by John Case
‘She just showed up.’
‘That’s right! Pretty as a picture and bold as you like, and next thing you know she’s got workmen back and forth to the island, putting in septic, insulation, a proper bathroom, wood stoves, a dock, I don’t know what all.’ She sucked in her breath and shook her head. ‘Talk of the town is what it was – mostly about how foolish it was. Because she’ll never get it back if she ever wants to sell.’
‘Why not?’
‘No electricity out there, likely never will be.’ She drank the last sip of her tea. ‘How times change!’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Used to be, people came down here to the shore, or out to the islands – the whole idea was to get back to basics, away from the workaday life. Just go out into the woods – no telephones or toasters, just candles and cookstoves, and water from the springs and rain barrels.’
He mentioned something about the Boy Scouts, the back-to-nature movement.
‘Back when Cap’n bought –’ She smiled and dipped her head. ‘– Sanders Island, why the islands would have been the pick of all the places. Back then, the more remote, the better. But nobody wants to rough it these days; they just want to bring their regular life someplace different. The old places out on the islands are just falling down – because nobody really wants to get away from it all anymore.’
‘They want to take it all with them.’
She giggled. ‘Right. Lord forbid they should miss “60 Minutes” or a Red Sox game.’
‘So she’s out there all winter – without electricity.’
‘She spent the summer, one year, then May to November. This is the first year she’s stuck it out.’ The old woman frowned. ‘’Course, there’s some that don’t approve, not at all, never mind that we used to be well known hereabout for keeping out of private business.’
‘Why don’t they approve? Because it’s so remote?’
‘“Remote” isn’t what gets to folks. Some – and these would be the men – are wicked disapproving. Because she cuts her own wood, sets her nets, minds her business . . . Men plain don’t like to think a woman can do all that without ’em. Now, the women – they worry about the boy.’
‘What about you?’
She shrugged. ‘I used to be one of them, worried about Jesse, but he’s such a sweet child, and so happy. She truly dotes on that boy. And I get to thinking, well, what’s he missing? Cartoons, video games, and Wal-Mart.’
‘Still, if there was an emergency . . .’
She sighed. ‘I agree! We’ve all talked to her about it, and she just says, “Well, we’ve got a flare gun. If there’s ever a problem, you’ll know about it.” Even so, I’d be a lot happier if she had a proper boat.’
‘She doesn’t have a boat?’
‘Oh, she’s got a boat, all right – but it isn’t much. Not something you’d take out in the winter. Not in that water.’ She paused for a moment. ‘So,’ she said, ‘how do you know Marie?’
There was a disinterested tone in her voice that Lassiter sensed she didn’t feel, and it occurred to him that perhaps she suspected he was Jesse’s father.
‘I met her at my sister’s funeral,’ Lassiter said. ‘And when I came up to Portland on business, I thought I’d stop by to see her. She never mentioned anything about an island.’ He grinned and shook his head. ‘I wonder,’ he said, as if the thought had just occurred to him. ‘Is there anywhere around here I could rent a boat?’
‘Oh, no dear. No one I know would rent a motorboat, this time of ye-ah.’
‘Why not? Because of the ice?’
‘Oh no. Ice isn’t much out he-ah. We don’t freeze in but once every few years. There’s too much water. Even then, it’s just sea ice – not much more than slush, really.’
‘Then why not a motorboat?’
‘Oh, it’s too cold, de-ah. Small boat’s not safe. You’d need something with a cabin and some heat. Elsewise, just a little engine trouble – shear a pin – something like that – you’d freeze up like a Popsicle. It’s wicked cold in an open boat, you know – you’re making your own windchill. And if you go overboard, well . . . that’s that. I don’t expect you’d last more than a minute or two.’
‘So no one goes out in the winter?’
‘Lobstermen, urchin divers, are the only ones crazy enough, and they wouldn’t do it neither – ’cept for the money.’
‘What’s an urchin diver?’
‘Sea urchins. They like the cold water, and the Japanese like them. So I’m told. Personally, I won’t touch them.’
‘You think one of the divers or the lobstermen would take me out?’
She looked doubtful. ‘The lobstermen? No. It’s only the big boats go out in win-tah. Urchin divers? They might do. But it’d cost a penny.’
