Just Past Oysterville: Shoalwater Book One

by Perry P. Perkins

  "Heaven!" he mumbled, his mouth full.

  “Attractive!” Cassie laughed and handed him a napkin, then took a bite herself. Jack had been right; this was nothing like the offerings of the drive-through chains she knew. The tortillas were fresh and warm and the chunks of stewed beef were delicious and spicy. Cassie chewed slowly, savoring the mouthful for perhaps a second and a half before her tongue burst into flames.

  She emitted a muffled shriek; her eyes going wide as her taste buds burned and her lips grew numb.

  "Water!" she croaked, flailing her free hand in Jack's direction, "WATER!"

  Cassie could feel the surface of her tongue starting to crisp as Jack, laughing uncontrollably, handed her a bottle of water and several plain tortillas.

  Cassie began to gulp the contents of the bottle.

  "Eat the tortillas first, “Jack advised, “their going to do a lot more than that water. You could drink all day long and it's still going to burn!” Cassie, her face crimson and beginning to drip with perspiration, swallowed the offending bite of taco as she continued to pull from the water bottle, pausing just long enough to turn on Jack.

  "You're gonna die!” she said between coughing fits, “if I live through this I'm going to kill you!"

  Jack laughed even harder. "You must have gotten one of my tacos!” he gasped, his wide eyes the very picture of innocence, “the other two in there are mild. Besides, it's not really thathot.” He took another bite.

  "See? No problem,” he said. “That's what you get for being raised on Twinkies and Wonder Bread.”

  Cassie gave him another dirty look as the fire finally began to fade from her mouth. He had been right; the tortillas had done more than the whole bottle of water. Slowly she reached into the bag and took out another taco.

  "I swear, Jack," she warned, "If this is hot…"

  "No,” Jack snorted, still laughing. “That one should be fine, two of each.” The food still seemed a little spicy to Cassie’s smoldering palette, but it was edible and, what little she could still taste of it, was very, very good.

  Wiping tears from his eyes, Jack dug into the remains of his own lunch. Cassie took a last, dainty sip from her bottle and smiled sweetly at him.

  "Just remember, Jack," she said, "payback sucks."

  This sent Jack into another gale of laughter, as he steered the van through the rocky parking lot and back onto the highway.

  It was another five and a half hours up the coast to Pismo Beach. Jack tried to coax more information from Cassie about her home and family, but it was no use. Finally, he conceded, at least for the moment.

  “Ah,” he murmured, smiling, “secret and self-contained and solitary as an oyster.” He paused for a reaction, and got none.

  “That’s Dickens,” he said.

  “Yes,” Cassie replied, “A Christmas Carol, page one.”

  Jack laughed.

  The interstate scenery of Southern California grew monotonous and both Jack and Cassie soon lapsed into silence, lulled into a semi-conscious state by the hum of the tires and the sound of the wind rushing past the windows.

  By the time they saw the exit for Pismo, Jack was stiff and sore from a long day in the driver’s seat. After a brief conference, the two weary travelers decided to stop for the day.

  *

  Parking along the boardwalk, they clambered out of the van and stood, stretching and rubbing their eyes for a moment as they took in the vastness of the Pacific Ocean.

  Cassie had been to the beach several times while growing up in Bowie. Twice on school outings and once in a while with the Williams family; impromptu road trips in Guy's old VW Bus.

  The enormity of the sea never failed to fascinate her, and she stood at the rail of the boardwalk for several minutes, breathing in the briny tang of the air and letting the cool coastal breeze flow over her. A tourist sign was posted to the rail a little way from where she stood and Cassie walked down to read it. Jack joined her a moment later.

  "So," he said, "who killed whom here, and when?"

  Cassie chose to ignore that, reading the sign aloud.

  "This area originally gained fame as home for the Pismo Clam, a mollusk that used to thrive in the hundreds of thousands along the beaches here. However, over-harvesting has seriouslydepleted supply and now there's a limit of only 10 clams per day."

  She finished and turned to Jack.

  "And there is no greater disaster than greed," he quoted.

  Cassie raised an eyebrow.

