Just Past Oysterville: Shoalwater Book One

by Perry P. Perkins

  Once again, Jack ordered for the both of them, including a soda for Cassie and water for himself. His first glass he drained at once, with several aspirin from a bottle he'd picked up earlier that morning.

  "Head still hurt?" asked Cassie.

  "Yup," Jack replied with a grimace. "This is the part you never remember when ordering that first drink."

  Cassie nodded with as much sympathy as she could muster. Jack noticed and smirked.

  "I've never met a woman who had much pity for a hangover," he smiled, "my friend Beth reminds me regularly that God invented liquor so we Irish wouldn't rule the world."

  Cassie nodded again, "Sounds like a smart woman."

  "Oh, she is," he nodded, "believe me."

  Cassie laughed. "I'm looking forward to meeting her."

  Jack's smile seemed to fade a little when she said this and he looked away quickly, fumbling with the long stem of his now-empty water glass. Cassie noticed and quickly changed the subject, hoping to avoid a repeat of the disastrous dinner the night before.

  "So, what the heck am I eating?"

  "Oysters en Brochette," Jack replied, relishing the words as though he could taste his meal already, "is oysters sautéed in butter with mushrooms, cherry tomatoes, and garlic, then spooned into a hollowed loaf of French bread and baked. Food of the gods, my dear!"

  "Sounds like a heart attack on a plate to me."

  Jack smiled. "Part of the secret of success in life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside."

  Cassie waited until she could stand it no longer.

  "Well?" she demanded.

  "Mark Twain," Jack laughed, "Samuel Clemmons if you prefer. A man wise enough to have two names." With this, he winked at Cassie, who quickly looked elsewhere.

  The meal was served, and proved to be every bit as decadent as Cassie had feared. Hot sweet garlic butter pooled on the plate beneath the bread. The meal was to be her best experiment with oysters yet, and she fell to it with gusto. Finally, pushing the remains of her dinner away, Cassie groaned.

  "You're bad for my health, Jack," she said, rubbing her stomach, "I'll bet I've gained ten pounds since I met you!"

  "Yes," Jack sighed, leaning back in his chair, "friendship can be broadening. Besides, you could use another pound or two; you're a twig."

  Cassie snorted, rubbing her imaginary belly.

  They sipped their drinks as the sun dipped to the horizon, sinking below the vast rim of the Pacific Ocean in umber glory. The blazing sunset slowly faded to twilight until finally the pounding waves became an invisible murmur in the darkness.

  "Well," Jack said, breaking the silence with a vast yawn, "I don't know about you, but I didn't get much rest last night. I think I'm going to turn in early."

  "Good idea," Cassie nodded, realizing suddenly that she was bone weary and very, very full. Once they had returned to the motel, each said goodnight and headed to their separate rooms.

  A half hour later, Cassie was asleep, warm and comfortable.

  An hour after that she was whimpering in her sleep.

  *

  The wind rattles against the windows, moaning across the desert in a cloud of dust and grit. The trailer rocks fitfully in the storm, the slam of a loose screen door wakes Cassie with a start.

  Despite the chill of the night, she finds herself sweating as she reaches out to snap on the light. Nothing happens. The storm must have blown down a line somewhere between here and town.

  "Cassssiiiiieeeeee…." A voice, barely audible above the wind, callsher name.

  Her breath catches in her throat as she slips from her room and down the darkened hallway. "Momma?" she whispers, "Momma are you there?” The door to Kathy Belanger's tiny bedroom stands open. The room is empty, a thick layer of dust coats the closet shelves, and cobwebs hang from the naked light fixture.

  "Cassssiiiiieeeeee…."

  She whirls; the voice is closer, just outside, barely past the thin metal walls. A man's voice is calling her name.

  Her hand cramps with fear and, looking down, Cassie realizes that she is holding a gun, the huge revolver from her mother's dresser drawer. The trigger lock is missing now and she can see, in the reflection of the glinting streetlamp, the dull brass casings of the loaded gun.

  The streetlamp. Its thin, yellow light seeps through the windows and across the faded carpet to her feet. No power lines have gone down, if they had, the lamp would be dark as well.

