Seagull: A Southern Novel

by Paul, Lawton

  At the microfiche reader table Weinstein ripped another piece of paper off the calendar and grabbed a pencil. "Where'd your mom live? It was Duval, right?"

  "Yep, out in the apartments across the bridge," I said.

  "Ooh, river rat central."

  "It used to be nice," said Matty.

  "Ok. Let's see if we can find her." Weinstein checked birth records in Duval, and there were no Palmeri births in Duval in the '40s. Then she checked for a marriage licenses issued in the '60s or '70s. Nothing there, either. Matty kept throwing out ideas: How about some sort of bill she'd have to pay? A water bill? And Weinstein would shoot it down: "Nope, don't have that data," she'd say. So they went back and forth searching for a Palmeri on some official document. Sometimes Weinstein would fire up the microfiche reader again, sometimes they'd rifle through a folder of actual documents. At some point I just sort of laid down on three plastic chairs with my arm covering my eyes. Until a few hours ago I sort of knew who I was: Jesse Wolfe, river rat, B student, loved by AJ, the old man, Tyler; friend of Matty; afraid of large fish, but oddly, not of boats or crabs. I was officially a Wolfe, but really a Palmer, but that didn't bother me because AJ and the old man took care of me. And I had Tyler, even though he was a dork most of the time.

  But now, I wasn't sure who I was. The solid footing I had was gone. There were only questions. I wanted to run up to Matty and give him a hug. I was falling into a little black hole and I just needed something to grab onto, to stop the fall.

  And then Weinstein found her. "I got it!" she yelled, pointing at the microfiche reader screen. "Palmeri, Jessica Elaine, arrested June 12, 1973 for..." she moved her finger down the page then stopped. "Description of Charges: Disturbing the Peace/Assaulting a Police Officer. Arresting officer: Winston J. Thurman, III, JSO. And the address is a match: 14 Eastport Rd, Apt 3B, Jacksonville, Florida." There wasn't much else on the report. But at the very bottom right was her signature: Jessica Palmeri. It wasn't the same hand that wrote on the back of the picture. Some girls in class wrote small, timid letters like they were afraid someone might actually read the words. But hers leaned to the right in big, bold strokes. If I'd been arrested my handwriting would have been a shaky, chicken-scratch mess. Hers was smooth with a large J and P that went high into the arresting officers signature and extended well below the line. It was like she was signing an autograph. I stared at the signature for awhile. It was hers. She wrote it. She had been there. Not just some made up story. She was real.

  into the black

  Matty and I walked home from the annex trying to think up a good lie because it was 6:30 and we'd both missed dinner without calling. AJ would certainly ask where I'd been, so I was thinking I'd tell her I was at Matty's house, but Matty shot that one down because she'd probably already called his house.

  "Let's say we were studying late at school," I said.

  "Yeah, right. That'd work for me, but I don't think AJ will buy that coming from you: the perennial, underachieving B-student," said Matty.

  We walked along for a while, past the butterfly roof, a drive-thru convenience store where AJ used to take us to get butter-pecan ice cream. I was still walking in a haze of emotion. The weight of AJ's lie and the joy of finding my real mother was about to tear me in half.

  In the end we decided to tell the truth, or at least part of it: we'd met a girl and we walked together to the Crab Shack after school. AJ didn't like the type of people who went to the Crab Shack, even though she loved their crab cakes, but it was a good lie and if I seemed distant it would be because I was embarrassed about talking to AJ about girls, not that I had caught her in a lie and had begun to doubt everything she'd ever told me and was starting to lose my grip on reality.

  I said goodbye to Matty and headed up the alleyway to the big house. Before I even opened the door, I could hear the clink of silverware and running water: AJ was washing the dinner dishes. And I knew the old man and Tyler were watching that stupid wrestling show because I could hear it, too. Outside in the dark, the windows were big rectangles of warm light inviting me in, and I should have been happy to be home, but I felt like a visitor. Like I should knock before entering. I didn't belong here.

