A houseboat. Finegan Fine

by Nancy Lieder

  allow a full view of the canoe bottom and his sides, to show he is not

  packing a weapon. As the canoe bumps shore, a couple men step forward

  to pull it onto shore. One of them gives Finegan a hand, which he grabs

  to steady himself as he steps out onto the shore. The farmer says,

  Thought you were one of them.

  Finegan explains.

  We came through Memphis and heard about them

  yahoos. You militia?

  The farmer says,

  Shore patrol, yeah.

  Finegan introduces himself.

  I’m a trader. Been all along the new coastline

  since Georgia. Might have something you folks

  need, been lookin for. We don’t raid and run,

  that’s for sure.

  Finegan casts a glance to his right, down river down the shoreline.

  Recon it’s safe to leave my boat there? Do they

  come up this far, during the day?

  The farmer meets the eyes of the others for a moment, getting

  confirmation on what he is about to say.

  Look, I’ll come back with you and show you a

  good bay, out of view and all. If there’s a

  problem here, we’ll hear about it.

  The farmer raises a horn he has been holding in one hand. It’s a

  child’s toy trumpet made of plastic. He hands the trumpet to one of the

  others and steps into the water to step into the canoe.

  ______________________________

  82

  Finegan and the Farmer are emerging from some woods near a tumbledown

  farm. They are walking side by side, but the farmer is leading

  slightly. They are talking as they walk toward the collapsed barn and

  house. Joey is bringing up the rear, dawdling to look at things in the

  woods as he goes. These woods are different from the woods along the

  coastline of Georgia, where he had been raised.

  The farmer has bib coveralls on, farmer boots that come up near to his

  knees, and for a shirt is wearing dirty long johns. He is balding, has

  not shaved in days, and a few wild hairs are growing out of his ears

  and eyebrows. Appearance is the least of his worries. The farmer is

  explaining their troubles.

  Can’t get our rest at night. They sleep during

  the day, I guess. Half of us sleep during the

  day and patrol at night, the other half patrol

  during the day, and no work gets done. Hell of

  a business.

  Exploring for a solution, Finegan asks,

  If you could see at night, as well as day,

  could you cut your night patrol?

  The farmer responds,

  You mean lights? We ain’t got those no how.

  Finegan continues to explore for a solution.

  No, I mean night vision goggles. I’ve got

  several from a military depot. If you had a few

  people on high points, good view of the water,

  how many needed to sight the boats incoming?

  Now the farmer ponders.

  Well, lessee. . .

  The farmer has stopped in his tracks to mentally compute, and is

  pointing off into the air in a half circle where the water surrounds

  the farming community.

  I guess 3 at the least, best off would be 5,

  but 3 would do it.

  Finegan is finally onto something.

  OK, I’ve got those 3. Next step. Trip wires.

  You got wild life that would trip wires 3 feet

  or more above ground? You cleaned out the deer

  around here?

  The farmer laughs.

  Oh, deer are extinct! We kept our breeding

  stock and the chickens in the house, slept

  outside, but the deer, they got taken out.

  Finegan says,

  83

  From what I seed of that group, they’d not be

  inclined to crawl along the ground. We could

  trip wire the whole perimeter to see off

  alarms. Double trip it, in fact.

  In what is to be their typical response, the farmer says,

  I got no wire a’tall.

  And once again, Finegan to the rescue.

  I do. Plenty enough. Fine wire, but it won’t

  break. Now, next step. Best is something like a

  bell, a clang, can’t mistake it, ya’know. Have

  your night vision guys with a bell too.

  The farmer says,

  I got no bells.

  Finegan says,

  I do. Lets get started.

  Finegan turns to put his hand out for a handshake with the farmer.

  What’cha got in trade?

  ______________________________

  The night, along the humid river front, is filled with the sounds of

  insects singing. Finegan, the farmer, and several other farming folk

  are sitting in the shadows of an outdoor camp next to the collapsed

  farmhouse and barn. Occasionally someone swats a mosquito. No one is

  saying a word, all listening intently, eyes ranging along the perimeter

  of the farmstead. Suddenly there is the sound of a clanging bell,

  followed minutes later by a second clanging bell of a different pitch,

  coming from a different direction. Finegan points.

  That’s your far guard and a trip wire on this

  other end.

  The group mobilizes, grabbing clubs and pitch forks, one carrying a

  coiled rope over his neck and down under one shoulder. They take off in

  the direction of the trip wire.

  ______________________________

  Three teenage boys are clustered in the woods. The raid leader says,

  What the fuck was that?