  "Lao-tzu," Jack said. They stood a moment in silence, looking out over the water.

  “They did the same thing back home,” he went on, “the Chinooks harvested Olympia Oysters for thousands of years, maybe tens of thousands, out of Willapa bay and all up and down the coast. Once the gold rush hit in California, it took the white man about thirty years to wipe ‘em out. We had to import a whole new breed from Japan, Pacific Oysters, and that’s still what we grow.” He sighed, “Now we’re doing the same thing to the salmon.”

  Cassie’s gaze returned to the ocean, and she remained silent, unsure what to say.

  "Well," Jack said at last, slapping his stomach with both hands, "on that note, let's go eat some seafood!"

  Cassie rolled her eyes and followed Jack across the busy street and down the block to The Oceanside, a restaurant proclaiming Gourmet Seafood in glowing blue neon.

  A polite waiter found them a seat near the window, pulling out a heavy, leather-cushioned captain's chair from the oak table for Cassie, and setting a menu and glass of water in front of each of them. The dining area was dim, a dark, low ceiling, the walls covered with fishing nets, glass floats, and starfish.

  “I wouldn’t drink that if I were you,” Jack said, as she raised the glass to her lips, “I don’t know how your water in Arizona is, but the stuff down here can have a mean streak.”

  Cassie set her glass back down, sliding it across the table and out of accidental reach, then browsed the menu long enough to find the hamburger section. Sipping at a bottle of water that Jack had requested from a passing waitress, Cassie waited to see what he would choose. The older man considered the menu for a several minutes and finally, with a nod of his head, closed his up as well.

  "So, what’cha having?” Cassie asked immediately.

  "I'm leaning towards the oyster kabobs," Jack said.

  Cassie made a face, setting down her water, "Oysters?" she asked with ill-concealed disgust.

  "God's most perfect food!” Jack replied, smacking his lips, "Ah, Crassostrea gigas,the Pacific Oyster. ‘ A beatific smile over his face! Man has tasted the oyster!’ so sayeth Don Marquis.”

  Cassie groaned.

  "And what," asked Jack," did you decide on?"

  "A cheeseburger and fries." Cassie answered defiantly.

  Jack put one hand over his eyes and wearily shook his head, "I weep for the future," he muttered.

  "But oysters are so…slimy," Cassie replied, grimacing again, "ick!"

  Jack harrumphed, sitting up straighter in his seat as the waiter returned to take their dinner order, bringing a diet cola for Cassie and a glass of root beer for Jack. As soon as the man had turned to hurry back to the kitchen, Jack pointed a long finger at Cassie.

  "And just how many oysters have you eaten in your eighteen years?" he asked.

  "Well" Cassie said, faltering as she realized she was being trapped, "none."

  Slap! Jack's hand returned to his forehead, as he issued another groan.

  "Well," Cassie said, feeling the battle being lost, "They lookslimy…”

  Jack didn't respond to this, but stared blankly across the table at her until Cassie felt herself beginning to squirm in her seat.

  "Well…" Cassie began once more.

  "Not," Jack said, "a very nonpartisan way to approach the subject, especially for a would-be journalist.” That stung and, her shoulders drooping in defeat, Cassie nodded.

  Okay, I can't argue with that,” she said with a disconsolate sigh. “The nex
t place that has Oysters, I'll order some."

  "No need to wait that long,” Jack replied. “You'll try some of mine right here!” He slapped his hand down in triumph.

  "Greeeat!" said Cassie, thinking of how good her burger had sounded only moments before.

  “Oh,” Jack exclaimed, “that reminds me!” He suddenly began digging furiously through the pockets of his leather jacket, until he finally produced a battered paperback book. Cassie saw the words Willapa Bay on the cover as he handed it to her.

  “That’s a definitive history of Oysterville and Willapa Bay,” he said, “and I’m not just saying that because I helped with it either! Now you can get started on your research; and you willbe quizzed.”

  “Oh boy!” Cassie said with a groan, flipping through the pages of the narrow booklet as their dinner was served.

