See you tomorrow, Phyllis had said. She hadn't expected an early departure.
"Why did they leave so early?” I asked.
"Dude said they were getting an early start,” said Billy. “He came in late yesterday just before we closed and prepaid, said he wanted to make sure they didn't miss us, said he liked to settle his debts. I told him we opened at seven, but he said he might be gone before then."
"They left about six,” I said. “I heard them.” Him, I thought. Dennis. And then I saw that sour look of his and heard that snarl in his voice—"Always some damn scene like this"—as Phyllis laughed and leaned into Dad. A fight, Billy had said. About what? About last night? About Dad? My first urge was to dig deeper, find the story behind the story. But then I remembered I wasn't a reporter anymore. And anyway, I was letting my imagination run away with me. She'd been drinking heavily. She'd admitted to seasickness. Sure, her husband was a jackass, but it was a leap from there to anything else, and what would be gained by testing that leap? And then I thought about how relaxed Dad had seemed the night before, and about the look he'd given the empty boat slip this morning, and about how much he'd already lost. Practicality? Principles? Maybe a little of both this time.
"If you step down there before we go,” I told the boys in the office, “don't mention any of this to my father, okay?"
They nodded, a little confused but agreeable. I signed the credit-card receipt, thanked them for their time.
Dad snapped a photo of me as I came back to the boat. I tried to smile.
"What took so long?” he asked.
"Credit-card machine,” I said. “Everything's fine."
* * * *
Not far out of Southport, I asked Dad if I could take the helm.
"Sure,” he said, “And remember, we're heading north now, but we're also heading into port, so . . .” He raised an eyebrow at me.
"I got it,” I said, but I caught myself smiling this time. It wasn't just pity.
I kept us at a slow pace, not a crawl but certainly slower than the way down. Snow's Cut wasn't too far ahead of us, and I wanted to give the Coast Guard time to get that Bertram into the marina before Dad and I crossed paths with the drowning.
Dad puttered with some of the instruments and relooped a couple of lines, and then turned on the CB radio. Before I could come up with a reason for him to turn it off, the chatter had already begun: “Two Coast Guard cruisers at Snow's Cut,” and another voice asking, “What's the trouble?” and then the answer: “Not sure, but looks big. Suggest keeping your speed slow, no wake."
"Sounds like we should steer clear of that,” I said. “Want to take the scenic route?"
"All scenic, isn't it?” Dad said. “But I don't think there's another route—at least not an easy one."
"We could cruise up the Cape Fear a little. A side trip? Let them work out whatever the trouble is?"
"Nah. Let's just take it through. You need to get back, I know, and I'm interested to see what's happening up ahead.” He reached down to adjust the squelch knob.
Just as he did it, the next words came through: “Nice-looking Bertram. I heard someone went overboard."
A puzzled look. “You don't think that's . . . ?” Dad let the question hang.
"Dad,” I said, reluctantly. I pulled the throttle back and let our own boat slow, the wake from behind us catching up and bobbing us up a little as we came to a drift out on the wide, open water. “I have to tell you something."
I told him—all of it, everything I'd heard.
"Dammit, son,” he said, “if you'd told me before.” He pushed me aside and took the wheel. He shoved the throttle ahead. The boat nearly jumped out of the water. I grabbed the bench to keep from being thrown back, and just barely managed to right my balance.
"What are you doing?” I called out over the sudden roar of the wind.
"There may still be time.” The tachometer was quickly racing toward the red line—3100 rpms, then 3200 and 3300—but he didn't pull back. “C'mon,” he said. “C'mon."
"She drowned, Dad,” I called out. “She's already . . .” I couldn't bring myself to say the word.
"I heard you the first time,” he snapped. “But we have to nail that smug son of a bitch that did it."
"He was a jackass, Dad, but there's nothing to say he killed her.” I didn't want to stress all the drinking again, didn't want to make it sound like her fault, but I did call out “Dramamine” again.
