by Philip Craig
“You bought her a wedding ring?”
“No. We were in a hurry. I gave her my class ring. We used that at the wedding. The guy who married us didn’t bat an eye. He’d had a lot of business from San Diego.”
“What happened to Marlina?”
“It’s been years since I thought about all this. Jesus, it seems so long ago. I don’t know what happened to her. I got a letter from her in Korea just before I went on that first patrol. One letter. Something had happened. Some kind of trouble. She had to leave town, but she said she’d write as soon as she could. I wrote back, but a week later I was captured and I never heard from her again. While I was a prisoner I’d been reported missing, presumed dead. Maybe she heard that story. Maybe not. When I got back to the States I tried to trace her. I looked for her for a month, all through August, but it was as though she’d dropped off the earth. So in the fall I went east to school. I looked for her some more the next summer, but I never found her.”
“If she was in trouble and had to get out of town, maybe she didn’t want to be found. The army knew you were married, didn’t it?”
“Yes. I made her beneficiary of my life insurance.”
“She may have thought they’d be able to trace her if she used her married name. Maybe she was afraid that if the army could find her, someone else might be able to, too. She was just a young girl who maybe didn’t want to be found by anybody.”
“I thought of that,” he said. “I didn’t know her friends or her family. I didn’t even know where she came from. Utah, I think. Some little town in the desert. I don’t think she ever told me its name. I talked to the army and the police and I went back to the bar where we’d met. But two years had passed. Nobody knew anything.” He looked at me. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
“I don’t know much,” I said. “I do know one thing that you should probably know, too. Marlina is dead. She died probably thinking she was a widow.”
“How did it happen?”
“Natural causes,” I said. “It was a long time ago. There was nothing you could have done.”
— 15 —
I made another telephone call to Oregon and to Nancy Norris. I told her I’d found the ring. She was happy.
“Mom will be pleased. It means a lot to her. Did you find the journal?”
“No. Ask your mom if Jim’s mother’s first name was Marlina.”
“Of course. Just a moment.” Then she was back, surprised. “Why, yes. How did you know?”
“The ring belonged to her husband. I traced it. I found him.”
“Jim’s father?”
“Her husband, at least. When was Jim’s birthday?”
“October fourth.”
“What year?”
“1952.”
“The husband was probably the father, then. The man doesn’t know and I haven’t decided yet whether to tell him. All he knows is that Marlina died a long time ago. He doesn’t know about the child.”
“I’d like to know his name. I’m sure Mom would, too.”
“I’m not sure I’ll tell you. Can I keep the ring for a few days?”
“Oh, dear, I don’t know what to think. This is so . . .”
“Don’t decide everything right now. Tell your folks that Jim’s father is a very fine man who has a family he loves. We’ll talk again in a few days. Right now, things are a bit unsettled here, and I’d like to keep the ring awhile. It may be useful in clearing things up. Is that okay?”
“All right,” she said. “You will call?”
“Yes. In a few days.”
I had a beer. The summer night was warm, so I went out and sat on the screen porch. Across the Sound I could see the lights of Cape Cod twinkling in the clear air. The wind moved through the trees. Above, the Milky Way stretched across the sky. The moon hung in the branches of a tree, thin and pale. I got another beer and put on a Ricky Skaggs tape and went out onto the porch again. Ricky sang songs about loving and losing. It was a lonesome kind of night. I thought of Zee. When the tape was over, I finished the beer and went to bed, still unable to erase thoughts of Zee, even if I’d tried, which I didn’t.
I was having breakfast—smoked bluefish, red onion, and cream cheese on a toasted bagel, washed down with coffee—on the porch with the sun coming up over the Sound. The way God intended man to live. The phone rang. It was Jim Norris’s landlord, mad as a wet hen.