  Jack's oysters, wrapped in strips of bacon and impaled on two long bamboo skewers, lay resting on a bed of fresh, green spinach. Each skewer held five or six of the fat bi-valves, pan fried to a golden-brown, interspersed with sautéed mushrooms, and chunks of toasted French bread dripping with garlic butter. The steam that rose from his plate was tangy with brine. As Jack removed the first oyster from the skewer with his fork, he offered it to Cassie without flair.

  "I believe," he said, straight-faced, "that you were seeking to expand your horizons?” Cassie took the fork, trying to look anywhere except at the bacon-wrapped lump that she was about to eat.

  Bad medicine is best taken quickly, Kathy Belanger had oft said and, with this thought in mind, Cassie popped the whole oyster in her mouth and chewed quickly. To her surprise, the taste wasn't bad, just unusual. In fact, she thought that maybe, just maybe, she liked it. As Cassie kept chewing, she found that she really did like it! The flavor was sharp, briny and pleasant, rich with butter and garlic, and the consistency was not at all what she expected. The oyster wasn't like anything she had ever tasted before, and she looked somewhat dubiously at the halves of the cheeseburger resting on her plate, a pile of French fries lying limply beside.

  Much to her chagrin, the look on Jack's face showed plainly enough that he had seen her reaction. Wordlessly, he picked up the first of the two skewers and set it on Cassie's plate, taking half of her burger in trade.

  "Thanks," Cassie said, a bit sheepishly.

  "No worries," Jack replied, "I wouldn't have expected anything less from you. I take it as a sign of excellent breeding that you know good food when you taste it!"

  Cassie studied him a moment, trying to decide if he was putting her on.

  Then she laughed and dug into her dinner, following Jack's suggestion and eating the burger first, "Lest she spoil the memory of the oysters.” The burger was great as well, grilled thick and juicy, and served with slabs of beefsteak tomatoes, sweet Vidalia onions, and crisp lettuce.

  Finally, Jack leaned back and sighed and, as he tossed his napkin onto his now empty plate, and drained the last of his soda, his eyes twinkled merrily.

  "O Oysters, said the Carpenter, You've had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again? But answer came there none. And this was scarcely odd, because they'd eaten every one!"

  "Lewis Carroll!” Cassie exclaimed, "Finally, someone I recognize.” Jack laughed.

  "Not true,” he said, “you knew Dickens. Tomorrow, we try out oyster shooters before dinner!"

  "Oyster shooters?” Cassie looked at him quizzically.

  "A raw oyster, in a shot glass with a spoonful of cocktail sauce!” Jack rolled his eyes and licked his lips euphorically.

  "Raw?” Cassie asked, swallowing hard. Jack gave her a long look, and she raised her hands in surrender.

  “Okay...okay, I'll try it! But you had better take me someplace you don't intend to eat at again, just in case I hurl!"

  "Delightful," Jack grimaced, "The colloquialisms of youth."

  Chapter Seven

  Cassie insisted on paying for their dinner that night, having removed the cash from her boots that morning. She felt safer with Jack, even though she barely knew him. He still seemed a little strange though.

  A couple of times on the long drive from Phoenix, she had noticed Jack watching her out of the corner of his eye with an odd look on his face. It was a sad look, almost haunted, and he would jerk his eyes quickly back to the road if she caught his gaze.

  Jack had told Cassie that he’d never married and had no children.

  She wondered if he regretted this when he looked at her and she felt bad, thinking that she might be causing him pain. He seemed like a nice enough guy, even though he tended to lapse into long, quiet, moody spells.

  In just their day and a half together, Cassie had learned to recognize this look as it came, periodically, to Jack's face. His jaw would become tight and his perpetual scowl would deepen, in a subconscious reaction to his thoughts.

  She had never met anyone like Jack Leland, and found he was an enigma. For someone who could laugh so easily, his moments of humor came like far-flung oasis in a desert of gloom.

  It was as though the moment he finished laughing, a door slammed shut in his heart. Cassie thought about this as they walked back down the boardwalk.

  Just before they reached the van, a flashing neon sign caught Jack's eye.

  "You ever do any bowling?" he asked.

