by M.D. Lee
When we’re down at the dock, we stop in front of the powerboat. Highly varnished mahogany gleams in the sun. Any other day, I’d have been excited to have a look at the restored boat, but this is no ordinary day.
Inside the boat, sitting near the steering wheel with a white rag in his hand, polishing the wooden dashboard, is Mayor Reed. “Hello, Fisher,” he says, when he looks up and sees us standing on his dock.
Sitting in his boat, he doesn’t look very mayor-like; he’s wearing some old, khaki pants that have a few blue paint stains on them, and his shirt is a simple green denim button-down shirt. The cap on his head was probably red at one time, but the sun has faded it so much that it’s now more like pink. I don’t think I’ve ever met the mayor before but, up close, he looks like someone’s dad out of a TV show.
“I hear you like boats,” he says, as he wipes his hands on the rag, then sets it off to the side.
I nod. I’m not sure I’m able to talk.
“Please, why don’t you come aboard and sit down? We have some things to talk about.”
Once again, I do as I’m told. I climb in, and sit in the middle row of seats while Officer O’Reilly climbs in behind me and sits on the far aft bench.
I need a plan, and I need it now. Over the past months I most certainly have grown bigger, and I’m much stronger than I was at the beginning of the summer. Could I take them? I could probably knock the mayor over into the water and run like hell, but the more I think about it, there’s no getting away from Officer O’Reilly. He’s big, and I know from being chased by him on that night long ago that he can be fast, too. That’s a bad plan.
Brains, not brawn. Brains, not brawn.
Then, just like that, it hits me. Someone turned on a power switch to my brain and I remember I have a plan for this moment. I forgot I have a safety net.
“You can’t kill me,” I say, standing up in the boat. “Or everyone will find out about the guy you killed. Everyone will know! Everyone! Then you’ll go to jail.” I’m starting to tremble as I look defiantly at the mayor.
He looks truly astonished when I say that. “Kill you? You think we’re going to kill you? I would never do that.”
I stutter my words. “If something happens to me, I have a friend who’ll mail a letter telling about everything you did, and it’ll be sent to the newspaper. Everyone’ll know. Everyone.”
My mind’s been a blank up until now with everything happening today, and I’d forgotten about the second letter I mailed to Sara. In it were instructions to forward it to the Portland Press Herald if anything were to happen to me. I’d even addressed it and put a stamp on it; if something happens to me, all she needs to do is drop it in a mailbox. I was quite proud of my plan at the time. But now? I’m not so sure . . .
The mayor takes his cap off and runs a hand through his thick, black hair. “Well, I see.” He looks out toward the open ocean for a moment and then turns back to me. “Again. I would never hurt you. And you thought we killed someone?,” he asks, staring pointedly at me.
“How old are you?” he continues. “Fourteen, fifteen?”
“Thirteen,” I answer. He nods.
Carefully, he thinks about what his next words will be. Then he looks me in the eyes, and speaks in a low tone. “Have you learned about the 18th Amendment yet in school?” I stare at him blankly. I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“Prohibition?” he says. I still don’t know what he means, or where this is going.
He goes on to explain. “Back in the 1920s, selling alcohol was made illegal by the 18th Amendment. Even beer was included. The problem was that nobody wanted to stop drinking alcohol, so people started smuggling it in from other countries, like Canada, and Cuba. In the Smoky Mountains, people even built their own alcohol stills and were known as bootleggers.”
“Oh, right.” I said. “I remember watching an old TV show about them. I think it was called The Untouchables.”
Mayor Reed continues. “Right. Well, here in Maine, people who did that were known as rum-runners. Some would sail up to the Canadian Maritimes, load up with whiskey, then sail it back to the States. All illegal, of course. Here in Maine, it was very difficult for the Coast Guard to keep tabs on all of the boats and where they were headed, so a lot of people did it. Some of the rum-runners on the Great Lakes would use speed boats, just like the one we’re sitting in, to slip into Canada.”
I understand all this, but I’m not sure why he’s giving me a history lesson. “What’s all this got to do with the body I saw you load into the trunk?” I ask.
