Swim That Rock (6 page)

“You do?” I ask, surprised that my mother talked to Gene about it.

“Look, it sounds like you need to pay off these bums from the Italian Club ten grand by the end of the month in order to keep the diner, right? How much do you have?”

“Five hundred and eighty-three dollars.” I shove my hand in my pocket and my fingers wrap around the knife. It feels hot in my hand.

“Hmmm. Look, Jake, I don’t have much money right now either; I sank nearly everything into a diesel engine for the lobster boat and a new furnace for the house. This thing caught me at a bad time, but maybe we might be able to put a big dent in that ten grand if we work hard. Hell, I’ll give you most of what we make, even the beach hit. I don’t want to see you or your mom moving away, and I don’t want the Riptide to close or turn into some nightclub. I like things the way they are.” Gene laughs nervously. “You’ll just have to work for free next summer, though.”

I can’t believe Gene is saying this, and I look down at the ground and scuff my feet along the pavement.

“Well, don’t go crying about it. I’ll pay you
something
next summer.”

“It’s not that. I mean . . . are you kidding me? Are you sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure.”

“I’ll make it up to you. I promise, Gene.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Jake. Just keep on doing the right things and this will all work out, trust me.”

The dark shadow overcomes me. It’s all bottled up inside, and now I want to tell Gene about Captain and the engines and the boat chase, but at the same time I don’t want to disappoint him.

“Deal?” Gene holds out his hand.

“Deal.” And just like that, I feel like things are going to be all right.

Gene pats me on the back and says, “I think we have an audience.” I spin around and see a bunch of the guys looking at us from the window of the Riptide.

Brendan Tooley sticks his fat head out the door and yells, “You guys gonna hold hands all day?” An eruption of laughter spills out the door.

“Screw off, Tooley,” Gene hollers back, and then says more quietly to me, “I’ll see you early on Sunday when the bay opens back up. We’ll go out and get you a payday.”

Gene gets into his truck and pulls away.

I figure I am going to get teased when I get back inside, but I don’t care. I know that Gene and I are going to catch more quahogs than anyone when the beach opens.

We’ll save the diner.

Today, I can finally get the heck out of the Riptide; it feels like the last day of school. I’ve been stuck working because Robin’s been out sick, and with most of the Bay still closed, we’ve been busy. Being on dry land since last Wednesday has also made me a full-blown Unco. I’ve broken seven dishes and three mugs in the last two days, cracked my head against the doorjamb twice, and dropped a full bowl of oatmeal onto Johnny Bennato’s lap. My mom threw a fit of apologies at him, but he just smiled and said, “No worries, it’s all cool.”

Part of it’s been okay because Darcy and I have been working as a team and playing a few good pranks on each other — I am still trying to get the eggshells out of my sneakers.

I haven’t told my mom about Gene helping us save the diner. I know she’ll just get all weird on me and probably try to convince him not to help. She’s like that. Lately it’s like she just sucks all the air out of the room. I haven’t really even spoken to her much since she mentioned moving to Gram’s. I just do my work, then head straight to my room and journal or read till I fall asleep. I haven’t seen Tommy either, because he’s been visiting his cousins in Boston. It’s probably a good thing; I’ve definitely been catching up on sleep.

This morning I got up wicked early and had the whole place mopped and set up before anyone else showed up, even Trax.

At six thirty sharp, Gene walks in, and I don’t even let him sit down.

“I got your coffee right here. Let’s go,” I say, handing him a large Styrofoam cup and herding him toward the door.

“Yes, sir, boss.” Gene laughs, turning on his heels.

“Geez Jakey, let the poor guy sit down and relax for a bit. What’s the rush?” my mom calls after us.

“Gotta go, Maggie,” Gene calls back over his shoulder. “Jake’s running a tight schedule.”

As we get to Gene’s truck, I see Darcy walking down the sidewalk toward us.

“Morning, Gene.” She smiles. “Stretch. You guys are heading out early.”

Gene tips his hat and slides in behind the wheel. Darcy approaches me and whispers in my ear, “I’ll convince your mom not to move.”

I slide onto the bench seat on the passenger’s side and roll down the window to smell the clean scent of shampoo from Darcy’s hair.

“See you later, Darce. Thanks.”

“Have fun.” She continues down the street. I crank my head around and watch her leave as Gene pulls out onto the road.

“She’s a great girl,” Gene says. “I can see why you like her.”

“What?” I quickly face forward and start turning the knobs on the radio, even though it hasn’t worked in years. “No . . . no. What are you talking about?”

“Oh, okay. My mistake.” I look over, and Gene’s wearing that grin that makes the wrinkles in his cheeks look like gills.

As we pull into Gene’s driveway, I hear the familiar sound of crunching shells. The smell of rotting clams burns my nose. Most people buy clamshells all cleaned and ready to go, but not Gene; he just throws broken clams right into his driveway for free. It looks the same, but it sure doesn’t smell the same. I climb out of the truck and make my way down to the dock. I’m feeling great.

“Gotta grab some rain gear,” Gene says, descending into his basement. Gene’s boat, a Hawkline, has red topsides and a white fiberglass deck and is nineteen feet from bow to stern. It’s part of my job to keep it clean. Right now, the deck is covered in broken spider crabs and seagull crap, and I dip one of the buckets over the side to begin washing it down. I see the culprit hovering off the bow in the morning breeze as if she were tethered.