"What kind of reporter are you?” he asked—bitter, angry. His words didn't come through clearly over the wind and roar, but I heard him say “an eye for detail” and “pay attention!” and then “wasn't taking Dramamine. No need."
"Her seasickness,” I said. “I got that detail. Did you?"
He shook his head, pushed the throttle a little further. “Doris,” he said. “Doris didn't need—” The spray swept around us, cold and cutting.
"She's not Doris,” I called out. “It's Phyllis, Dad. Phyllis. You try to pay attention."
He shot an angry look my way. “I know who she is,” he shouted—the words clear this time. “I'm not senile, son."
Whatever distance we'd bridged between us was gone, and gone too Dad's openness of the night before. He shut down and shut me out as he focused ahead. I was glad to return the favor.
The veins on his hands rose and fell as his grip pulsed against the wheel. He passed several other boats, pushing past them, leaping their wake as we left the shipping channel and swung through the twists of the ICW leading toward Snow's Cut. He cut tight by the markers, even pulled briefly out of the channel a couple of times—reckless, hurried.
"C'mon,” Dad said again—to the engines, the boat. It was as if I wasn't there.
Soon, the entrance to Snow's Cut loomed—those tall cliffs rising ahead, the channel narrowing abruptly. We struck ground briefly, the depth finder letting out its shrill alarm, a brief tug at the bottom of the boat. I hoped the propeller wasn't damaged. It certainly didn't seem to be. Dad never slowed down.
Just before a bridge that spanned the waterway, we sighted the Bertram, anchored outside the channel. A Coast Guard boat was pulled up alongside, its light flashing and swirling. Another Coast Guard boat kept a slow patrol nearby, barely pushing through the water, marking a perimeter. Like an accident on the side of the interstate, I thought, and same as with the highway, other boats were bottlenecking the scene. Dad just swerved around them.
"Slow it down,” someone shouted as we sped past, that boat rocking heavily in our wake.
From another: “Are you blind?"
"Gotta slow down,” I told Dad, but he barely pulled back the throttle. The second Coast Guard boat saw us, turned on its own flashers, and spun to intercept.
"Slow your vessel,” a voice boomed through a loudspeaker, echoing against the walls around us. “Slow your vessel now. Do not approach."
Dad slowed and then began to wave his arms, beckoning them near. It was unnecessary. The Coast Guard boat was coming whether we wanted them to or not. Beyond them, the Bertram and the other Coast Guard cruiser bobbed as the wake from our boats reached them. An officer stood at the Bertram's stern, looking down at his feet. Was there a body lying there? I was glad we'd been stopped where we were.
"She didn't fall in,” Dad called out as the Coast Guard boat pulled alongside. “He pushed her. Her husband. He had to."
The officers on the approaching boat—blue uniforms, close-cropped hair, one taller than the other—looked at him warily. The shorter one had his hand close to his sidearm, too close for my comfort. The other looked confused.
"You know something about the drowning?” that second, taller one asked.
"We just got here,” I said. “We didn't see anything.” I tried to look apologetic, didn't know quite how to signal them that I wasn't responsible.
"Did he say she fell in?” Dad asked. “Is that what he says? She'd been drinking? What, all night?"
"Yes, sir,” the taller of them said.
&nbs
p; "Hell, she wasn't taking Dramamine,” he said. “She was—"
"You know the deceased?” the other asked.
"We met her last night,” I said. “We only just met her.” I turned to Dad: “Dad, she said she was seasick."
"She used bracelets,” he said. “She didn't need Dramamine, because she was using motion-sickness bracelets. That's what she showed us last night. Don't you remember?"
The dance, the gypsy dance, the bracelets that didn't jangle because they were plastic. What kind of reporter are you? Where's your eye for detail?
"We saw the Dramamine, sir,” said the taller officer.
"Don't worry,” said the other. “We'll do a full blood test to make sure."
"And you'll find it,” said Dad. “She'll be full of it."
People were watching us now, the boats rubbernecking our scene as much as the Bertram before. Dennis had stepped out onto the stern of the boat. He watched too.