“What the hell you go busting things up like that, Jackson? You had the God-damned key! Why’d you bust the door down? Tell me that, you . . . I’m gonna sue you, you no-account—”
So much for my morning in Eden. “What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about. You’re the only one who’s been up to Jim’s cabin. You had the key! Why’d you kick the door in? Why’d you throw things around? Why’d you tear things up? I’m going to sue you for every cent you cost me, you—”
“I didn’t kick the door down. I left everything just the way I found it. The key’s right over the door, where you told me to leave it. When did this trouble happen?”
It occurred to him that maybe I hadn’t done it, but he was still hot. “You know danged well when it happened! It happened when you was there!”
“No. Everything was fine when I left. I’d be a fool to kick the door down when I had the key, don’t you think?”
“Well, by God! Well . . . well, you was the only one up there, wasn’t you?”
“I guess not. Somebody else was there later. Somebody who didn’t know where the key was.”
“Well, I suppose it could have been. I mean, you knew where the key was. . . .”
“You gave it to me. You say things were torn up inside?”
“Jesus, you should see it! Furniture cut up, things tossed every which way! A real mess! And me with people coming in later this week! I tell you, when I get the guy who . . .”
He almost but not quite apologized before he rang off. I went out and finished breakfast, then weeded in the garden for an hour. I don’t like to weed for more than an hour because I get bored. I get bored in museums, too, after a couple of hours. Maybe I have a short attention span. Not for Zee, of course. I thought I could stand her for quite a long stretch at a time.
I wanted some quahogs, so I got my rake and basket and went down to Anthier’s Pond (Sengekontacket Pond to those of you who speak Wompanoag). I parked at the Rod and Gun Club and waded out to the point beyond the clubhouse. I’ve had good luck there, as a rule, but lately the quahogs are getting thinned out. It took me an hour to get a mess, but I had a little of everything—some littlenecks, cherrystones, and growlers for chowder. I waded back, went home, rinsed off the quahogs and put them in the fridge after popping a half-dozen littlenecks as a special treat for me. Littlenecks on the half shell are hard to beat, being surpassed only by oysters on the half shell. But since oysters are often soft and squishy in the summertime, littlenecks are the champions of that season. Thinking of this, I opened a dozen more and wolfed them down. Thank you, God.
At noon I drove up to Oak Bluffs and went into the Fireside. After a while, Bonzo came in, gave me a big smile, and came over to the bar. I bought him a beer.
“Gee, thanks,” said Bonzo. “Say. J.W., when we going to go fishing again?”
“Soon,” I said. “Bonzo, were you working here Saturday before last?”
“Sure,” said Bonzo. “I’m here every Saturday. I got work to do here. I got to do the sweeping, you know. People spill drinks and drop things all the time. Pretzels and like that, and they break glasses sometimes. I gotta be here for that, especially Saturdays.” He drank his beer.
“Do you know Tim Mello?”
“Sure, J.W., I know almost everybody, and they all know me. I got a lot of friends in here. I got friends all over the island, I’ll bet.”
“I’ll bet you do. Do you remember Tim Mello talking about taking the Bluefin down to Wasque rip? Did you hear him talking about that on that Saturday night?”
Bonzo looked aghast that I should ask such a dumb question. “Jeez, J.W., sure I heard him. Everybody heard him.” Bonzo laughed. “Everybody thought it was pretty funny, him having to take the Bluefin down to the rips with two little old people from New Bedford!”
I grinned at Bonzo. “Do you remember when Tim was supposed to go fishing with those two old people?”
“Sure I do, J.W. He was gonna be there at eight o’clock Monday morning. To catch the tide, you know, just like when you and me go fishing. We always catch the tide. You know that. You’re a funny guy, J.W. Sometimes you seem to forget things, you know?”
“Do you remember Billy Martin and Jim Norris being in here when Tim was talking about his job at Wasque?”