‘Even so,’ Lassiter said. ‘You know where I could find someone? I mean . . . it wouldn’t hurt to ask.’
‘Well, you could check down to Ernie’s – that’s the marine supply store, fishermen’s co-op. There’s usually someone down there.’
Lassiter thanked her, and told her what a pleasure it had been.
She was pleased and a little embarrassed and fiddled with the cups. ‘I don’t believe you’ll be goin’ out today, though. We’re due for some more weath-ah.’
Ernie, the proprietor and also the harbormaster, echoed that thought, shaking his massive head. They were surrounded by marine gear, huge pink mooring balls, what seemed like thousands of fittings in little bins, charts, flares, life vests, everything. A radio rasped in the background, an unintelligible voice speaking in between stretches of pure static. ‘Weather channel says another nor’easter’s on its way. Not s’posed to get here till the morning, mind you. But me? I don’t like the way the air feels. I wouldn’t recommend anybody going out. Nossir.’
‘Well, I was hoping I could speak to someone –’
Ernie nodded toward a door in the back. ‘Try if you like,’ he said. ‘There’s a coupla fellas in they-ah. You’re welcome to ask.’
‘You just don’t want me to leave because you need a fourth for pinochle,’ Roger said to the men at the table. ‘But I was going out anyway. Urchins are a hundred dollars a pound in Tokyo, and if I don’t find some pretty quick, the mufflah on my truck’s gonna get even loudah.’
He was a big, good-natured guy with long black hair and a salt-and-pepper beard, heavy brows over bright eyes, and snow-white teeth. He wore bright yellow overalls and giant boots that made him look like a Down East Paul Bunyan. Lassiter had just agreed to pay him $300 to take him out to Rag Island and pick him up the next day.
One of the men at the table shook his head. ‘Storm comin’,’ he said in a don’t-say-I-didn’t-warn-you voice. ‘Check the barometah.’
‘There’s not even small-craft warnings yet,’ Roger said. ‘Besides, if we get a storm tomorrow, that’d stir the bottom wicked, and I’d be shit-outta-luck till the weekend.’
‘Your passenger’s gonna want a wet suit.’
‘How ’bout yours? You aren’t goin’ anywhere.’ Roger turned to Lassiter. ‘You want a wet suit? Keep you warm.’
‘I don’t know,’ Lassiter replied. ‘Whatever you say.’
‘Well, you don’t really need one – it’s not like you’re goin’ swimmin’. Plenty of good places to put ashore.’ Roger turned his massive head toward the wall, where the pendulum on a tidal clock ticked from side to side. ‘We’ll have plenty of water, too. Other hand! If the wind kicks up, you turn out to be a clumsy bastard –’ He cocked his head. ‘– you might wind up core-froze and there goes my license.’
‘Core-froze!?’ Lassiter repeated.
Roger nodded. ‘Ah-yuh. But I think you could probably use my old gear. You’re a pretty big fellah.’
One of the men at the table laughed. ‘Your old gear? Last time I saw it, the butt was ripped. Why’d you even save it?’
‘It does have a rip – but this man’s not going to be diving, is he? It’s just gonna keep him warm
in the boat. And if he happens to slip when I’m setting him down, he won’t freeze up, will he?’
‘Rodge is right,’ said a man in a Red Sox cap. ‘You don’t need no H-bomb to kill no fly, and you don’t need a perfect wet suit to take a little boat ride.’
They worked out the details as Roger fetched the wet suits and thermal underwear from a storage area in the back room. ‘Don’t smell too good,’ he said with a sniff, tossing a pair of long johns to Lassiter. ‘Sorry.’
Lassiter shrugged, stripped, and redressed. When he was done, he folded his own clothes into a little pile and pulled on his leather jacket over the wet suit. Retrieving his wallet from his pants, he began to put it in the breast pocket of his jacket – but something was already there.
Baresi’s letter.
‘Somethin’ the mat-tuh?’ Roger asked, seeing the look on his face.
‘No,’ Lassiter said. ‘I keep forgetting something.’ Shoving the letter back in his pocket, he stuffed his wallet next to it and buttoned them in. Then he put his clothes in a plastic grocery bag and knotted it shut. The deal was that Roger would take him to the island that same afternoon, and return for him at high tide the next morning. ‘Weath-ah permittin’, of course. Never can tell what the weath-ah’s gonna do.’
