whatever plans he’d made with Silver, in that pitiful attempt at starting a romance. And yet he seemed aware of his appearance now, brushing away the sweat beads from his forehead and pushing back his hair. He seemed as if he was anticipating something sweet and good. As if he was actually happy to see her.

  Brutal regret hit her. The way she had treated him the night of her graduation dinner. She had stomped off like a child and had also stomped on at least part of his dreams. Apparently he wasn’t holding it against her. Frieda had a hard time understanding people who were that kind and forgiving. Her behavior had gone beyond rude; even when he’d brought her a gift she’d been awful. She’d taken out her rage toward Silver on Hicks; she shouldn’t have reacted to him that way. It really wasn’t Hicks’s fault. He’d made a good deal, plain and simple. The idea that he might have gotten her as part of the deal was more pathetic than anything else.

  He gave a nod. “Frieda.”

  She went very still. She watched him as he secured the boat, gathered up his catch, and leapt off the boat onto the pier. Surprisingly agile for a big man. Finally she said, “You need any help?”

  “You wait here. Need to get this sold while it’s fresh.”

  Sitting on the edge of the pier, she let her legs dangle close to the water’s surface. She could’ve waited on the boat but chose not to. She knew every nick in the rails, every quirk in the way the boat handled, and she had known every sound that came from the old engine. But Hicks was already changing the Wren. New paint, new engine. No longer hers and never would be. Sitting close to the boat brought it all back. She’d always felt that boats had a personality and a will of their own, that somehow they forged their own ways. So why hadn’t the Wren rebelled? Refused to run or run aground?

  The tide was coming in, heavy and dark. The sun was sinking, showing only a few inches above the hills behind her, its rays sending out golden pearls all the way across the bay. She waited while the sun dragged the shadows of the piers and masts long across the water, and the sky turned salmon pink, with dark streaks of clouds skimming across it.

  Hicks came back and sat
down beside her without saying a word. He let his legs dangle over the water, too, and with the rising tide and his longer legs, soon his rubber boots skimmed the surface. He reached down to touch the water he’d worked over all day long, draping his fingers through it. Still not tired of it, it seemed. There was a naturalness about this moment of quiet. If Silver hadn’t been so conniving, she might have found a kindred spirit in Hicks. But she couldn’t admit to Silver or herself that his idea had some merit.

  He sighed and snuck a few furtive glances her way. She waited for him to speak, and she knew that eventually he would. He still admired her in some strange way; that was evident, although she wished it wasn’t. The way he held himself so upright made it clear that he was still hoping for something, and the way his hands and fingers had moved while he’d moored the boat made it obvious that he wished he was touching something softer. Stroking something softer. Glimmers of longing swam in his eyes. It was as if a storm were brewing inside Hicks, and yet the storm did not feel dangerous to her, only to him. She had an awful feeling that it would be his undoing.

  He asked, “What you been up to?”

  She shrugged. She’d been hunting for shells to sell to the gift shops by day and roaming around like a lost soul by the light of the moon. One night she’d built a sand castle at the water’s edge and then watched as the tide came in and washed it away. She took midnight swims and then sat facing the stars, trying to figure out her future.

  She felt exposed and weak, as though her as-yet-unspoken plea was already sitting out in the harsh open. She hated to ask anyone for help. Anyone. And now she had to ask the man who’d taken her boat. Hicks’s face was full of shades of light, and she could not look into his longing eyes.

  Finally she answered, “Trying to figure out some things.”

  He glanced her way. “Anything I can help you with?”

  She stared down at her hands, the way they curled into her lap. Drawing them into fists, she turned to look at him. The idea had been forming over the past two weeks, but she had not yet committed it to words. “I want you to teach me about boat engines.”

  He gazed at her with an eager but baffled expression. “Boat engines?”

  She pulled in a deep breath. “Why, when you were making a good living working on engines, did you have to go and buy Silver’s boat?” She clamped her mouth shut. She had to get the irritable edge out of her voice. Desperation had made her shrill.

  He seemed to ponder her question. “I don’t want to work on other people’s boats my whole life. I want to work on my own. I want to have my own. I’d rather be on the water than on the docks all day long.”

  She could’ve said she’d wished for the same thing, but that he and Silver had squashed her plans. Truth was Silver would’ve found someone to buy the boat no matter what, though. Once he’d set his mind to something, there was no changing it.

  Hicks said, “I’m still going to work on engines, too. Especially in the winter.”

  A gust of sudden wind leaned all the sailboat masts in the same direction. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” she said, her mouth dry.

  Slowly he said, “OK.”

  Swallowing, she held up her chin. “I want to learn how to work on all these boats. I want to become the best mechanic out here, second only to you.” Frieda admired her idea more and more every day since it had first sparked to mind. She’d always been manually inclined, she liked to figure out how things fit together and functioned, and working on boats would keep her down on the docks. She could make money within reach of the waters.

  “Why do you want to work on engines?”