  When I stepped into the kitchen AJ looked at me, both hands on her hips. "Where've you been?" She was angry and worried, and I would usually be freaking out that I was late, but the events of the day seemed to make being late such a tiny thing that it didn't matter. I was watching this all from a distance. I was there and AJ was there but I could see past her, through the house, out into the growing darkness, all the way to the orange and pink light across the water as the sun dipped down below the tree line. But I had to pull back into focus or AJ was going to know something was up. So I told her the lie and she seemed to believe it. She was relieved, but still tried to sound angry. "Now march yourself right to the bathroom and wash up then report to the kitchen table," she yelled.

  I did as she instructed. I walked past the old man and Tyler, who was laying on the floor in front of the TV with his hands behind his head. All the while I kept thinking: my name is Palmeri. Jesse Palmeri. Tyler looked up, "You dorks were with a girl? Ha ha. Good one!" He turned back to his show and the light from the TV lit up his face. But all of this only sort of registered, like I'd just got a shot of novacain at Dr. Simmons' office right before he started drilling, and I couldn't feel anything, even if you poked my cheek with a sharp pencil.

  That night I laid in bed, my mind still racing. I couldn't stop thinking about her.

  "Tyler," I whispered. No answer. "Tyler!" a little louder.

  "I'm sleepin'," he moaned. I stared up at the four wooden slats that held his bed above me, the two middle ones sagging under his weight. He rolled over and his mattress springs squeaked.

  "Do you remember Momma?" I said.

  "Geesh, Jesse. Let it go." He was speaking and groaning at the same time. "All you're doing is hurting Aunt Jeannie and the old man by digging this up."

  "Okay. I'll shut up if you tell me." There was a long pause. I could hear Tyler breathing, but it wasn't the slow steady kind like you were sleeping. Then he jumped down next to my bed.

  "All I got is one little memory. There's a little playground there between the apartment buildings. I'd sit in her lap and we'd swing. Sitting there we could see into our apartment through the sliding glass door."

  He climbed back up to his bunk. I laid there for a long time.

  "Tyler," I said real quiet.

  "Shut up."

  "AJ and the old man ain't telling us everything."

  "You're dreaming again. Just like the monsters in the water. You're making stuff up."

  "No. Matty and I--"

  "She's gone. And she ain't coming back!" He jumped down again, his face right next to mine. His eyes were red and wet. "Go ahead and say it. Say it and move on."

  "Say what?"

  "Just face it. If you say it, it'll hurt, but then you'll get better."

  "Say what?"

  Tyler was leaning into me. My back was against the wall and the bedpost that connected our bunks. I couldn't escape.

  "She's dead!" he said.

  I pushed Tyler back as hard as I could and started running--through the dining room, then right into the kitchen. I grabbed my old crab jeans out of the laundry basket, then shot out the door. I stood outside in the dark between the house and the garage, right there where the old man had written our names in the concrete and put my jeans on. It was late and no one could see even though there was a street light with little bugs flying around it. I took one last look at the back door and started running down the alleyway. I heard the screened door slam a second later. It was Tyler. I kept running barefoot down the hill like I was heading for Matty's house then darted off to the left and hid along the side of the Halverson's house.

  Tyler ran right by in a full-out sprint. I could hear his feet lightly slapping the ground and the sound of his short breaths. His flannel shirt was unbuttoned, and flapped in the wind
behind him like a tiny cape. I crept around the back of the Halverson's yard, then over a small chain link fence and was back onto our property. A few seconds later I was standing at the top of the stairs that led down to the boat. I stopped there for a moment with my hands on my knees, head down, sucking in air like a winded basketball player. I looked back at the house and no lights were on. Out towards the river I could just see the silhouette of the boathouse roof.

  I stepped down the coral steps, one, two, three, and onto the little patch of grass right before the wooden walkway started. Then onto the wood. I took a deep breath and started walking. A few steps later I was halfway out to the boathouse. In the blackness again. I stopped, one hand on the railing, and looked up at the stars. The tide was up and the water bounced and bobbed against the pilings almost touching the walkway underneath me.