"But, Dad,” I said, worried again. “You were just saying the opposite—that she wasn't taking Dramamine."
"Who made the drinks?” Dad said. “He did. He was making them. She wouldn't have taken Dramamine herself. She didn't need to."
The officers exchanged glances with one another. One of them opened his eyes wide, an “Oh, boy” look.
"We'll handle it, sir,” one of them said.
"Just look,” Dad said. “Look to see if she's wearing them now. If he's trying to cover his tracks, he would've taken them off of her. He would've known he'd have to. Call them. Call over there."
The taller man shrugged, went over to his radio. He turned away from us as he talked. The shorter man stood watch over us, his hand still close to his gun.
Movement over at the other boats—someone on the cruiser moving toward the Bertram, the officer there leaning over to talk. Dennis stood at the stern of the Bertram and stared our way. I couldn't see his face clearly, not from this distance, but I wondered what his expression was. Grief? Worry? Did he have a reason for the latter? Had Dad been right?
The officer on the Bertram turned and knelt down. The body was indeed down there—Phyllis lying across the stern there where we'd had drinks the night before. Dennis glanced down, then back to us. The officer on the boat stood up, asked him a question. I thought I saw Dennis shake his head. Then his questioner pointed down. Dennis shook his head vigorously then, threw his arms out as if exasperated, pointed to himself. The officer held up his hand, a calming gesture. Then Dennis pointed our way, angrily, jabbing the air.
"I don't think she was wearing any bracelets,” I said.
"Of course not,” Dad said. His tone was still clipped, impatient. “He took them off. He was trying to cover his tracks. I just hope he threw them overboard."
"Why's that?"
"Because if they can find the bracelets on board, he can claim that she took them off. But if he threw them overboard, he has to claim that she never had them."
"Our word against his."
He shook his head. “I've got a photo. When you went back to our boat to check in at your job. Dennis took it himself."
The radio squawked on the Coast Guard boat bobbing next to us. The man answered, and then called up to us.
"He says his wife wasn't wearing any bracelets. She didn't have them on this trip."
I glanced over at Dad, looking for that “gotcha” look of his. But his features were grim and showed no sense of triumph.
"I'll get the camera,” I said. I patted his arm before I headed to find it, and I thought I felt him, just for a moment, lean toward that touch.
* * * *
The rest of the trip back, we kept an easy cruising speed, enjoying the relative peacefulness of the sun and the salt air and the easy breeze. We were running later than scheduled at that point—given the statements we needed to make to the Coast Guard and then to the police—but it seemed wrong to rush.
"Want a beer, Dad?” I asked as I steered us around a turn.
He shook his head, his eyes downcast. He was sitting right beside me, but seemed worlds away.
"Wanna pull over and dock for a while?” I asked later. “Get some lunch?"
He didn't even answer that, and so we cruised along further—marsh and oaks and water and that distance between us.
Talk to him, son. That's all he wants.
"I lost my job,” I said finally.
"What?” he asked, as if he was waking up.
"I was laid off,” I told him. “Two weeks ago. A lot of us were. Cutbacks everywhere. The paper was just bleeding money."
He squinted his eye at me. “You were laid off,” he said, but it didn't sound like a question, despite the confusion in his look. “Why didn't you tell me? Why'd you tell me you had to get back to work?"
Keep it light, Mom would've said, but I told it to him straight—no bitterness, just honesty. “Because I was afraid you'd say exactly what you said. What kind of reporter am I? And I've been wondering myself. If I was better, maybe they would've kept me on."
Dad surprised me. He didn't react, but just nodded softly. “I was wrong to say that. Sometimes I don't . . . think first. And—” He hesitated, as if thinking now. “I should've known better, because I—well, I wondered if something like that might have happened. I check for your articles every day. Online. And I noticed the paper hadn't published anything lately. I've been wondering, but I just—I just didn't know how to ask."