  They are standing, momentarily confused, looking around. One of them, a

  clumsy goof, says,

  I ran into somethin here. Ah . . it’s a wire. A

  wire.

  The leader says,

  Well duck under it. Common. Move it already.

  The bell clangs out again.

  84

  Christ you can’t do anything right. Don’t pull

  on it, duck under it.

  The three boys get on hands and knees and are starting to crawl along

  under the trip wire when the farming group bursts onto the scene,

  swinging clubs.

  ______________________________

  Half a dozen prisoners are tied back to back, in pairs. They are all

  tied at the ankle too, so running is impossible for any of them. Five

  are boys, one a teen-age girl. All are very resentful of being

  captured. Coffee has been brewed over a campfire and scrambled eggs and

  toast being served to the farming community. Finegan and Joey are

  guests. The prisoners are not being offered anything but a drink of

  water from a tin mug, held to their mouths. Finegan gestures to the

  prisoners and turns to the farmer, who is seated on a hay bale next to

  him. Finegan asks,

  What’cha goin’ to do with ‘em?

  The farmer replies,

  Shoot em?

  Finegan says,

  One thing for sure, you’ve got to sink their

  boats. They’d just take up again down the

  coast. . . I can do that. Got a drill. Sink em

  all and sink em good. Shame, but that’s the

  first place they’d head.

  The resentful farmer says,

  Yeah, but they’d raid on land too.

  Finegan says,

  Harder to hide on land. And harder to run. On

  the water, they could move, find new territory.

  They had the ele
ment of surprise, at least at

  first.

  Finegan and the Farmer are pondering the situations, chewing and

  swallowing and slurping, both staring at the glowering group of

  prisoners. Finegan asks,

  How much did they steal? Give me the value in

  days stolen from y’all.

  The farmer leans back for a moment, taking in a deep breath, looks up

  toward the sky, and pausing in his chewing for a moment. Then he

  swallows.

  Given how many of us’en had to watch, and days

  lost collecting our harvest? I’d say several

  85

  months. This been going on for months. We did

  plant and have a harvest waiting, but made no

  progress, y’know?

  The farmer gestures around the site, indicating the state of his

  outdoor camp, which is still out in the open except for some tarp tents

  in the farmhouse yard. Finegan has a suggestion.

  Here’s what I’d suggest. This group owes you

  that time. Make a chain gang and work them for

  that time. Take them months to work it off.

  Maybe they learn something about farming and

  don’t have to steal no more. Doing ‘em a favor.

  Good behavior, that one gets off first, on his

  own, across land. Send ‘em off as a group and

  you’ve got a gang formed. The ringleader goes

  last. Keep a night guard on for a good while

  after too.

  And as usual, the farmer says,

  I got no chain and I got no locks.

  And Finegan says,

  I do.

  ______________________________

  Finegan and Joey are walking across the gangplank with a plate of

  scrambled eggs for Barney, who is wagging his tail, greeting them.

  Several of the farming community are following him, bearing produce –

  several bags of potatoes, a cardboard box filled with green cabbages,

  another filled with turnips, and a jug of home brew. Finegan is

  stashing the goods in vegetable bins as they hand it over on the deck

  of the houseboat and leave, one by one. He and Joey wave goodbye as the

  group trudges up the steep ravine from the hidden bay where the

  houseboat has been stashed all this time.

  Finegan still has the jug of home brew hanging from one of his fingers.

  Joey looks at the jug, then back up at Finegan, not saying a word but

  saying volumes.

  This time’s gonna be different. I don’t feel

  the need no more.

  ______________________________

  The houseboat is pulled alongside the yacht, moored with the grappling

  hooks. Finegan is on the deck of the yacht, handing duffle bags of gear

  down to Joey, who stashes them onto the front deck, running some of the

  bags into the house itself. Some of the bags clang as though cookware

  86

  or tools might be inside. The ring of rowboats can be seen to one side,

  taking on water, as are the speedboats. The yacht is starting to list

  to one side also. Finegan says,

  Might be a change of clothes in there for you

  too. You’re growing like a weed. Captain’s log

  in there too. Might make for some interesting

  reading. . . No sense letting all this stuff

  rot in the water. . . It was stolen in the

  first place.

  Finegan tosses the grappling hooks back onto the houseboat, and climbs

  down the ladder at the side of the yacht as the houseboat starts to

  drift away. He opens one of the duffle bags and fishes out the

  captain’s log and, seated on a box, starts to flip pages. The log

  reads,

  We were swept inland by a giant wave coming off

  the Gulf. Our compass is no help, is erratic.

  Finegan takes a swig from his jug and continues to flip pages, reading.