  The gun is heavy, cold and frightening, as her chilled, bare feet lead her across the room to the front door. The living room is also empty of furniture, thick with the musty odor of abandonment. Glancing back into her own room she is hardly surprised that her bed is now gone.

  The lamp that had refused to light moments before has disappeared as well, and her room, like the rest of the trailer, is an empty tomb.

  And outside, through the filmy haze of the thin, tattered curtains, she can make out the form of a man standing in the amber spill of the streetlamp, a bottle held loosely in one hand.

  Somewhere, a small voice whispers that this is wrong, that beds and blankets don't just disappear when you turn your back, that…

  "Cassssiiiiieeeeee…."

  The voice, more insistent now, rises with the howl of the storm and, unwillingly, she lays a hand on the cool metal of the doorknob. It turns and a shrieking gust of wind rips it from her grasp, slamming the door open. A cloud of dust swirls around her, pulling at the hem of the dress that she and her mother had bought just the week before.

  "He's not someone you want to know, Cass," her mother's voice comes from behind her, and Cassie shivers, refusing to turn.

  "You may be the only good thing that Bill Beckman’s done in his whole life…"

  Cassie begins to cry, fighting to keep from throwing down the gun and covering her ears to shut out the terrible, familiar, dispassionate voice. Instead, she raises the revolver, gripping it with quaking, bloodless hands, as her father steps away from the lamppost and toward her.

  "I've cleaned up after drunks before," Kathy Belanger whispers in her ear.

  As she pulls the trigger, his head comes up and the pale electric light washes over Jack Leland's face.

  The gun belches flame and thunder, and Cassie screams--

  --and sat bolt upright, alone in the darkness of the motel room. Her hair was matted to her sweat-slicked face as she stood shakily and felt her way to the small bathroom.

  Finding the light and the sink, she splashed cold water on her face, looking up at the pale trembling figure in the mirror in front of her. The clock beside the bed reads 12:45.

  She lay back down, staring at the ceiling for a long time.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sometime before the first light of morning crossed the eastern hills, Cassie fell back into a dreamless sleep, and when Jack finally pounded on her door at nine, she woke feeling more refreshed that she had in days.

  Jack grunted through the door that he was going down to the café for breakfast and coffee. Cassie called back that she would meet him there and, after a quick shower, she repacked her bag and hurried to the restaurant, whistling as she blinked in the bright midmorning light. She found Jack hunched over his morning cup, staring absently at the menu in front of him.

  "You look chipper this morning!" Cassie laughed.

  Jack grunted and closed his menu, wrapping both hands protectively around his steaming coffee. By his third cup, he seemed to be able to focus his eyes and, pushing away the remains of their breakfast dishes, he and Cassie began discussing their plans for the day.

  "Well," said Jack, "if we push through all day, we should make Astoria just after dark, that'll put us home around midnight."

  Cassie nodded.

  "I don't suppose," Jack looked away, "that you've changed your mind about going to Portland." It seemed to Cassie that he was nearly pleading with her, his hand clenching and unclenching his napkin as he spoke. "I could have you there by six tonight."

  "No w
ay," Cassie replied, her voice firm, "I want to see Nahcotta, Oysterville, the whole peninsula firsthand.

  Jack's shoulders sagged in defeat, as he dropped his napkin on his plate and looked up.

  "You're a stubborn one, you know that?"

  "Yeah," she smiled, "I've considered that possibility!"

  Jack laughed, and then pointed a finger, scowling in mock ferocity. "Fine," he said, glowering, "but get whatever you want here in town, and drink light, 'cause I ain't stopping!"

  "Well, it's your van I suppose," Cassie replied, rolling her eyes, "But a potty-break here and there would be a lot cheaper than new upholstery."

  Jack gave her a sour look. "You've got an answer for everything don't you?"

  "That’s what they tell me."

  "Yeah," Jack said, giving up and laughing, "I'll just bet they do! Let's pay the bill and get out of here.” Jack laid his wallet on the table next to his plate and stood, reaching for his coat.

  "Uh oh," he said.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Too much coffee," Jack grimaced, "Hang tight, I'll be back, I've gotta…"

  "…talk to a man about a horse." She finished, "Yes, I know."