Lassiter knew that his plan was risky – to trespass on an island owned by a woman who was scared to death of stalkers. But Marie Sanders would probably recognize him from Kathy’s funeral, he thought, and he was confident that he could explain everything. The fact that it would be impossible for him to leave until Roger returned might even be a plus. She couldn’t just slam a door in his face; she’d have to take him in.
Besides, he couldn’t wait a month or six weeks for her to come ashore. If he’d found her, so could they – and with Drabowsky helping, it wouldn’t take long.
He followed Roger out to the dock, which was attached to a ramp that angled down to a float on the water. It was the winter dock, Roger explained, the ramp and float easily pulled out in the event of a bad storm. Together, they climbed down to the ramp, which rose and fell as a wave swept under it.
‘Wait he-ah,’ Roger said, ‘I’ll be right back.’
He picked up an inflatable red dinghy and tossed it into the water. Hopping in, he rowed out to a gleaming white boat with Go-4-It written on the stern. Roger pulled the dinghy aboard and lashed it down. A minute later the engine turned over with a growl and the boat swung slowly around. With practiced ease, Roger brought it to the dock, jumped out, and steadied the boat so Lassiter could climb aboard.
The cockpit was crowded with equipment: diving tanks, masks, lines, marker buoys, and other equipment whose purposes Lassiter couldn’t guess. Suddenly, the boat surged forward as Roger pushed off and leapt on board. Then Lassiter followed the big man into the cabin, where a little heater glowed on the floor.
Roger talked about urchin fishing as they maneuvered out of the tiny harbor. ‘It’s dangerous work,’ he said, ‘but I can bring in a thousand pounds on a good day. That’s urchins – not roe. Urchins pay about a dol-luh twenty-five a pound.’
‘Why winter? It’s freezing,’ Lassiter said, raising his voice above the engines. The boat was in open water now.
‘That’s the season: September to April. If you harvest them in sum-muh, the roe’s about three percent of the body weight. Win-tuh-time, it’s ten to fourteen. So win-tuh’s a lot more efficient.’
‘And it’s the roe you’re after?’
‘Ay-uh. That’s what they’re payin’ for. Japs call it uni.’
Lassiter was enjoying the ride. The boat was well designed; it seemed to skim along sweetly on top of the chop. Behind them, Cundys Harbor had shrunken to toy size.
‘So . . . do you like it?’ Lassiter yelled.
‘Like what?’
‘The roe?’
‘To eat?’
‘Yeah’
‘Oh, God, no,’ Roger said, wincing. ‘Thing about the Japanese – watch it!’ He flung his arm in front of Lassiter as he wrenched the boat violently to the left. There was a dull thump, and the boat shuddered under their feet. ‘Fuck!’ Roger said, gritting his teeth. Then he cut the engines until the boat began to pitch and roll on the swells.
‘What’s the matter?’ Lassiter asked.
‘We hit a log,’ Roger explained.
‘How can you tell?’
‘They float on the surface, you can see ’em. They sink, that’s okay, too. But when they get just the right saturation . . . they hang there, just below the surface. So you can’t see ’em, no way.’ He revved the engine, and listened. It had a ragged sound.
Roger cocked his head. ‘Sounds like I just nicked it,’ he said. ‘Might be able to sand it down.’ Suddenly, he slammed his hand down on the console above the ignition and gears. ‘Fuck! That’s the third propeller this ye-ah!’ A big sigh breezed through his lips as he swung the boat around, set course, and eased the throttle forward. A moment later the boat was pounding through the waves.
‘What was I sayin’?’ Roger shouted. ‘Before we were so rudely interrupted?’ He laughed at his joke, a big, confident ha-ha-ha.
‘The Japanese!’ Lassiter replied, forcing his voice above the engine noise.
‘Right! I think, whatever’s hard to do, or contrary – that’s what they like. Take those bonsai trees. A tree wants to grow big, so they like to grow ’em small. And look at their gardens – bunch of rocks! And urchin roe’s another example because it’s naturally disgusting. And some of the other things they eat – blowfish? Do it wrong, and it’ll kill you in a heartbeat.’