“Thanks a lot, Jessy,” I mutter, throwing a spider crab carcass at her. She makes shrill cry and hovers over to the dock piling and settles there. Most seagulls look the same to me, but the tangled knot of fishing line extending beneath her foot always gives her away. I wonder if it makes her Unco, too.

Gene rises from the basement with orange rain gear neatly folded under one arm. I watch him purse his lips and take a long look at the graying sky. I wonder if he’s having second thoughts about going out. I hope not, because I’ve got to get off land as soon as possible. I need to be on open water.

“The dock lines are chafed. Remind me to pick up some rope from Stanley and splice that tomorrow.” Gene throws the rain slicks under the bench seat behind the console. I make a mental note, but it may not stick because, as usual when I’m heading out onto the water, I am thinking about my dad. Maybe he’s out there somewhere, getting ready to sail home.

Fifteen minutes later Gene is staring out at Barrington Beach as the Hawkline slides past Rumstick Rock. I know just what’s on his mind. I am thinking the same thing. In less than ten days, that area of Narragansett Bay will be filled with a thousand boats and guys all trying to make a huge score to prove who’s the best quahogger on the bay. But I know we’re the best. Gene would never say that because he’s not one to boast, but me, I’m busting at the seams and I want to show the world.

I look back from the console as the engine sputters, shakes, coughs, and finally, with a smoky shiver, goes dead. The Hawkline settles into a wave and begins a gentle bob in the early morning swell.

“Did you change the tank before we left?” Gene asks, then takes a swig from his coffee as I rush toward the tanks. Most of the time I can tell when the engine is running out of gas, and if I’m quick enough, I can switch out the black hose from the empty tank to the full one, pump the ball, and get the new gas flowing to the engine before it sputters out. But this time I was daydreaming about the beach and missed it altogether. Gene laughs as I frantically pump the rubber ball.

I feel the pressure in the ball build up, so I go over and put the throttle in neutral and begin to turn the key.

“Hold on.” Gene sits down on the starboard rail with his legs crossed like he’s playing cards with his buddies on a Friday night.

He’s looking at the beach in the distance. “You see that area past the pavilion where it gets real green after the last house?” I take a spot close enough to hear him clearly. He’s talking quiet now.

“Yeah, I see it.” I sort of whisper too, even though there is not another boat within a half a mile of us. He’s pointing to the Rhode Island Country Club. The last four holes of the golf course are right there on the water. I know because I caddied there a couple times last summer.
Worst job ever.

“Okay, well, you see that first long hole, closest to the water?”

“Yeah, the seventeenth, I see right where you mean.”

“Now come out about three hundred yards off that hole, and that’s ten feet of water. It ranges from ten to twelve feet and then flattens out to sixteen. When you’re in the sixteen-foot range, you’re in the mud. The ten-foot range is like hard bottom.” Gene takes his eyes off the shoreline and looks at me. He starts rubbing the calluses on his palm. “Anyone can catch the quahogs when you’re tickling them from mud with a good drift, but can you catch them when the bottom is hard and thick with shells, and the quahogs are all huddled together tight?” Gene interlocks his fingers and squeezes them to make the point.

“I just figured it’s all flat, and there’s quahogs everywhere,” I say.

“You still have to know what you’re doing. Anyone can catch a day’s pay, even more. But the guys that are gonna fill the boat with littlenecks will be prepared to stay all day and work anywhere, in any conditions. A lot of these guys out here will only work if the wind and the tide are just right, just the way they like it. We have to be better than that, because you know things aren’t always the way we’d like them to be. When it’s blowing hard, we work the chowders in the soft mud. When the tide is running, we work the hard bottom between the islands. Hell, we even worked that crazy drop-off near the channel south of Prudence. You remember that? I think we were using over seventy feet of heavy pole all pieced together.”

“Yeah, they all laughed at us pulling up that pole until they saw you filling the bullrake every time.” I’m looking at Gene now, and I can’t believe how much he’s talking. He never says this much, so I know he’s telling me important stuff.

“It’s the guys that play the tactical game, notice the breeze change, the switch of the tide, the ones that get out first, change the rake first.
That
will be the difference between a good day’s pay and a month’s pay when you’re working the beach.”

A month’s pay would be real good right about now.

“Got it. So when it opens, we’re going to work there off the seventeenth hole,” I say, pointing to the shoreline. “Then when the wind picks up, we’ll switch over to the mud farther east?”

“That’s the plan, Jake. It’s not all about what’s going on above the surface of the water. Most of what will make or break a digger on game day is below the surface, at the bottom. You know how I can always tell whether I’ve caught an old bottle, or a rock, or a horseshoe crab? It’s all about feel. When you have the rake in your hands, you may be in a boat, but you have to feel your way down to the end of that pole, where that rake is sitting on the bottom, in order to know what’s really going on. That’s where a quahogger’s head needs to be.”

Gene dumps the rest of his coffee in the water and stuffs his mug underneath the console. “You’ve seen those musclehead gym rats from Greenwich come out on the bay, all pumped up on steroids? They’re much stronger than me, but they can’t catch lunch, and that’s because their heads are in the gym, not down at the bottom where the quahogs are.”

He reaches behind himself, still sitting, and turns the key. The engine revs high like it’s going to throw a rod, and then calms down as the excess fuel burns off. Gene stands at the wheel, knocks her into gear, and points the boat at Prudence Island. I settle into the seat behind him. I am smiling to myself now, because I know we will catch enough to pay off that whole debt.

The boat crawls to a halt about two hundred yards off the rocky shoreline of Prudence Island.

“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?”