by John Rocco
“Conditions are perfect. Drop the anchor.” Gene looks at me with a slight nod, and I take the large grappling hook and lower it over the side, being careful not to let the ten-foot section of chain rattle against the boat. I let out enough rope so that the anchor will catch and tie it off.
“Got it.”
Gene starts setting up the rake, and I put up the culling board and get my buckets in order. I can hear boats coming toward us from different angles and see that some boats are already working out west of here near Potter’s Cove. I recognize most of them. Max Thiebold, Frankie, Johnny Bennato, and Cholinski are all headed right at us like our boat is a magnet.
“Looks like we’re getting jumped.” Gene nods over to me, gesturing at the boats speeding at us.
“God, why can’t they find their own spot?”
“You know what I say to that, Jake?”
“Yeah, I know. Change the things you can change, and don’t worry about the rest.”
“You’re learning, Jake.”
Gene sends the long pole into the water, hand over hand, until the rake at the end settles to the bottom. In one smooth motion, Gene takes the handle and gently turns the rake over so that the short metal teeth scratch into the sand. Gene’s massive hands surround the handle as he moves rhythmically with the rake and pole, using all his motion and finesse to tickle quahogs from the hard bottom. I watch all his moves. I can hear the quahogs rattling, and the sound intensifies as the basket starts to fill up.
“Ready up.” That’s the command I love. I begin hauling up the thirty feet of pole, keeping perfect time with Gene. When the rake breaks the surface, it’s full of littlenecks, right up to the teeth.
“Woo-hoo!” I shout.
“Keep it down, Jake. We’re on ’em, and we don’t want these guys anchoring on top of us,” Gene says as he quickly dumps the catch onto the culling board.
“It’s too late for that.” I’m looking out at the gathering crowd of boats now.
Gene goes about his business of filling the rake almost every time.
“Bags of five hundred; straight five-hundreds today, Jake.” Gene leans over the culling board to make sure I’m paying attention to my counts. Sometimes we sell them to a New York buyer, and they only want four hundred and eighty to the bag. Today, Russell wants five-hundreds.
It’s ten o’clock and we’ve already got three bags on board. I’m figuring if it doesn’t get too windy this afternoon, we’ll catch another five bags. Four thousand littlenecks, and at twenty-four cents apiece, that’s nine hundred and sixty dollars. If we can do that every day, for the next ten days . . . I quickly let that thought drift by because I know that things won’t always be as perfect as this morning. On the bay, things can change in a minute.
Counting is a big part of my job. It’s all I ever do, counting quahogs, counting days, counting money. There are only two weeks until the end of the month and I’ve only saved five hundred and eighty-three dollars.
$9,417 to go.
Gene puts the rake down on the gunwale and reaches for his plastic cooler lunch box. It looks like it’s been through a war, all scratched up and dented. He snaps open a beer and takes some bread from a bag. I’ve already eaten my sandwich because this is the part I look forward to all day. When Gene takes lunch, I sometimes get to use the rake and keep what I catch.
“Am I going to work the rake while you have lunch?” I ask.
“Just promise me that you’ll still go to college. Your mom made me promise I’d encourage you to go to college.”
“Don’t worry, Gene, I’m not even in high school yet.”
“Yeah, but you’ll be graduating before you know it, and when that day comes, I don’t want to see you out here wrecking your hands on the end of a bullrake.”
“I can’t think about the future, only now: what’s in front of me. Right? Isn’t that what you say, Gene?”
I twist the handle of the rake over as it settles on the bottom. The rake’s teeth crunch like they’ve landed on a granite driveway.
“Wow, that’s some hard bottom.”
“Concrete,” Gene says with a mouthful of bologna.
I’m pulling back on the handle, and I can feel it right through to my own teeth. “It feels like I’m on a jackhammer.”
“It has to feel like that some, but with less backward movement. It’s more about what you’re doing with your hands. Tease them out of there; tickle them out.”
“The rake feels full,” I say.
“You’ve probably buried the sucker. Let me feel it.” Gene puts half a bologna sandwich down on the gunwale and begins to rescue me. He gives the pole several sharp jerks to get it free from the hole I buried it in, and then starts to work his magic.