  “They’re boat engines. And I love boats. It’s a good skill to have, plus it’ll keep me down here near the water, where I belong. I’ve always liked to figure out how things work, especially powerful things. Why not boat engines?”

  Hicks rubbed his chin, his day-old stubble beginning to show. “I don’t know how the men out here would take to a lady mechanic.”

  “If I know what I’m doing, they won’t care if I’m a monkey.”

  He smiled. He had the smile of someone who didn’t take anything people said to him too seriously, as if life and everything he expected from it were close to cheerful.

  Frieda found it frustrating. “You got my boat. The way I see it, you owe me something in return.”

  “I bought the boat fair and square.”

  “Let’s not get into what else you thought you were buying.”

  Hicks looked down, and she could swear he was blushing. Good. He should feel ashamed about that part of the deal. She was not and had never been for sale. Even the idea of that made her cringe, because her mother had sold herself. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall and listened to the conversation between Hicks and Silver. Based on the kind of men they were, Frieda figured that the arrangement had probably never been said aloud, only inferred, and yet fully understood.

  Hicks composed himself a moment later and asked, “What do you want me to do?”

  Frieda’s hands clenched. “Give me your knowledge, give me lessons. Let me be your apprentice.”

  He waited a few moments, as if letting the idea roll around inside his head. “You’d be working with all these watermen down here. I didn’t think you cared for them.”

  Truth was she sometimes worried each one around or over the age of forty could be her father or Bea’s, but she always brushed those thoughts aside. She didn’t want to know. “I don’t like them. But I’ll deal with it. I’ll take their money for honest work.”

  “It’s dirty work,” Hicks said.

  She laughed. Everything down here could be considered dirty work, and yet she loved it. Even the smell of dead fish, the heat in summer, the freezes in winter, the shabby old boats. The place had character. Where else did she belong? She had not liked school, had never enjoyed church, and couldn’t stand the smell of indoor establishments. She hated to cook and clean. A secretary? What had Silver been thinking? She would have had to kowtow to male bosses, put up with flirtations from men and gossip from women, all the while confined in a small office space. Never in a million years. Nothing but an unconventional occupation would do.

  He sighed again. “I have a fair number of old motors we can take apart and put back together. That’s how they taught us in the navy. It takes a long time to learn what you need to know and lots of practice. I’ll have to help you with your jobs for a while.”

  “That’s what I want. That’s why I’m asking.”

  “If you’re sure . . .”

  She stuck out her hand. “Deal.”

  Hicks took her hand slowly, holding on to it for a moment longer than necessary. “Deal.”

  She had to look away, staring out at the horizon at a stream of boats going out. She’d been seeing them for weeks now, boats that headed out at dusk. They made course out beyond the Hook and the bay to deep water. First a few and now more, going out most every night, especially on no-moon nights.

  She gestured at them. “What are they doing?”

  He followed her gaze. “Heading out to the rum boats.”

  She shook her head once.

  “Don’t you wonder how the liquor gets into bars here—and everywhere else for that matter?”

  Truth was that Silver wasn’t much of a drinker, and he had never once taken the girls into a bar. “I haven’t thought about it.”

  Hicks gestured out to sea. “About five or so miles to sea are boats from Canada full of crates of whiskey and all sorts of spirits. They call it Rum Row. Some of the men around here have been going out at night, picking up liquor, and bringing it back to sell for big money. They serve as go-betweens between the large rum boats and the buyers, so people call them contact boats.”

  “What about the law? The coast guard?” Just across the water, Sandy Hook peninsula jutted out as a barrier between the Highlands harbor and the open sea, and a coast guard station watched over the waters right there.

  “What about them?” Hic
ks said. “There’s a lot more fishing boats than guard boats to chase them. And if a man finds himself under chase, he can hide in some secret inlet he knows is too shallow for the guard boats. Or if he’s caught outright, he can throw the liquor overboard and get rid of the evidence. Sometimes he comes back the next day and gets the booze, but even if he loses one night’s load he makes up for it soon enough.”

  “You make it sound easy.”

  He shook his head. “Those littler boats take all the risks. The big rum boats sail under foreign flags and hold out far enough that they can’t be confiscated. Contact boatmen face all sorts of possible dangers: rough seas, engine failure, capture on the way in, and maybe even prison. Even if they dump their loads, they can still get fined for running without lights or refusing to halt on command. Fine’s a thousand dollars.” Hicks sat still. “But then a thousand dollars ain’t much when you consider what they’re making.”

  “How much is that?”

  “I hear . . . even the smallest boats are starting to make about four hundred to a thousand dollars a night. Depends on how much they can carry.”

  Frieda shifted her weight as the meaning of all this sunk in. This explained the changes she had witnessed but not questioned, even though she’d been curious to know. A few people who normally had nothing had been buying used Model Ts—even a new one here and there—nice coats and dresses, and had painted their houses. Now she understood where that extra dough had come from. She took a good look at Hicks. “What about you?”