Bonzo frowned. “Gee, J.W., there was a lot of people here, you know. It was a Saturday night, and we do a lot of business on Saturday night.” Suddenly his face brightened around his empty eyes. “Oh, yeah! Sure, they were here. I remember now. You know why? Because I thought they were going to have a fight, but they didn’t. Lemme see . . . first Jim comes in and he’s looking kind of low, like. And he has a beer and I say, ‘Hi, Jim,’ and then in comes Billy later and he’s mad. I can see that. I didn’t say, ‘Hi, Billy,’ because when Billy’s mad . . . well, he’s got a temper, you know? But I watched him and he went right over to Jim and I thought they might be gonna have a fight. But they didn’t. Jim started talking to him, and after a while Billy wasn’t mad anymore and just looked funny instead, and they sat there and that was when Tim came in and told about his new job for the Bluefin and we all laughed.” Bonzo paused and sipped his beer and then said, “You know, J.W., it’s a lot nicer to laugh than to fight. It’s a lot more fun.”
“You’re right about that,” I said. I bought us each another beer. Around us the noisy voices of the noontime drinkers lifted and rattled through the rafters. At a booth I saw a quick exchange of money and something unidentifiable in a white packet. The smell of marijuana mixed with that of tobacco and beer.
“Hey, Bonzo,” I said. “Can I borrow your tape recorder?”
He was flattered, I think. “Gee, J.W., sure you can. You know what’s mine is yours. You know that. You’re my friend. Hey, you gonna get some bird sounds, too? Can I hear ’em when you get ’em, J.W.? Can I?”
“Sure. Thanks, Bonzo.”
I picked up the tape recorder and mike at his mother’s house. It was a nice rig. Expensive and powerful. Bonzo didn’t have many expenses, so he’d splurged on a good piece of equipment. I bought a pack of tapes and put everything in the Landcruiser.
I felt like I’d been away from Zee for a long time. I hadn’t seen her, in fact, for almost forty hours. I’d known her eight days. I felt in love. It was scary, bubbly, despairing, hopeful, brainless. I drove to the hospital and went to the emergency ward. I saw Zee, but she didn’t see me. She was laughing with a young doctor. Joy was possible for her without me. They were a good-looking couple. I was jealous. I went away and visited George. He was about to go home.
“Bonanza!” he said. “They’re letting me out. You leave any fish in the sea?”
“I think there’s one left. Maybe two.”
“God, I hate hospitals. They’re unhealthy places. People die in them all the time. Almost nobody ever dies fishing.”
That was my line about hospitals being unhealthy, but I let it pass. “Perfect logic, George. How are you getting home?”
“Billy’s coming to get me. One o’clock sharp. I told him I didn’t want to be in here one minute longer than necessary!”
I looked at my watch. A quarter to one. “Okay,” I said, “I’ll get out of your way. See you on the beach, buddy.”
I went out and stood inside the doors leading to the parking lot. When Billy drove in and parked the Wagoneer, I walked out and met him as if by accident.
“Hey, Billy,” I said, “I’ve been looking for you.”
“What for?”
“You ever see Jim Norris wear a class ring?”
“A class ring?”
“Yeah. I talked to Jim’s sister out in Oregon and she said that he always wore a class ring. But I never saw him wearing one and neither did your sister. Did you?”
“No. Why?”
“Because I found it. I’ve got it at home.”
“What! I thought . . . Mom said that you . . .” He paused thoughtfully. “No. Come to think of it, she never said you didn’t have it. But she didn’t think you had it.”
“I missed it the first time I looked, but I found it later. It’s at home now. I’m going to send it back to Jim’s folks tomorrow. You never saw him wear it, eh?”
“No.” He glanced at his watch.
“Yeah, you’re supposed to pick up your old man,” I said. “I just saw him. Tell him that I’m going down to Wasque this afternoon to catch the last fish before he can get there.”
Billy grinned. “Okay, J.W., I’ll tell him.”
“I gotta go,” I said, “or I’ll miss the tide.”
“You fishermen are all alike.” Billy smiled, shaking his head. Billy was not a fisherman.