“Here, come close and watch my wrists and my knees; see the difference. It’s a different stroke.” As he is doing it, I can hear the quahogs going into the basket. I imagine I am down there, next to the rake, watching the teeth pull the quahogs from their hold and toss them into the back of the basket. It’s a rhythmic sound, ca-ching, ca-ching, ca-ching. As more and more quahogs find their way into the back of the rake, the sound gets louder. Gene gives the handle back to me and I take over.
“Yeah, Jake, that’s the sound we’re looking for.”
“Okay, I feel it.”
Five minutes later I pull up the pole, and as the rake breaks the surface, it’s half full of the prettiest shiny quahogs. To me they look like coins. I dump them onto the culling board and start to count in my head. I’m hoping Gene makes another sandwich.
“Try it again. You’re doing good,” Gene says, and I hurl the rake out into the green water. I’m pulling hard because I am excited to catch a bunch more quahogs, but now the rake doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t sound right either.
Be patient; take your time. Don’t muscle it; feel it.
I ease up and slowly begin to find that rhythm again. Ca-ching, ca-ching, ca-ching. The sound starts in faint, but it’s beginning to build. I let out a little anchor line and keep going. I want to fill it to the teeth, just like Gene.
From the south, I see Dave Becker’s boat coming over. His regular picker is not with him, and there’s some new guy scrubbing down the side of Dave’s boat with a long-handled brush as they approach. Becker likes his boat clean, real clean. Gene likes Becker because he’s a young guy with a lot of talent, and he works hard every day. I like him because when he comes over to our boat, he always talks to me too, like I’m one of the guys.
“How you hittin’ ’em?” Becker asks. I can see him counting our bags out of the corner of his eye. “Geez, Jake, you catch all them littlenecks?”
“Yup,” I say straight-faced as I continue my ca-ching, ca-ching.
“What do you think of my new picker?” Becker smiles as he looks back at the other guy, who is frantically scrubbing down the deck of the boat.
“Morning, Bainsey,” Gene says, giving the guy a slight nod.
As soon as he says “Bainsey,” I recognize him. Jeff Baines. He’s a short, muscular guy with this facial tic that makes him touch his chin to his shoulder every so often. He’s been in the diner a few times. And I know for a fact that Gene doesn’t like him because he’s always spouting his mouth off about who caught what where and how much they caught. I’m wondering what he’s doing on Becker’s boat, and I think Gene’s wondering the same thing.
“You heard what happened to my boat, right, Gene?” Bainsey asks, dropping the scrub brush and coming right up to the bow. “Came loose from its mooring in that storm, got trashed up the Barrington River.”
I’m nervous now, because I’m wondering if his engine got salvaged as well.
“I think it was cut loose, that’s what I think.” Bainsey is twitching more than usual now. “Just before the damn beach opening! Can you believe that crap?”
“It’s not right,” Gene says.
“Don’t feel bad for him, Gene.” Becker spits into the water. “He’s actually making more money worki
ng as my picker.” Now they’re all laughing, even Bainsey, and I’m relieved they aren’t talking about missing engines.
The rake feels nearly full, but Gene always tells me never to pull up when someone’s paying you a visit. I can barely move it anymore. Forget it. I slowly start to haul it up.
“Gene, I’m only covering for Dave’s picker today. You want me to work the beach with you when it opens? It’s gonna be a long day out there,” Bainsey says.
Now I start to pull the rake up faster, because I’m ticked off. What a jerk, to ask Gene right in front of me! My rake is just breaking the surface, and I put all my muscles into shaking the sand and clay from the basket. The guys are all looking too, and the rake is three-quarters full of beautiful, shiny littlenecks.
“No, thanks, Bainsey, I got Jake here. He’s all I need,” Gene says, all proud.
“Woo-hoo! You got that straight! You stuffed it, Jake!” Becker says.
Now I’m feeling great, and even though it’s real hot out, I’ve got goose bumps on my arms. I just pulled up a nearly full rake right in front of Becker and that jerk Bainsey.