Roger looked around – and frowned. ‘I think we might be getting that storm a little early. Look at that.’
Lassiter looked, and saw that the waves were bigger now. The wind was stronger, too, and there were white-caps everywhere. Still, the boat could handle it.
‘If this gets any worse, I may just let you off and have back,’ Roger said. ‘It’s been a bitch of a win-tuh.’
‘If it’s a problem landing –’
‘No problem, there,’ Roger said dismissively. ‘There’s a good spot on the lee side of the island. What’s a problem is diving. I will not dive in rough water. Not by myself.’
He flipped open a metal-framed section of the windshield and stuck his head out. Instantly, the cabin was wet and freezing cold. A second later he drew his head back in and snapped the window shut. ‘It’s blowing up good all right.’ He heaved his huge shoulders. ‘I think after I set you down, I’ll just head back. Best take a look at that propeller.’
Roger was bummed enough that he no longer wanted to talk. He picked out a cassette and popped it into the tape deck. It was one of the old Little Feat albums, and listening to it, Roger dipped his shoulders, right and left, boogying in place. He was six-four, if an inch, but a graceful dancer. Listening to him sing along, Lassiter realized that he had a good voice, too.
‘You should have been in rock and roll,’ Lassiter shouted. The boat was thudding over the waves at thirty to thirty-five knots.
Roger smiled, and waved a big hand toward the left. ‘Pine Island,’ he said. Then he dipped, spun, and clapped his hands.
‘If you’ll be my Dixie chicken,’ he sang, with absolutely no self-consciousness.
Lassiter stared out at the water through the salt-streaked windshield and thought about what he was going to say. Like . . . Don’t shoot! And . . . We met at my sister’s funeral.
‘Dutchess Island!’ Roger yelled, gesturing seaward.
Lassiter nodded, and thought, I’ll think of something.
Another song came on: Dire Straits, doing ‘Sultans of Swing.’ Roger tapped him on the arm as the opening guitar licks rolled out into the air, then pointed ahead, and to the left. ‘That’s Rag Island, comin’ up to port. See it?’
Lassiter followed the Mainer’s gaze toward a dark mass of rocks and trees. He nodded and smiled.
Roger turned his attention back to the music, singing along with Mark Knopfler,
into it, his huge eyes half closed, as if he couldn’t afford any distraction from the tune. This might have worried Lassiter if he’d thought about it. But he did not.
Instead he listened to the driving bass and syncopated licks and relished the moment for what it was: exhilarating, loud and perfect. He was snug against the blistering cold, slamming over the waves toward a damsel in distress, surrounded by music and water. The boat was pure fiberglass joy. He could all but feel the white curls of foam falling away from the prow as it cut through the water. And Roger, his boon companion, the Bunyanesque urchin diver, with firm opinions about Japanese culture and a really terrific voice, was there at the helm, piloting the pair of them toward . . .
A wall of rocks.
The island loomed, and as they rushed toward it, Lassiter turned to his new friend with a questioning look, thinking a joke was in the works, then blanched to see the panic in the diver’s face as he spun the wheel to no avail.
‘God damn!’ Roger cried, his voice cracking as he slapped at the throttle in a vain attempt to slow the boat before it crashed.
The last thing Lassiter heard before the boat slammed into the rocks was Mark Knopfler, singing:
‘The band plays Dixie, double-four time . . .’
And the last thing he thought, improbably enough, was, Hunh . . . two straight songs with the word ‘Dixie’ in them.
An instant later the moment expanded as the Go-4-It’s hull powered into a mass of seaweed-clad boulders, ripping its bottom apart with a long, low, fiberglass shriek that slammed Lassiter into the console. Suddenly, water was pouring in from every side as the cabin shattered with a bang, sending a cascade of ear-splitting cracks and pops and tearing noises through the back of his head.
The lights went out. The dark rushed in. The water rose. A hand reached for him in the night and took him by the arm. Then the floor heaved as a wave lifted the boat off the rocks. For a moment it was as if gravity had failed. The boat, and all the world around it, seemed suspended in the air, hanging weightless at the apogee of its destruction – and then, as suddenly as the boat had risen, it slammed back down on the rocks.