  In the background the yacht continues to list to the side, almost on

  its side, and the smaller boats can no longer be seen, having sunk. The

  raft make of logs had been tied to the houseboat earlier, and is

  starting to tug away from shore with the houseboat as it drifts in the

  current, the outgoing tide. The log continues,

  Floods everywhere. Landmarks unrecognizable.

  We’re out of food and water. Gas almost gone.

  Finegan takes another swig from the jug, flipping more pages, scanning.

  The shoreline is in the distance now, the floating raft lit from the

  left by the setting sun. The final log entry says,

  Drifted close to land. Taking the dinghy over.

  Abandoning ship.

  Finegan is about to take another swig from the jug but ponders it

  instead. He goes over to the side of the houseboat and pours the rest

  of the homebrew overboard, setting the jug down. He looks out at the

  floating raft, drifting downstream with the outgoing tide along with

  the houseboat. He says,

  Lets cut that loose and go upriver a bit, see

  what’s to see up there, eh?

  Finegan picks up a knife and walks over to where the floating raft is

  tied to the houseboat, slicing the line.

  87

  Eating Rats

  The houseboat is peddling down what would have been main street of a

  small town. Two-story brick buildings line both sides of the main

  street, flooded to the floor of the second story. Much of the brick is

  broken off, some buildings no more than a single wall with some boards

  sticking out of it.

  The place appears deserted until the mayor appears in a broken second

  story window. The window has been knocked out to form a doorway, and a

  rowboat is tied by a rope that disappears into the doorway. The mayor

  is shirtless, has folds of skin hanging over the waist of his baggy,

  dirty pants, as though he has lost a lot of weight. He has a scraggly

  beard and hair on the long side too. He leans in the doorway, yelling

  at Finegan.

  You got any food?

  Finegan replies,

  Depends. You got anything to trade? I’m a

  trader.

  The mayor flaps his hand toward Finegan in disgust, as though to say

  “go away”, and turns his back, walking back into the room.

  The entire length of main street, several blocks, is flooded, with a

  hillside at the end rising up out of the water. At the end of main

  street is a hill topped with a nursing home complex. There are several

  buildings, all of similar shape and size, and a parking lot. Finegan

  heads for that hillside.

  ______________________________

  Finegan and Joey are walking through the entry of the nursing home

  complex. The buildings show the effects of quakes and high winds, some

  thrown sideways, some collapsed in place, others standing but with

  windows broken and roof partly blown off. A sign laying along the

  walkway says, in fading paint, “Coolridge Retirement Home”. Finegan is

  looking around as he walks, sometimes walking backwards, looking for

  life. He hears a screen door creaking open. The woman manager says,

  Can I help you?

  A woman in her 30’s, her long brown hair held back by a bandana, is

  standing in the doorway, holding the crooked screen door open. She is

  wearing a man’s shirt that is too large for her, bound at the waist by

  a tie, the sleeves rolled up t
o her elbows. She has a long colorful

  skirt beneath, and is barefoot. Several cats run in and out of the room

  88

  as she opens the door. Finegan jerks his head to the side at the sound

  of her voice.

  Finegan Fine here, mam, trader. Perhaps I have

  something you’ve been looking for, something

  you need.

  The manager says,

  Oh, I don’t know. Unless you’re a floating

  pharmacy. You that houseboat down there? The

  one piled with, ah . . boy, you do come loaded.

  What’all you got?

  Finegan smiles and says,

  Don’t rightly know, mam, until I do inventory.

  As I said, I’m a trader, and I find I can rise

  to any occasion.

  Finegan stops short at this point, all but putting his hand to his

  mouth, realizing they are flirting with each other and dropping

  innuendoes. The manager catches this too, and tries to put the

  conversation back on a safe footing.

  Well, ah, we’ve got a retirement home here, old

  folks. Mostly what they’re missing is

  medication, but those that suffered from that

  passed early. Now I’m here as head nurse with a

  hardy lot. Old, but hardy.

  The manager steps through the doorway into the driveway circling the

  complex and motions to Finegan and Joey to follow her.

  Come on back, I’ll show you.

  ______________________________

  The nursing home vegetable garden is at the back of the complex. Most

  of the gardens are raised beds, long rectangular beds formed by a heavy

  lumber posts laid horizontally on top of one another, held firm by

  stakes along the outside driven into the ground. The wall is two feet

  tall with soil in the interior of the bed. There is a pipe running down

  the center of each bed for watering with a spigot at one end. The pipes

  have holes punched into them so water sprays out down the length of the

  pipe. In between the beds is what was intended to be lawn, but it has

  not been mowed in ages. Instead, there are wheelchair tracks and a path