  Cassie rolled her eyes as Jack laughed, making his way to the other end of the restaurant. Sipping her water, she was watching the slow hum of weekday traffic up and down the highway, when she noticed that Jack had left his wallet on the table. The worn leather tri-fold had fallen open to series of plastic covered photographs.

  "Cassie Belanger," she chided herself, "don't be a snoop!"

  The first picture was of a beautiful woman in her late forties with dark, almost black hair. Her high cheekbones and chiseled feature hinted of Native American ancestry, and she had a slightly mischievous twinkle in her eye common among those who grew older but refused to grow old.

  Cassie had a feeling that this was the woman Jack had called on Valentine’s Day, what was her name?

  "Beth," Cassie murmured.

  The next shot was an old black and white, creased and dog-eared with age. In it, two boys, maybe ten or twelve years old, clad only in tattered jean cutoffs, stood at the bow of a small fishing boat. Piled high on the deck behind them were mountains of bleach-white oyster shells, and they stood, one with his arm around the other's tanned shoulders, barefoot and grinning on a cloudless summer day. The taller of the two boys had his tongue stuck out at the camera, and a devilish smirk on the other boy's face hinted of the man that Jack would one day be.

  Cassie snickered and turned the page. The next photo was a grainy snapshot of a young Jack, late teens or early twenties, wearing fatigues, and hefting a large crate into the open door of a helicopter. Jack was looking at the camera with his familiar grin, his hair cropped close, and a pair of aviator sunglasses perched low on his nose. Sweat stained the front of his shirt, and his face and arms were deeply tanned.

  Must be the airstrip in Vietnam, she thought.

  Cassie glanced up guiltily, scanning to room to make sure that Jack wasn't in sight before turning to the last photo.

  Glancing down she froze, her jaw dropping as the blood drained from her face. For just a moment Cassie's vision was filled with small swirling black dots and she was sure, she was going to slip from her chair to the floor in a wave of vertigo. Shaking her head, she brought the faded photograph closer to her face. There was no question the young woman in the photo, clad in a sleeveless white wedding dress and holding a small bouquet of wild flowers was a very young Katherine Belanger.

  *

  With trembling fingers, Cassie slipped the picture from its plastic sleeve. It had been torn in half, and only a hand around her mother's waist and a single black dress shoe were left of whoever had stood to her right.

  Cassie took a deep hitching lungful of air, realizing that she had been holding her breath. The room seemed to have become very quiet, save for a faraway buzzing in her ears. Her mind spun, how could Jack Leland have this picture, and what did it mean?

  Suddenly she remembered her dream from the night before, the man standing beneath the street lamp, calling her name.

  The man with Jack Leland's face.

  Cassie heard the echo of Jack's voice, "…names are like clothes, different suits for different occasions, that’s what I say."

  “Jack?” she whispered.

  The twisted logic of it actually made frightening sense. He was from the same tiny village as her father or, at least, a very close neighbor. He was alone, the right age, even the drinking…

  "I've cleaned up after drunks before."

  It all added up, and Cassie felt a wave of nausea sweep over her at the thought that Jack Leland might be the man who had abandoned his wife and baby all those years before.

  Quickly she put the photo back in Jack's wallet, fumbling twice with quaking hands before the picture slipped back into its plastic sheath. Cassie laid the wallet on the table and gulped the last of her water, suddenly parched. A moment later, she heard Jack's footstep approaching, and stood quickly as he arrived and scooped up his wallet and jacket.

  Jack turned to say something and stopped. Cassie's face was deathly pale and her eyes flitted nervously around the room avoiding his gaze.

  "Hey," Jack asked, "you okay?"

  "Yes!" Cassie replied, somewhat louder than she had meant to. She took a breath and tried again, "Yes, I'm fine…I…I…" her mind spun grasping quickly for something to say. “ I thought I saw that truck again…but I was wrong."

  Jack studied her face for several seconds, his brow furrowed, then scanned the room, his hand slipping unconsciously into the pocket of his jacket, "You sure?"