Becker pushes off, and I can hear him yelling at Bainsey to get the bags ready and to pick up a shell from the bottom of the boat.
“Thanks, Gene,” I say with a big grin.
“Don’t worry about it. ’Sides, I never liked Bainsey one bit. That guy shoots his mouth off every time he catches more than a twenty shot. I’d have people camping on top of me every day if that guy ever came on board.” He pauses and adds, “You and me, Jake, is all we ever need.”
I’m actually busting because I have the feeling like my dad isn’t really missing; he just picked up, left the diner, and is here with me, right now in Gene’s body. I can feel my shoulders start to slouch and a fist-size lump growing in my throat. I can’t seem to take a breath.
“I know what you’re thinking, Jake. I miss him too. We all do.”
“Hey, Gene, how come you never initiated me?”
“I don’t know.” Avoiding the question, Gene rolls his strained neck as he pushes the handle of the rake with his hips to keep the boat moving.
“C’mon. You remember, a few weeks ago with that kid, Randy. Billy Mac’s new picker,” I say, prompting his memory. “When Billy made him swim that huge rock over to that other skiff.”
“Yeah, I remember. Poor kid nearly drowned in that raging moon tide that was bailing out between the islands.” Gene hesitates, then says, “Listen, a lot of guys make their pickers do all kinds of crap like that, you know, to see if they have the stuff to make it out here on the bay.”
“Yeah, but why didn’t you ever initiate me?” I ask.
“Never believed in it. There’s plenty of danger in this business already. The way I see it, a guy’s initiated just about every day out here.” A shadow crosses Gene’s face. He stops digging and takes a long drink from the water bottle. “You’ve already got your own rock to swim, Jake,” he says softly.
I know he’s right.
“Let’s pull up and try south of here,” Gene says. I’m glad we’re moving. He starts up the engine, and we head a about a half mile to the east and drop anchor.
When it’s slow like this, I like to play a game with the shells. I find a target in the water, like a stick or some foam, and toss one half of a quahog shell into the air to see if it will settle like a Frisbee on the target. It’s cool when it just floats there. Gene tries his luck at it too, and it becomes a contest to see who can get the best flight.
“That’s a ten — that’s a perfect ten. You gotta agree with me, Jake,” Gene says, pleading with me after his last toss.
“No ten. It was okay, but check this out,” I say as I toss one into the quickening breeze, and the shell pauses for a moment in the wind as if suspended. “Now that’s the bomb,” I say as the shell finally hits the water with a loud ploooop.
“All right, here we go.” Gene sends a large shell into the air. Suddenly, like a boomerang, the shell comes flying back, and we both duck as it smashes into the console.
“What the hell was that?”
“The wind just shifted,” Gene says, looking up to the sky, trying to gauge what’s what. “We gotta pull up and get off this anchor. Ready up!” I scramble over and help pull the heavy rake from the bottom, but it seems stuck and the boat is twisting. Gene and I are working to free the rake while the pole is rising straight above our heads.
“Back away, Jake. Get to the bow!” he barks loudly as he takes the whole load himself. The pole is being carried by the wind in the opposite direction, and Gene is straining. The breeze suddenly picks up from the southeast, and now the pole’s all twisted. I’m looking up at the handle with the Styrofoam buoy starting to wiggle back and forth, and all of a sudden there is a sickening crack. The second section of aluminum pole splinters right in the middle.
It seems to hang in midair for a split second.
I’m trying to warn Gene, but my lips are stuck together, and I can’t get any words out as the two sections of pole drop straight down onto Gene’s shoulder like a javelin. Gene crumples to the deck of the boat, and I’m on top of him immediately. Blood is draining from his shoulder, and he’s already woozy and doesn’t know where he is. We are at the back of the pack of boats, and the other guys don’t see or hear any of this. They are probably all too busy dealing with this crazy wind.
I rip the shirt off my back and stuff it into the hole in his shoulder. It immediately turns red. I pull the knife from my pocket and cut the shirt into long strips. I wrap Gene at the base of his neck, and tie it up underneath his opposite arm. He’s bleeding straight through. I quickly pull up the anchor and start the engine.