I went home and got things ready for the afternoon. It took about an hour, and I had a couple of beers while I worked. When everything was ready, I drove to Katama. Traffic wasn’t bad because it was early afternoon. People who planned to go to the beach were already there, and it was too early for them to be going home. The sun was hot and bright and high in the sky. There was a thin line of clouds far to the south.
When I got to Katama, I drove onto the beach and parked behind a dune. I got a beer out of the cooler. When I finished the beer, I drove back home. I parked the Landcruiser across the end of my driveway, locked the doors, and walked down to my house. When I neared the house I could see a yellow sportscar. Billy drove such a car, as I recalled.
— 16 —
I circled through the trees until I came up behind my storage shed. I peeked inside and saw that no search had been made there, yet. I saw no one in the rear windows of my house, so I slipped quickly up to the outdoor shower. Under the house, behind the shower, was Bonzo’s tape recorder. The mike was hanging from a rafter in the living room. Bonzo’s good equipment might even pick up sounds from adjoining rooms as well. I popped out the tape in the machine and put in a new one, then peeked in through my bedroom window. There was Billy at my desk, looking in drawers and cubbyholes. I had a good view of his back and his busy hands. He was trying to be thorough yet leave things looking undisturbed. A hard task for a professional, and Billy was no professional. He was an amateur. He slammed a drawer shut and cursed.
I went around to the front of the house and eased up onto the porch. I peeked in a living room window. No Billy. I went inside, glad that I’d oiled the hinges earlier that afternoon. I went to my bedroom and stuck my head into the doorway.
“Hi, Billy,” I said.
He was at my bedside table, his back to the door. He jumped and spun around, his eyes wild for a moment. But then they narrowed.
“Jesus, J.W., you scared the hell out of me! I didn’t hear you drive in.”
“You find anything, Billy?”
“Find anything? No. I wasn’t looking for anything.” He put a grin on his face. “I found out what you read in bed.” He half turned around and picked up my bedtime book. I have a book by my bed, a book by the toilet for throne reading (poetry, usually, stories and essays being too long for that locale,) a living room book by the couch, and a glove-compartment book in the Landcruiser. “The Bible,” said Billy, waving the book at me before putting it back. “I never took you for a Bible reader, J.W.”
“It’s a good book,” I said. “Mindless sex and violence, religious fanatics, war and pestilence, sin and salvation. They should make a movie out of it or a TV series. I’m having a beer. You want one?” I wanted him in the living room.
“Sure,” said Billy. What else could he say? He followed me into the living room and waited while I got two Molsons from the fridge. I gestured toward a c
hair and we both sat down. Billy was working out his story. I brought the ring out of my pocket.
“Here it is,” I said. “Jim’s ring.”
His eyes fixed on it.
“It’s got initials inside,” I said. “GHM. George Harrison Martin. Your dad’s name, your dad’s ring. Jim’s ring. Sit back, Billy, and relax. I’m going to tell you a story.”
I told him about George and Marlina, how they found and lost each other and how Marlina ended up in Oregon pregnant and ill. I told him how a young nurse, Mrs. Norris, who wanted children but couldn’t have them, adopted Marlina’s child and got the ring, and how, later, she gave it to the boy.
“Then Jim took to the road,” I said. “He liked to work for a while and then move on. Maybe one day he came to a town called Longview. Maybe that’s how it happened. Or maybe he traced his father just like I did. No matter. He found his father’s name.
“But it didn’t do him any good because he had no way of knowing where his old man was. Then two years ago, in June 1985, he read that story in Time and knew where he was. Jim came up that summer to meet him in person. He knew from the article that George liked to fish, so he managed to meet him on the beach. But he didn’t want his dad to know who he was, so he put the ring away and didn’t wear it for fear that George might recognize it.
“Jim was a genuinely nice guy. Everybody who knew him says so. He knew George had a new family and he didn’t want to be a long-lost son suddenly appearing on the scene. All he wanted was to get to know his old man. And he did that. Better yet, he and George got close. They liked one another. And Jim liked Susie, too. And I even think he tried to like you.