The Miss Carolina was a graceful craft, sleek and strong like the woman she was named for. He’d built the fiberglass and wood trawler with his own hands and knew each nook and cranny of her fifty-foot frame. He spent more time with this boat than with any woman alive, and his wife often complained that the Miss Carolina was more his mistress than his boat. He’d shake his head and laugh, inclined to agree.
Every spring he gave the Miss Carolina a fresh coat of glistening white paint and the berry-red trim that marked all the Morrison boats. Yes, she was a mighty pretty boat. His eyes softened just looking at her. All captains had their families and loved them dearly. Yet there was a special love reserved for their boats.
The morning’s quiet was shattered by the roar of an engine coming alive. Bud swung his head around to see the Queen Betty drawing away from the dock and making her way out to sea, her green and white mast lights flashing in the dark. Ol’ LeRoy would have his nets dropped by sunup, he thought with a scowl. Damn, he’d get the best spot, too.
Fifteen minutes later, the Miss Carolina’s diesel engine was growling and Bud had a mug of hot coffee in his hand. He sat in the pilothouse, breathing in the scent of diesel fuel mingled with coffee, and listened to the marine radio for weather reports. The boat rocked beneath him, warming up and churning the water like a boiling pot. After finishing his coffee, he began his chores. There was always one more job that needed doing, one last repair he had to see to before he could break away from the dock. He needed to get ice in, fuel up, and get some rope…. Bud sighed and shook his head. He couldn’t wait for Pee Dee to show up. He might as well get rolling. Bud climbed down from the boat to the dock.
A weathered warehouse with a green-and-red-painted sign that read COASTAL SEAFOOD dominated the waterfront. The warehouse was the heart of the dock where fishermen could get fuel, ice, and gear, then unload shrimp at the end of the day. Under its rusted awning a few men in stained pants and white boots stood smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups, and bantering while waiting to load ice. They grunted greetings as Bud moved past them. Inside, the big room was sparsely filled with a few metal chairs and tables and a rough plywood counter.
A young, broad-shouldered man with unruly dark hair leaned against the counter. He wore a denim jacket against the morning chill and white rubber boots high over his worn and stained jeans. He looked both boyish and edgy, with the congenial air of a man who is well liked. He turned when Bud approached and broke into a lazy grin.
“Hey, Bud,” he called out.
“Hey, Josh,” he replied, hearing the resignation in his own voice. He hadn’t expected to see Josh Truesdale this morning.
“I was hoping I’d run into you,” Josh said, straightening.
“Yeah?” Bud replied, stepping up beside him at the counter. Josh met Bud eye to eye. Bud narrowed his. “And why’s that?”
Josh shook his head with a wry grin. “Don’t look so worried, Cap’n. I ain’t gonna launch into Lizzy now.”
Bud barely suppressed his grin—the kid had hit the nail on the head. His daughter was exactly the subject he was hoping to avoid. “You know I don’t have nothin’ more to say to you on that subject. You and Lizzy—that’s your problem. Not mine.”
“I hear you,” he replied. “But I got this other problem I was hoping you’d take a look at. My winch. Not my wench.” He chuckled at his joke.
Bud’s eyes flashed in warning. He didn’t care for jokes about his daughter.
Josh’s smile fell hard. “Sorry,” he blurted. “You know I didn’t mean no disrespect.”
Bud liked Joshua Truesdale, always had. There weren’t many young men going into shrimping these days. He could count the ones he knew on one hand. Most of the captains in these parts were too old and too stubborn to change their ways. Josh was one of a new breed of shrimpers. Though he came from an old line of fishermen in the Shem Creek area, Josh had ideas on how he could make the business pay. While Bud liked his enthusiasm, sometimes those new ideas made the kid a bit cocky. Still, Josh Truesdale was the best deckhand he’d ever had.
Even if he was the worst son-in-law.
“Well,” Bud drawled, lifting his hand to signal to Tom Wiggins behind the counter, “I sure don’t got the time to help you now.”