“We got work to do; you get that rake; don’t leave the rake, it’s full . . . the sky’s blue,” Gene says, looking up from the deck, his legs all twisted in weird angles. I’m sure he’s going to bleed out if I don’t get him to the hospital.
“What do I do? What do I do?” I scream at him with my hands in his blood, pressing down on his shoulder. He’s drifting in and out of consciousness. The deck is turning red.
Get the cut above his heart. That’s what they said in first-aid class. I shove a pile of onion bags beneath his back and head and try to get him to sit up, but it’s almost impossible. He’s deadweight, and the boat is running around in circles while the blood mixes with the salt water and mud. I’m trying to yell for help, but all that’s coming from my mouth is a dry squeal.
I finally manage to get Gene upright, and as the Hawkline makes another wide arc, I suddenly see Captain, sorting out his catch on the deck of his boat.
Unexpectedly, Gene reaches over with his good arm and grabs hold of my hand, the one still holding the knife. He’s squinting and looking at the pearl skull. He looks like he’s passing out and his eyes look half-dead.
“Where’d you get this?” Gene mumbles. “You’re not supposed to . . .” Gene’s eyes roll around in their sockets, and his arm goes limp.
“What?” I’m leaning right down into Gene’s face so I can hear him, but he’s passed out.
I bury the throttle and bounce us over to Captain’s boat, turning at the last minute, making a wake and bumping into his port side.
“Easy, kid, what ya —” He stops midsentence when he sees Gene amidst the mud, quahogs, and blood. Captain jumps aboard, lifts Gene up onto his shoulder, and climbs back into his boat. I throw the anchor to the Hawkline, and just as I make the jump to Captain’s boat, four hundred and seventy horsepower slams into gear, shifting everything on deck, including me, Gene, and the quahogs, all into a pile at the stern.
I’m up against Gene’s chest, and I can feel his heart still beating. He’s like a rag doll, resting among the shells and mud. I want to just lie here with him, be with him if he’s going to die.
“You can’t die, Gene, you can’t die.” I continue to press my hand into the soaked bandage to try and stop the flow of blood. I feel his hand move to cover mine. It’s cold, but at least I k
now he’s not dead. He’s looking out for me. He’s holding my hand, and I know he’s going to be all right. He’s got to be all right.
It seems like only a minute has passed, and we’re already flying up the Providence River. The roar of the engines winds down as Captain pulls the boat up to a dock near the seawall. The cops are waiting, and there is an ambulance kicking up dust on the gravel road. Captain must have called on his radio because, like magic, they are all there. I’m all bloody now, keeping Gene’s body warm with my own and gripping his hand, and all I’m saying is, “Hold on, Gene, hold on.”
They get him on a stretcher, and I’m still holding his hand when the paramedics say, “You gotta let go, but you can come with him.”
I slowly open my hand, all sticky with Gene’s blood, and climb into the ambulance. I can see Captain, looking up at us from his boat at the dock. He’s got the hose out, and he’s washing his deck and quahogs and everything, engines shaking and smoking at the stern. He looks nervous with all the cops around, and he lets the lines loose from the dock and moves slowly out of the harbor, unnoticed, as they work on Gene. Before the doors shut, I catch one last glimpse of Captain’s boat flying back out toward the bay.
The paramedics work quickly, putting an oxygen mask over Gene’s face and sticking a needle into the vein in his arm. They attach a long hose to the needle that ends in a bag of clear liquid that they clip to a bar above Gene’s head.
“What’s that?” I ask
“Saline. Got to get his blood pressure up,” the paramedic says.
“What’s saline?”
“Salt water,” the guy says.
I can’t believe it. I start to snicker, but then I can’t hold back and a laugh bursts out of my mouth. The guy is looking at me as if I’m crazy, and I probably look crazy too, with blood all over me, laughing my head off in the back of an ambulance. But I can’t help thinking of what my dad always says about quahoggers. They got salt water in their veins and barnacles on their backs.
At the hospital, they rush Gene into surgery while I wait on a bench in the hallway. Because I’m not wearing a shirt and I’m covered in deep purple blotches of dried blood, nurses keep coming to me to ask if I’m okay.