  I looked towards the tressel, told myself it was really there, but it wasn't there. Just blackness. I told myself the water was only three feet deep but I imagined it deeper. My legs got shaky. It was like I was standing on a suspension bridge in the middle of a canyon where you can't see the bottom. One hand still gripping the old wooden railing, I went down to my knees and put my free arm over my head. The shadows rolled in from all directions, some slowly gliding under the walkway, some crushing in from above. One larger than the rest. The dark side of it as big as a house, moving past, black and blue. Fins and teeth.

  Then for a moment the pressure was off and I thought about trying to stand again, but it came back, faster this time, from behind. I looked up and could see the eye on the side of his head, a flash of white around a black button, getting larger and larger as it bore down. The darkness that surrounded it blocked out everything. It was going to swallow me up. I was just a little piece of rotten bait floating on the water. I wanted to scream but nothing came out. It was going to take me down into the deep, cold water and it wouldn't matter if I had boots on or not. I closed my eyes and tried to be as small as possible. Maybe it would miss me. My free hand was on the walkway, a long row of old 2x4s that the old man had nailed in years ago before I was born. I gripped one, worn and rounded and dried out, like I was on the edge of a cliff.

  After a few minutes my t-shirt was wet and sticking to my back. I was breathing fast like I'd been chased by an animal. Eyes still closed, I took a deep breath. And then I had a thought, a voice in my head, soft and warm, "It's okay, baby. They can't hurt you." My breathing slowed. The silty bottom of the river started to come back. So I crawled the rest of the way to the boathouse door with my eyes closed.

  At the boathouse, I opened my eyes: just water and stars and the old man's dock. I stepped inside and put one hand on the boat, and pulled down on the brake, then flipped the switch with the other. The boat started going down. Near the boat I felt safer, started coming around. It was high tide so the noisy winch would only be on for a few seconds, and even if the old man heard it, he wouldn't have time to grab me. The boat was afloat faster than I thought and was suddenly bumping against the inside of the boathouse. I turned the winch off and it was quiet again. I jumped in the boat, the fiberglass floor cool on my bare feet. I squeezed the primer bubble on the gas tank line, reached for the key to fire the boat off, but it was gone. I hit the map light and there it was, a small key connected to a bright yellow fishing float.

  I put the key into the ignition just under the console lever and paused for a moment. It was still and quiet and dark and no one in a million years would guess I was here. I heard a car door shut and dog barking somewhere across the river. A light breeze was blowing. It was late summer and the air was a little dryer, almost cool. Fall was coming. The dead-bait, crab smell was everywhere. This was a bad joke. I could hear Matty telling me exactly why this was the worst idea I'd ever had. But I'd gotten close to her today. And there was something at the apartments. Everything started there.

  I took a deep breath and turned the key.

  The old 135 Evinrude roared loud and angry. I wasn't hidden anymore. I pulled back on the lever and the prop engaged, churning water. The boat moved out backwards under the boathouse door and suddenly I was in the river, alone, the night sky above, full of stars. I looked at the house and a rectangle of light popped on, then another next to it. I turned the wheel and pushed the lever forward full throttle as far as it would go. The boat jumped ahead and I had to hold onto the steering wheel so I didn't fall back. The old man would churn along forever before easing her into it. But I wasn't going to wait around. The bow jumped up, then immediately started to drop as I gained more speed. The wind was in my hair and the motor made a satisfying, high-pitched whine as the boat planed out and glided over the flat water. Behind me I could hear the old man yelling. I didn't look back, but I knew he'd opened the window, and was watching his baby being stolen. I imagined him running to the closet for the Winchester. I figured I'd be out of range in a few more seconds, but turned off the running lights just to be sure. I could hide in the darkness.

  "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," I kept saying out loud even though no one could hear over the wind and the motor. It's just me, Uncle Art, please don't have a conniption.