Tom was a small, wiry man who looked to Bud like a gray squirrel, with his gray stained clothes, a wreath of gray, frizzy curls, and a beard that was as bushy as a squirrel’s tail. Ol’ Tom had worked this counter for as long as Bud could remember, and the thing of it was, he’d looked the same when Bud was a kid as he did now.
“Tommy, you got a couple hundred feet of three-quarter-inch rope back there?”
“Yeah, hold on and I’ll get you some.”
“What’s the matter with your winch?” Bud asked, turning again to Josh.
“Keeps slipping. Has no tension.”
“And what can I do?”
“I remembered how you jerry-rigged your winch.”
Bud rubbed his jaw. Adjustments on equipment were common enough among captains. Especially among those who’d built their own boats to their own specifications, as he had. Bud didn’t always have the money to buy a new part, or maybe he didn’t even know what part could do the job he had in mind, so it called on him to be inventive. Most every boat had been rigged by its captain one way or another. It was a point of pride and gave a boat its personality.
“I’m always tinkering with that old winch,” he replied. “But I don’t rightly know that I can recall what I did to it.”
“Come on, Bud. Everyone knows you’re the best damn mechanic in these parts.”
“That’s for true,” added Tom.
Bud scratched behind his ear with a self-conscious smile, not immune to flattery.
“Will this do?” asked Tom, handing over the rope.
Bud made a cursory inspection. “Yeah, it’ll do. Put it on my tab.”
Tom blanched and rubbed his neck. “Sorry, Bud. Can’t do that. Everything’s on a cash basis now.”
Bud’s head jerked up. “Since when?”
“Since nobody can pay their bills and they’re falling behind. I don’t mean you,” he stammered. “But, hell, Bud, you know how the times are. I got no choice and I can’t be making exceptions. That’s the word I got direct from Lee, and I got to do it. Or I’d make one for you. You know that.”
Bud’s ears colored and he tightened his lips as a surge of anger shot through him. Lee Edwards had once been like a brother to him, but he’d proved to be more Cain than Abel, and there’d been bad blood ever since. It still burned that Lee had done so well over the years. He owned Coastal Seafood and just about all the preferred real estate along the docks. Bud hated to admit it, but Lee was a good businessman. If the shrimp boats failed, Lee would still be sitting pretty.
Bud silently cursed. His haul was hardly worth a day’s wage, and that was before taxes. Hell, Lee and his pals probably spent more on lunch than Bud earned in a day. Running a tab at the fish house was how most fishermen made it through a rough patch. Most every shrimper in town was in hock to Lee, and it gnawed at Bud that he was one of them.
“Well, shit, Tom,” he said, struggling to keep his anger in check. “I didn’t plan on buying rope this morning and I don’t have enough cash on me.”
“Here, let me,” Josh said, pulling a worn black leather wallet from his back pocket.
“No way,” Bud said gruffly. “I don’t need your money. I can pay my own bills.”
“I ain’t saying you can’t. I’m just lending it to you. No big deal. Besides, I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me nothing, son.”
“I think you know I do.” Josh’s emotion was too strong and he cleared his throat. “You can take it as a down payment for working on my winch.”
Bud struggled with a reply. He’d never take a handout, but this seemed fair—and he needed that rope now.
“I reckon I could come by and take a look at that winch later today or tomorro
w, weather depending.”
“Yes, sir. Anytime.”
Bud nodded, grateful for Josh’s respectful tone. And the kid had a winning smile. It must’ve been the dark tan that made his teeth shine so white. He wasn’t blind to the fact that his daughter still thought so, too.
Josh laid out bills on the plywood counter.
Tom gingerly handed the rope into Bud’s hands, relieved to have the transaction settled amicably. “Sorry about that. Nothin’ personal.”
“Yeah, sure,” Bud murmured. “You tell Lee Edwards he can stick his policy where the sun don’t shine. Nothin’ personal.” Bud hoisted the rope and turned to leave.
“Where’s your boy?” Josh asked, tucking his wallet back into his pocket. “Don’t you usually send Pee Dee on these errands?”
“Ain’t seen him,” Bud replied, walking out.
“He’s probably on some bender again,” Josh remarked. “What a loser.”
Bud turned fast and walked back toward Josh. No matter what Bud might think or say about his own, he wouldn’t allow anyone else to slander them, not even Josh.