“I’ll get to that in a minute. There was a lot of money to be made as a rum-runner. Average working guys who owned boats, like fishermen, could become rich almost overnight. But keep in mind, it was illegal and very dangerous.” The mayor pauses while he thinks about what he’s going to say next, then rubs his temples.
“The body you saw us with was Elliot Woodridge; you probably know him as Grandpa Woodridge.”
I never knew his first name was Elliot. Everyone, even older people, always called him Grandpa Woodridge. He lives in a big house on the other side of Trent Harbor. Maybe I should say used to live, because it sounds like he’s not around anymore.
“Was he a rum-runner?” I ask.
“Yes, he was,” answers Mayor Reed. “Grandpa Woodridge had an old coastal schooner that was pretty quick and had a shallow draft, so he could sail her into some pretty tight places. He and his small crew would sail her up to Canada, fill her holds with as much as she could carry, and sneak back in somewhere on the coast near here. In just two years he made a lot of money. But he was smart about it, and got out quickly before the Feds ever caught on.”
Mayor Reed continues. “But he was one of the good ones. He did a lot of noble things for this town with all the money he made, and it helped everyone out a lot back then, especially because the Depression was just beginning. Even though Prohibition ended about 45 years ago, the federal government of today would probably not look kindly on his profession and there is a chance, albeit small, they could seize everything if they ever got wind of his past. We couldn’t take that chance, even though that chance is small. It would be a shame if Joan Fennel lost the Sea Side because of something so long ago. We take care of our own here in Trent Harbor.”
“Mrs. Fennel is family to Grandpa Woodridge?” I ask. “I was supposed to work for her as a dishwasher this summer.”
“Yes, Joan is his daughter. And, a long time ago, he built the restaurant for her using his illegal rum-running money. She was pretty young then, probably only in her twenties.”
“Would they really take her restaurant away?”
“They might. Who knows with the government?” says Mayor Reed. The whole time, Officer O’Reilly has been sitting quietly.
“When Grandpa Woodridge didn’t show up for his Wednesday night card game, we knew something was wrong. Officer O’Reilly called me, and we both found him dead in his home. He simply died of old age. The thing is, we needed to give his place a ‘clean sweep’ to make sure there was nothing that connected him with his rum-running days, like old photos or paperwork. That kind of thing. It was necessary to look for anything that might catch the attention of someone outside Trent Harbor. Like, say, a newspaper reporter. But we needed some time to do a proper job of it. That’s why we ran his body over to Jerry’s Liquor Store to keep it cool for a few days while we quietly had a look around. I know it’s probably not the most legal thing a mayor and police officer can do, but it needed to be done.” He glances over at Officer O’Reilly and shakes his head.
This sounds really strange to me. “I still don’t understand,” I say. “Why did you chase me that night?”
“We were about to drive his body back out to his house so it could be . . . ‘found.’ That’s when you came along. But you took off so fast we weren’t able to explain the situation.”
“So that’s it?” I ask. “You chased me because you just wanted to explain what was
going on? You didn’t want to kill me?”
Mayor Reed shakes his head slowly. “No,” he says.
“Here’s the problem,” the mayor says. “Nobody can know about this. I’ll admit, it was all a bit outside the law, but it was for the good of the town. And do I need to remind you that you’ve stolen a very expensive sailboat? We’ll look the other way if you look the other way. It’s as simple as that.” The mayor holds his hand out for me to shake. I certainly don’t want any more trouble, and I think I understand what the mayor and Officer O’Reilly needed to do. This all feels strange to me, but I grab hold and give his hand a solid shake anyway.
“So what happens now?” I ask.
“We all just go back to what we were doing before any of this happened.”
“Nothing will happen to me?” I ask again.
“Nope,” Mayor Reed says, shaking his head. “I am truly sorry you thought we were going to kill you―it shouldn’t have gotten that far out of hand. But I’m relieved you’re safe now. Officer O’Reilly will give you a ride back to your folk’s house. He’ll tell them we just needed to ask you a few questions. Everything will be fine.” I look over at Officer O’Reilly and he looks a little embarrassed.