  I made it to the trestle in record time. It took me by surprise. Suddenly the big creosote covered pilings were there, the one green light on the right side. I had to pull back hard on the lever. The boat slowed down enough, but threw a wave that went under the trestle and kept going right to the boats that were tied to the fish market dock. I went under the train tracks and could see the boats bouncing around and hoped none of their lines broke.

  I turned left, idling along slowly, then turned right under the Arthur J. Truckman bridge. I looked back at the bridge and way up above me tiny cars with their lights on made their way across. It didn't look like they were going that fast from down here. I thought about mooning everyone on the bridge. Or flipping them off. Or some other great act of defiance, but they wouldn't see and it was good enough just to be there, to have beaten the bridge.

  The running lights were still off so I flipped the switch on the console and the red and green lights on the bow and the white stern light lit up. I pointed the boat at the blinking light that marked the channel. From a distance it was a tiny flashing dot of red, but up close it was a large, red floating buoy ten feet tall with a big light on top. The base near the water was covered with white seagull poop. The old man always said keep the red marker on your left heading out and the red on your right on the way home. He'd say, "Red, right, return." If you followed the markers you'd be okay. If you get too close to the shore on either side you could hit a sandbar and tear the motor off. There were some crabbers who knew the water like the old man that would run wide open at low tide right near the shore because they knew exactly where to go, but the old man never risked it.

  Once I made it to the red marker I turned the wheel left and hit the gas, heading for Eastport. Standing behind the wheel with the wind in my face, the boat glided over the calm water almost like flying. The vibration of the motor came up through the steering wheel into my arms and I could feel every small bump in my legs as the fiberglass bottom moved across the surface. And for a moment I forgot to be sorry about taking the boat, and forgot about AJ and my mother. When I was little I'd hide in the closet behind the old man's long wool coats. I could make myself small and no one could get me. No one knew where I was. And even with the big motor whining at full tilt and the running lights on, I was pretty much all alone in the dark: safe and warm.

  The apartments had sliding glass doors and balconies that faced the river so you could see the water. Right then, in the pitch dark, all I could see were three or four rectangles of orange light that stood out against the black tree line on either side. In one apartment the light was bouncing and changed color: a TV set still on. I knew the dock was right in front of the #4 building, but it was a different place in the dark, like the buildings had shifted and the dock was gone. The only thing to guide me were the four people who hadn't turned their lights off yet.

  I
flipped on the depth finder and the little green light started spinning around, surprisingly bright. Fish scales and some other dried brown stuff was caked on the readout, so I stuck my hand in the cool water and wiped it off with my thumb. Probably fish guts. The light narrowed at around the 5 feet mark, so I was still okay, but I wanted to make sure when I got close I was heading for the dock and not a sandbar or a submerged tree trunk that was going to stop me. If the boat got hung I could just swim to shore, I thought. Nothing was going to get in my way. I was too close.

  Then another light came on, one at ground level. And suddenly I could see something reflecting the light near shore. It was the side of a boat. I turned the wheel and puttered straight for the boat. Half way there the light went off and I lost the boat, but I was close. A few feet more and other boats came into view, big gray shadows, gently, almost imperceptibly, moving up and down as the old crab boat inched closer. Up to that point I'd been lucky. The water was calm and the weather was good, even though there was no moonlight. But the one thing I'd forgotten was I'd never really docked the boat before. I'd tried once when the current was strong at the Market and almost banged the prop on one of the concrete trestle pilings. The old man didn't stop cussing until we made it home and AJ put a plate of fried red bass and grits in front of him.

  Again, luck was on my side. The current wasn't moving fast. My plan was to get the bow in between two boats, kill the engine, then grab ahold of one of the other boats and pull myself to the dock. It wouldn't be textbook, and Tyler would never have let me hear the end of it, but it would work. So I idled in between two boats, turned the wheel hard left to swing the stern to the right, and once I had the boat sort of pointed in the right direction, I straightened the wheel, hit the gas just a touch, slowly inching the boat forward towards the dock, then killed the engine.