Josh took a step back as Bud leaned close. In a low voice, he said, “Pee Dee and the Miss Carolina aren’t your concern anymore. Nor, for that matter, is my daughter. Got that?”
Josh straightened his spine and locked eyes with Bud. “Lizzy is my concern. But I’m sorry for what I said about Pee Dee.”
Bud considered Josh’s words, impressed by his unflinching gaze. He remembered the boy, but this depth of feeling reflected a man. Maybe the kid grew up some in the five years since Lizzy dumped him. Bud acknowledged Josh’s apology with a curt nod and stepped back.
“I’ll come by your boat later.”
He adjusted the rope, then walked out, but not before he heard Tom mutter to Josh, “Boy, ain’t you learned your lesson yet?”
By force of will, Bud shoved the roiling thoughts about Pee Dee, Lizzy, and Josh into a far corner of his mind to deal with later when the nets were dragging and he had time on his hands. Thinking about all that was like dredging the mud. Right now he had to clear his head and focus. Without Pee Dee here, it’d take twice as long. He still had to load the ice and more work to get done than time to do it.
Bud put his back to it. As each minute passed, with each chore he ticked off his list, Bud’s anger was stoked till it fired a burn in his belly. He knew in his heart that Josh was right and that Pee Dee was likely on some bender. He ground his teeth, feeling the betrayal of the no-show.
A short while later, the roar of engines sounded and he jerked up to look out over the bow. The final two boats slowly cruised along the narrow creek toward the Atlantic. Josh’s small but sturdy forty-five-footer, the Hope, followed in the bigger boat’s wake. Clever boy, he thought with grudging respect. With his smaller boat and his ideas for niche markets, he might do all right.
Bud cleared his throat and spat into the ocean. But there was a lot of life left in this salty old dog, he thought, rolling his shoulders. He’d match his experience against some young Turk any day. Bud pressed the small of his back while his brows gathered. At times the pain was so severe it felt like a hot iron was being jammed into his lower lumbar.
Time was wasting. It was already late. Bud crossed his arms while he mulled over the pros and cons of the decision that faced him. The dawn was fast approaching. He couldn’t wait for Pee Dee any longer. Could he go it alone?
It’d be tough to take a boat this size out alone. But he’d done it before, hadn’t he? Bud cast a wary glance at the drifting clouds. He wasn’t fooled by the seeming serenity. His experienced eye knew they were the tips of a rain front likely to hit sometime later that afternoon. At least, he hoped the rain would hold off till then. God knew, he desperately needed a good haul today, and it would be easier to get in and unload before the first drops fell.
No doubt about it. It would be a risk out there alone if the wind picked up. But he’d only be out for one haul. He’d be back in dock before things got rough.
Bud brought his arms tight around his chest and narrowed his eyes. To his mind, a man worked hard to take care of his family. He did whatever he could, whatever toll it took. With or without a crew, he was the captain of this vessel, and it was his duty to bring home the shrimp. He leaned forward, gripping the railing tight, and stared out at the dock. He only needed to bring in one good haul to pay the diesel fuel bill. One good haul, he repeated to himself, and he could keep his boat on the water.
What choice did he have? Failure would mean the loss of everything he’d worked so hard for.
Bud tugged down the rim of his cap, his decision made.
“Well, all right then.”
2
September 21, 2008, 6:50 a.m.
White Gables, McClellanville
Carolina awoke with a start. Her arm shot across the bed, instinctively reaching for Bud. She patted the mattress to find his side of the bed empty and the sheets cold. Turning to her side, she lifted herself slightly on one elbow. The dull gray light of early morning filtered through the curtains. Knowing it was late, she looked at the clock. Bud was gone.
She fell back against her pillow and let her forearm rest over her eyes. He’s always gone, she thought.
She had a vague memory of waking earlier, in the dark predawn hours. A shadowy image of Bud standing at the window came back to her. His words sounded like an echo in her brain. You sleep. Back by noon, latest. That was hours ago. He’d be on the water by now. The thought that she hadn’t made him breakfast brought a twinge of guilt.