The thought of keeping something like this a secret is incredible, especially since everyone’s going to want to know why I stole a sailboat. It won’t be easy, but it’s far better than how I thought it was going to end. Suddenly, relief overtakes me: I’m going to live! Nothing’s going to happen to me! I want to jump up and down, pumping my fist in the air, but I use all my might to contain my excitement. Emotion grabs hold of me. I turn away, hoping he won’t see the tears that are welling up in my eyes.
I’ll keep their secret. I just want to put it all behind me.
Chapter 18
Paying the Price
Once again, I have The Sticky Wicket’s wooden tiller in my hand. It’s now like an old friend. We’re moving through the water leaving a small wake behind, yet the boat’s not heeled over, and there’re no sails up to catch wind. My dad made arrangements with Gleason’s Boat Yard to have one of the guys tow me back over to the home where I “borrowed” the sailboat that night.
And, if I know my dad, he also made arrangements for the owner to be there when we arrive so I’ll have to explain why I thought I was allowed to take such a nice little sailboat. My dad doesn’t know why I really took it. He hasn’t asked. I made a promise that he or anyone else can never know. I’m just going to have to tell the owner I wanted to go on an adventure and hope it’ll be enough of an explanation. But I know if it were my boat, I’d be outraged, and demand something be done.
My mind drifts back to the yesterday’s events at the home of Mayor Reed. So old Grandpa Woodridge was a rum-runner? Now that I’ve had time to think about it, I think it sounds kinda cool; sailing a coastal schooner into Canada for illegal whiskey. I wonder why this is the first time I’ve ever heard about it? Why hasn’t my dad ever spoken of it? He’s lived in this town his whole life, after all. It seems funny now. I wonder if he knows but, like everyone else around here, wasn’t supposed to talk about it. Maybe I’ll ask him someday.
So I was just a dope who ran away when I saw trouble. I let out a heavy sigh as I steer the boat. But what if they really had killed someone? I still would’ve done the same thing. It was a dead body, after all. Maybe my imagination got the best of me, but I think I did the only thing I could have. Then I wonder about something that hadn’t occurred to me before.
Because of this crazy misunderstanding, I changed a lot. I made myself get stronger so I could pull lobster traps, and I survived on my own. I don’t know anyone my age who’s done that. I even did a pretty good job of sailing and navigating The Sticky Wicket. I feel kind of proud of what I did. Maybe it was a good thing after all.
From my vantage point several yards behind the workboat’s wake, I can see, around the corner, the rocky point where the summer home sits. “My” sailboat’s real home. Although it’s still far off, I can make out two older people, perhaps a husband and wife, standing on the pier as we slowly approach. It must be the owner. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Just feet from the floating dock, the driver of the workboat casts off the tow line, leaving me to drift in slowly to the waiting people. I toss a dock line to each. The sailboat drifts to a stop alongside the floating dock. I give the workboat driver a wave and he’s off, leaving me to answer the inevitable questions.
I try not to look at him, but the man appears to be in his seventies; yet he seems fit and trim. The well-kept white mustache on his face droops a little on the ends, and the navy blue sweater with tan pants give him the look of a true mariner.
After they secure the dock lines to cleats, the woman leans in and gives him a quick peck on the cheek. “Harold, I’ll leave you two alone to talk.” She turns quickly, going up the ramp, leaving the two of us with our eyes fixed on each other.
We don’t say anything, at first. I turn and look out at the ocean, hoping to see something interesting that I can comment on. Nothing. I sigh heavily.
Folding his arms, the man slowly walks along the dock toward the bow, closely inspecting every inch of his sailboat. He still doesn’t say anything and begins to work his way to the stern, this time rubbing his chin. Finally, after what must have been several minutes, he puts his hand out for me to shake. “Harold. Harold Plankinton,” he says, in a deep-toned voice.
“Fisher Shoemaker,” I say, more as a question, and I slowly reach for his hand to shake it. He gives my hand a solid squeeze; the kind that says I don’t take crap from anyone, but I’m fair. I really don’t know what to make of this situation.