  "The first and last time I went bowling," Cassie answered, grinning, "was at Megan Wilkinson's eighth birthday party. I broke a bone in my ankle with a bowling ball, and had to go to the hospital before they cut the cake!"

  Jack stared at her for a moment, shaking his head.

  "Surely," he said, his voice dripping incredulity, "you're not going to give in to that kind of defeat, are you?"

  "You want to go bowling?" she asked.

  "Did you have a previous commitment?"

  "Well no," she replied, "I just...okay, let's go bowling!"

  The bright-lit sign for Pismo Bowl led them just past the pier to the bowling alley. Walking through the double glass doors, Cassie felt her skin prickle in the cool, air-conditioned room. They passed the pro-shop, which was closed, and walked up to the counter. Behind her, Cassie could hear the low rumble of balls rolling along the polished lanes, the crash of pins, and the murmur of the players.

  From somewhere off to her left came the electronic chatter of video games. The attendant, a bored teenager with long hair and bad skin, handed them their shoes and a transparent scorecard, then directed them down the concourse to lane twenty-two. Stepping down into the settee area, they searched the racks of scuffed house balls until each had found one that fit. Cassie's first roll hit the left gutter about halfway down the lane, as did the second ball, and the third.

  "You're hooking!" Jack called from the plastic bench, his two strikes marked clearly on the overhead.

  "I beg your pardon?” Cassie asked, frowning at the far-off pins, as she waited at the ball return.

  "Hooking! Hooking!" Jack repeated, "You're hooking your arm before you release the ball. You want your hand to come straight up past your ear once you let go!"

  Cassie hefted her bowling ball, lining up her sights with the arrows halfway down the lane, as Jack had shown her. She took three quick, mincing steps, allowing the ball to drop from its rest against her chest and swing down past her hip. As she released the ball, her right hand swung up and past her right ear and she watched, amazed, as the ball rolled rapidly down the polished lane and struck the pins. With a resounding crash, all the pins scattered, save one. The pin in the far right corner spun drunkenly before righting itself in the middle of the lane. Cassie spun, her arms raised in victory.

  "You were robbed!” Jack roared. Cassie laughed.

  For the next hour and a half, Cassie worked on her form, under Jack's freely offered tutelage, and brought her overall score up to a record-breaking sixty-seven.

  "Well," she said in her own defense, "It's record-breaking for me; my last score was zero, and a broken ankle!"

  Jack's own tally hovered in the mid two-hundred
s, causing him finally to admit, somewhat sheepishly, that he had bowled with a league every week for the last decade. Cassie decried this as a set-up and insisted that Jack pay penance at the ice-cream shop next door, which he did.

  "Thanks! That was a lot of fun!” Cassie said, licking peppermint-candy ice cream from her fingers, “you’re really good at that, how often do you play?"

  "Oh, maybe four or five nights a week."

  "A week?" she asked, eyes widening, "Whoa!"

  "Yeah," he said, sobering, "when you say it out loud like that, I guess it sounds pretty pathetic. What is it you youngsters say?"

  "Get a life?" Cassie offered.

  "That's the one."

  "Well," she said, "I still had a great time, so thank you!"

  "Yup," replied Jack, juggling his own double-scoop cone, "and to think, three straight games and you didn't break a single bone!"

  As they walked back across the parking lot of the bowling alley, Cassie noticed a black pick-up in the far corner of the lot. Something seemed strange about the vehicle and she thought to tell Jack, but he was deep in the middle of a monologue on the history and origins of bowling. By the time the sport had reached modern day, she had forgotten all about it.

  *

  They spent that night in a rented campsite at Pismo State Park. Cassie insisted that Jack take the van this time, and that she sleep in the tent. Jack turned in early, claiming exhaustion from their trip to the bowling alley.

  After borrowing a towel, the one item that she had managed to overlook in her own packing, she walked through the moonlit park to the bathhouse and treated herself to a long, hot shower. The tile floor was cool to her bare feet, as Cassie stood before the mirror, brushing her wet, spiky hair. The cinder block building reminded her of the rest rooms and showers at the campground near Bowie where she and her mother had retreated to when the blistering heat of summer turned their trailer into an unbearable oven.