  "Yeah," Cassie answered, fighting to control her voice, "but… uh…it wasn't him."

  “Okay. You ready to roll?"

  "Sure" she said, feeling anything but.

  They rode in silence for a long while as the sky, which had seemed so bright and clear that morning, gradually clouded over. Dark, ominous, clouds blew in, threatening the rainstorm to come, and the sea turned iron gray, as high tide boiled and crashed ferociously against the beach.

  "Storm coming in," Jack murmured.

  "Hmm?" Cassie responded, distracted by her own thoughts.

  "A storm," Jack repeated, "coming in from the ocean. There's a real humdinger blowing out there somewhere, you can tell by the color, and the way the tide's coming in. She'll always warn you, if you know what to look for."

  Late that afternoon, despite Jack's declaration to the contrary, they pulled off Highway 101 and found a burger stand to stop at for lunch. Cassie excused herself almost before the van stopped rolling and hurried to the ladies room where, quickly locking the door behind her, she closed her eyes and, leaning wearily against the tiled wall, began to pray.

  Okay Lord," she whispered, "what am I supposed to do here? I was all ready to find my father and tell him what I thought of him, and now you throw this at me…"

  Cassie pounded her fist against the wall, as her temper flared.

  "What were you thinking?" she cried angrily, almost surprised at the silence that came in response.

  "What am I supposed to say?" she shouted, near tears, "Hey, thanks for the ride, Jack, by the way I'm your daughter?" Cassie stopped, taking a deep, shuddering breath and leaning back against the wall. Arguing with God wasn't going to make the situation any easier.

  "Trust in the Lord with all your heart…" she murmured, knuckling away tears. But God felt distant, turned away and unlistening, and Cassie felt alone.

  Her plan, such as it had been, was out the window and, grabbing a handful of tissues, Cassie decided that she would have to confront Jack before they reached Long Beach. If he wasWilliam Beckman, they had a lot to talk about; if he wasn't, Cassie wanted his undivided attention while he explained why he had a picture of her dead mother in his wallet.

  Taking a deep breath, she washed her face, raked her fingers through her hair, and walked back to the counter to order lunch.

  *

  Overwhelmed by her o
wn thoughts, Cassie didn't notice that Jack had become increasingly anxious himself, as the day wore on. Both spoke only the vaguest generalities during the meal, and then quickly resumed their silent drive north. Near dusk, the sky, which had been threatening rain all day, unleashed is fury all at once. In seconds, the light drizzle became a roaring downpour, slowing their progress to a crawl, as the windshield wipers fought a brave but losing battle to keep the highway in view.

  Traffic was nearly nonexistent as they passed Cannon Beach, Seaside, and finally Astoria, each town looking deserted and desolate in the storm.

  They slipped out of Oregon and into Washington, crossing the Columbia River at low tide. Cassie could see long tracks of wet sand glistening under the bridge lights as they passed high above.

  Across the wide, shallow mouth of the Columbia, the jagged heads of a thousand rotting pillars can be seen at low tide, pillars that once proudly supported the great wooden docks that stretched far out into the river. Once, steamships and sailing vessels had been emptied and reloaded, bound for Portland or San Francisco or beyond. From the bridge, it's two miles to the old stone tunnel. Cut through the skirt of the coastal mountains, the tunnel had been built for the now defunct railroad. The Ilwaco Railroad & Navigation Company had run the tracks, from the Columbia River's Baker bay to what was, at the time, called Shoalwater Bay. During the oyster boom, the great iron horses had rolled as far as Nahcotta.

  The line closed for good nearly a century ago, and now the few remaining rails, the ones left unburied by time, are slowly rusting into oblivion in the salty air. In 1932, the tunnel was widened for auto traffic, and time caught up with Long Beach, as the first cars chugged towards Oysterville.

  From there, Pacific Highway leads into Chinook, named for the tribe of Indians that occupied these shores for centuries, fishing and gathering from the river and tide. Long stretches of swampy forest parallel the road leading into Ilwaco, past Ft. Canby, its great iron doors frozen stiff and eaten through with rust, where the mighty guns of World War Two have been removed from their massive concrete bunkers without ever firing a wartime shot.