The house was quiet. She sighed and let her mind drift to that velvety, drowsy state where, if she lay very still with her eyes closed, she could slide back into her dream. She didn’t often have the luxury of time to lie in bed in the early morning. And her dream had been so vivid it lingered in her subconscious, calling her back. It was one of those dreams that felt so real. She could recognize the voices, smell familiar scents, even feel the satiny coolness of skin.
In the dream, she and Bud were together aboard the Miss Carolina. She was standing aft, her chin slanted into a cool, crisp wind that tossed her hair. She was young—in her twenties—and Bud’s arms encircled her, strong and secure. Ardent. They watched the sun rise—or set, she couldn’t tell. She remembered it was a blinding, breathtaking panorama of lavender, rose, and yellow that spread out over the ocean into infinity. They were engulfed in color. Most of all, she remembered being happy—filled with a heady, tingling, deeply abiding joy at just being on the boat in her man’s arms.
Then, with a sudden cruelty, a dark storm had risen up, swift and violent. In an instant Bud was wrenched from her arms, and though she reached out for him, cried out for him, she felt only a savage emptiness. In the darkness, she could hear his voice calling her name in the wind, over and over. She clawed out into the mist, crying. But he was gone.
That’s when she’d awoken, reaching for him.
Carolina shuddered and moved her arm to stare up at the ceiling. Her heart was beating hard. Waking hadn’t taken the edge off the fear and panic or the sense that something was wrong. She brought her hand up to her tender jaw. Could it have been her bad tooth that caused the nightmare?
Or maybe it was the cross words that she and Bud had exchanged the night before.
Carolina felt an old sadness well up at that thought. When they’d first married and were in the throes of love, they’d sworn never to go to bed angry. That promise, like so many others, had been broken over the years. Now they both could fall asleep before an argument was settled. She sometimes came into their darkened bedroom to find him already in bed, lights out, the blanket high around his shoulders, his back to her, rigid with resentment. In fairness, there were nights she was as cold. Too often the argument never was settled. It hung like a dark cloud over them for days, making them snip at one another, before it dissipated into indifference.
Carolina grimaced. It hadn’t always been this way. She remembered again the intensity of emotio
n she’d felt in Bud’s arms in her dream. Where had that youthful exuberance gone? That passion? Was the slow slide from passion to companionship the inevitable fate of a long marriage? she wondered. She wanted to feel that way about him again. She wanted to be loved like that again. How much longer could she pretend she was happy?
She curled on her side and stared at the pale linen curtain flapping at the open window, remembering the shadowed strength of Bud’s body standing there, the curve of his muscled shoulders. Carolina closed her eyes and lay in bed until she could no longer ignore the dull pain that pulsed from her rear molar. That tooth had taken her to hell and back and it wasn’t going to get better by itself. She’d hoped that somehow the problem would magically go away if she could settle the pain down with over-the-counter pain relievers. That only worked so many times. She would have to call the dentist.
The resonant chimes of the grandfather clock sounded from the front room downstairs. What kind of seaman’s wife was she to be such a lazybones? She rose, stretched, and slipped into her robe, thinking it was kind of Bud to give her a few more hours of sleep. He could be thoughtful that way.
Carolina caught the scent of coffee and followed the delicious aroma down the narrow stairwell. The walls were adorned with black-framed photographs of the Morrison family. She passed a photograph of the Morrison brothers in happier times: Bud, the elder, and Bobby. In the center was Lee Edwards, Bud’s best friend growing up. The photograph had been taken about the time Carolina had met them, back when they were in their twenties. The boys were aboard Bud’s boat, the Miss Ann—muscled arms around each other, cocky grins spread across tanned faces, salt-spiked hair. They were so handsome in their youthful confidence.
Beside this was a picture of Bud’s father, William Osgood Morrison II—the Great and Mighty Oz. Captain Oz was the stuff of which legends were made. He had a frame like an ocean freighter and biceps like ham hocks from his early years of hauling nets without benefit of a winch. In this photograph, his teeth were clamped down on a pipe in a crooked smile under his ever-present cap. The boys used to call him Popeye behind his back.
Last Light over Carolina Page 2