I shook my head. He'd known all along. As usual, he was one step ahead of me and right about everything. And then more words came back to me: You think he might've been trying to do something he didn't know how to do very well?
He placed his hand on my shoulder then, loosely, easily. “You're a great reporter, son. Don't worry. I know you'll land on your feet."
A boat passed, and the driver waved our way. Dad hadn't noticed, but I raised a hand in return.
"And you're a good detective,” I told him. “I guess those Travis McGee novels are paying off, huh? A job for your retirement, maybe?"
He shook his head slowly, looked out beyond the bow of the boat, somewhere at the next marker or maybe further beyond. Ahead of us, the channel widened.
"I'm fine to read them,” he said finally. “Not to live them.” But he smiled a little as he said it. “Just no profit in it, son. None at all."
Copyright © 2011 by Art Taylor
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: JIM LIMEY'S CONFESSION by Scott Loring Sanders
Atlanta-born Scott Loring Sanders has had two novels published over the past few years, 2008's The Hanging Woods and 2009's Gray Baby. Published by Houghton Mifflin in the category of young adult fiction, "The Hanging Woods," said the Canadian journal The Labradorian, “shows how mature young adult fiction has become. It's gotten to the point where the separation between teen fiction and adult fiction is all but indiscernible.” Adult readers won't want to miss these books.
* * * *
As told to his granddaughter, Rita Limey Phillips, on October 19, 1993, several days before his death in Woodley, Alabama.
* * * *
My daddy's name, your great granddaddy, was Robert Limey. At least that's what the white folks started calling him after he went into business for his own self, back when I was just a baby. I guess he didn't ever see no reason to correct them. When he got killed, about nineteen twenty-two I think it was, I took over the business. I was somewhere around thirteen, fourteen years old, and not at all ready for my daddy to be gone.
The day after Daddy went in the ground, it was time for me to get to work. I was the man of the family then, and it was up to me to take over the business. I'd been going around with Daddy some anyway, so I knew most everything there was to know about it. I hitched Miss Annabelle to the wagon, loaded up the barrels of lime, then headed to town.
We made all the lime right there on the property. Daddy'd been a smart man and figured it all out his own self. He built a stone kiln and used shells from all along the riverbanks of the Alabam
a. He used to pay us boys a penny a sackful. There were shoals along the river where it was nothing but crushed shells. Whole bars you could walk on that reached way out into the water. Clam shells and mussel shells, all bleached white from sitting in the sunshine for a hundred years. Daddy worked four days a week making lime in the kiln, and the other two on privy duty. Sunday was church and rest. So that's where I was headed with Miss Annabelle that first day after Daddy'd been buried, going to town for privy duty.
There were about fifty privies spread throughout Woodley that we took care of, most in town, some out in the country. Lots of farmers used the lime for their cotton and peanut crops too, so that's why Daddy spent so much time making it, because everyone needed it for something or other. You can make a fair dime in lime, that's what he always said.
There wasn't much to it, really, privy duty. I had me a steel shovel that I'd scoop the stuff out with. At the back of each privy was a plank, blocking the opening. I'd slide out the plank and then shovel the slop, dumping it into a slatted whiskey barrel sitting on the wagon. At the end of the day, I'd empty the barrel in the woods down at the far end of our property. You've never seen so many flies in all your life as when you're pouring human muck into a privy pit. You've also never seen a place so bright green come springtime, what with all those plants growing like all get out. Like the rind of a lime, Daddy would say. He always managed to get lime in there somehow.
After I emptied a privy, I'd go inside and lime the hole real good. Every privy had a small little bucket on the floor which I kept filled so they could do it themselves if it got to smelling real sharp. In the winter it wasn't too bad. Summertime was the worst; that's when things got ripe. It could knock out a dead man when that stink got all mixed up with the heat and humidity. You could almost taste it sometimes. I'd use me a hanky to cover up with if it was really powerful, but only when I knew nobody was home. White folks didn't like to see a Negro covering up his face at the smell of their business.
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