He finally speaks. “It looks like you took fine care of my gal; the bronze is polished, and the woodwork is clean. I also see that all the lines are neatly coiled and in their place. That is the sign of good seamanship.” He hasn’t seen the other side of the hull that’s facing away from the dock, where, the night I left, I scratched some of the paint. I’ve made a promise to myself to somehow get it repainted, but we don’t need to talk about that yet.
“I’m told you sailed her all the way to Hunter’s Island and back. That is very impressive, young man. I tell you what; I could not have done that.” He gives me a smile that’s genuine. He doesn’t seem mad that I stole his boat; I’m not sure I understand what’s going on.
He turns to me and says, in a more serious tone, “So it seems to me that we need to settle up on a little issue of payment for the time you used my boat. Any thoughts about that?”
All I have is the wad of money still left from hauling traps with Skinny Pete. With that, and working in the restaurant, I might be able to pay Harold Plankinton whatever it is he thinks is fair. I’m not prepared to pay for the use of his boat, but it’s much better than the alternative of being sent to a reform school for boys.
“I’ve got some money, and I can work at nights in the Sea Side Grill. I had a busboy job lined up before I left. Maybe they’ll still hire me back.”
A deep laugh comes from him. “Look around, do you think I need money? No, that’s not really what I had in mind. You see, I’ve spent all my time in the city working hard and making good money. But I never had time to sail and certainly not on an adventure like you had. In fact, I don’t even know how to sail, but I love sailboats; the way they look, the way it requires a man to know how to handle himself against the sea. I’m fascinated with it.”
Climbing aboard the boat, he says, “I bought this sailboat because when I saw her, I fell in love with her. She’s a beautiful boat.” He strokes the varnished wood handrail as if he’s scratching the ears of his favorite dog.
He continues, “I’ve always promised myself to learn to sail her. I just never had the time.” Pausing, he looks me square in the eyes. “You would be the perfect man to teach me to sail her. You know her and what she can do; you’ve spent the summer on her. If you teach me for the rest of the summer to sail her, I’ll co
nsider that payment enough.”
He adds, “Then, if it works out, I’ll hire you on next summer to care for her and just have her ready to go if I feel like sailing. Do we have a deal?” Again, his hand is out for me to shake on it.
Certainly I do not need a second more to think about a deal like this! I grab his hand and give it a strong shake.
“Good. We can start tomorrow,” he says, with a smile.
* * *
Parked on the side of the road, just before the Plankinton’s driveway, my dad is waiting for me in his car. I hop in the passenger’s side. This is it, I think; I’m really going to get it now. But, instead, he says nothing. He starts the car and just drives back to town.
Before we get to Main Street, he says, “Do you want to get a burger?”
“Sure,” I answer, a bit baffled. “Jake’s Grill?” He nods.
So far, today’s not turning out the way I expected it to. By now, I figured I would be halfway to some kind of severe punishment for stealing a boat and running away from home. But, here I am, about to go and get a burger with my dad.
Before we get out of the car to go into the restaurant, he says, “I want to hear all about your sailing adventure. All the details.” My dad doesn’t seem mad; in fact, he seems genuinely interested. This is not what I was expecting, but I’m pleased he actually wants to hear all about my summer. Just before we’re about to open the door to the restaurant, he stops and turns toward me, putting his arms around me in a hug. Without a second thought, I do the same.
* * *
The morning is sunny and bright with just a hint of fall in the air, which lets me know that school will start before I know it―like it or not. It’ll only take me ten minutes to walk to the bookstore on Main Street where I told Sara I’d meet her. She phoned me last night to ask if I wanted to hang out today, and it sounded like a great idea to me.
I haven’t seen her yet in the two days that I’ve been back, so I’m a little unsure of what to expect. In fact, I might be a little nervous. As I get close to the bookstore, I can see she’s already there waiting for me. There’re a few butterflies fluttering in my stomach. A deep breath doesn’t seem to help.